[On the last day of the Christian County Fair, many years since, the ten sons of Mrs. Rebecca Brown, all excellent horsemen, entered the amphitheater mounted on iron-gray horses. After a fine exercise of horsemanship by the brothers the judges presented their aged mother with a silver cup, amid the loud applause of the vast crowd of spectators.] ’Tis the last afternoon of the old County Fair The amphitheatre’s thronged for a spectacle rare. Ten sons of one mother contend for the prize And a whirlwind of cheering ascends to the skies ’Tis surely a pity that horses and sheep, Mules, poultry and swine the blue ribbon should keep, O’er a highly bred strain of true women and men-- If degenerate men rule the State, pray what then? On ten iron-gray horses they enter the ring, Ten brothers as graceful as swallows on wing. The crowd shouts and claps, for county and town Loved their silver-haired mother, Rebecca Brown. Let others for cattle and horses seek the prize The boys she had nursed were more dear in her eyes, Her sons were her jewels like Cornelia of old, More precious than Solomon’s rubies and gold, Each son a true citizen honored of men, Master workmen are all with plow, anvil or pen. In pairs and platoons they join and divide, Ever changing the figure in column they ride, Firm in the stirrup, with regular motion, Like flights of wild geese or the billows of ocean, O Mother! far better than rank, fashion, or wealth Is the toast all spectators now drink to your health. “Here’s a health to good mothers, the Angels of home, Write their names in the Temple of Fame--on the dome!” Smiling through tears gazed the mother that day, Her eyes followed each son on his fleet iron-gray, Thrifty, frugal, and upright was each dutiful one, In the whole decade not a prodigal son Precious memories ran back o’er the long vista of years, Faith’s brilliant rainbow arched her fountain of tears, Love and hope all commingled with doubts and with fears. O hour mysterious of omnipotent prayer! When the fireflies’ carnival flashes in air, When the Evening Star shines and the meteors glide She counselled them thus as they knelt by her side:-- “Let no plausible white lie, for gain, soil your lips; Let the dear sun of Truth be undimmed by eclipse. God’s commandments be yours, for their number is Ten, Obey them and be honored of God and of Men, For ’tis better by far to be honest than rich, And the King who is false finds his grave in a ditch; His manhood’s secure in the armour of Truth Who remembers his Creator in the days of his youth.”