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I wonder too, Amy. Sometimes I think dementia and Alzeimers is a protective mechanism that the mind has to keep all the sad thoughts away. Who knows?

The information at the end of this poem was taken from a pamphlet published by the Hillsdale Historical Society and various sites on the internet. I grew up in Hillsdale.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE
by Will Carleton, 1897

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way---
I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray---
I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,
As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house---I can't quite make it clear!
Over the hill to the poor-house---it seems so horrid queer!
Many a step I've taken, a-toilin' to and fro,
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am ready and willin' an' anxious any day
To work for a decent livin' and pay my honest way;
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,
If anybody is willin' to only have me 'round.

Once I was young an' hand'some---I was, upon my soul---
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes was black as coal;
And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way!

'Tain't no use of boastin' or talkin' over-free,
But many a house an' home was open then to me;
Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,
But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;
For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,
And I worked my best an' smartest in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together; and life was hard, but gay,
With now and then a baby to cheer us on our way.
Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

An' so we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one---
Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to've done;
Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,
But every couple's own child'rn's a heap the dearest to them!

Strange how much we think of OUR blessed little ones!---
I'd have died for my daughters, and I'd have died for my sons.
And God He made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray
I've noticed it sometimes, somehow, fails to work the other way.

Stranger another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,
And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone,
When John he nearer an' nearer came, an' dearer seemed to be,
The Lord of Hosts, He came one day an' took him away from me!

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never cringe or fall---
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,
Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile---
She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard and haughty, an' we couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, and that was good for her,
But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too far,
An' I told her once, 'fore company, (an' it almost made her sick)
That I never swallowed a grammer, nor 'et a 'rithmetic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done---
They was a family of themselves, and I another one.
And a very little cottage one family will do,
But I never have seen a mansion that was big enough for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye,
An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try.
But I was terribly humbled, an' felt it like a blow,
When Charley turned agin me, an' told me I could go!

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,
And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three,
'Twas easy to discover there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went with Thomas, the oldest son I've got:
For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot,
But all the child'rn was on me---I couldn't stand their sauce---
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,
And to Isaac, not far from her---some twenty miles at best;
And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for anyone so old,
And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about---
So they have well nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,
Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town!

Over the hill to the poor-house---my child'rn dear, good-bye!
Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;
And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half that I do to-day!
__________________________________________________
Will Carleton was born in a farmhouse near Hudson, Michigan on October 21, 1845. Carleton was the youngest of five kids. His family was a farming family and of the Methodist religion.

Will wrote his first poem at the age of 13 entitled "Dying Indian Chief." He quit school for one year in 1857, to help his father. He also tried to join the army when he was 16, but they wouldn't allow him to do so.

After being rejected from the Army, he decided to enroll at Hillsdale College in the summertime. His science courses weren't challenging enough for him, and he became angry and began to teach at Lang School. Fall came and Will decided to go back to Hillsdale College. He joined Alpha Kappa Phi which was a literary and debate team.

In 1868, he wrote the poem "Fax." In 1869, he gave the commencement speech that was very poetic and was entitled "Rifts of the Cloud." In 1871, he wrote his first book entitled "Poems" which was dedicated to his mom and dad. Will then became the editor and manager of the Hilldsdale Weekly Business paper. Later, he became the book reviewer and editor for the Detroit Advertiser and Tribune.

His most famous poem "Over the Hill to the Poorhouse" was published in the Toledo Blade, later in Harper's Weekly and then 3 months later Harper's published the famous poem, which also was made into a silent movie. He referred to this poem as "Bettsy." A lady by the name of Mrs.Emerson stepped forward and declared that "Bettsy" was hers and that he had stole it from her. Will bought room in the "Advertiser" and told his side of the story, he never heard from Mrs.Emerson again.

From 1873-1881 Harper's published 3 volumes of his poems called "Farm Series." In 1876, he moved to Boston and invited his mom along too. In 1882, he married Adora Hiles Goodweel and then moved to New York City. Between 1885-1892 "City Series" was published. Will then made a magazine entitled "Everywhere". "Everywhere" stayed in publication for 18 years.

On November 9, 1904 Adora died of a stroke. On October 26, 1907 he moved back to Michigan for a special homecoming. Thousands of people gathered at his home. Trains made special stops throughout the day so people could make a visit to Will. In December of 1912 Carleton began a lecture tour. Will came down with bronchitis, but didn't give up until, he had no other choice. Carleton developed bronchial pneumonia and then fell into a coma. Unfortunately, Will died the next day.

Papers nationwide covered his life story, and printed his poems, famous or not, they were most likely printed somewhere. When Will died, it became known that his net worth was less than $5,000. His funeral was at his home at 444 Greene Avenue, he is buried next to Adora in the Greenwood Cemetery.

Will Carleton was a very courageous, funny and caring man. He was extremely determined, as most should be able to tell. He contributed many things such as his wonderful poems, and he was looked up to and idolized by almost all. In Michigan there is a Will Carleton Day (October 21), that at one time teachers were required to either teach about him, visit something of his, or just read one of his poems in class.