PN 6110 
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 Copy 1 
 
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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 11 I I I : III ;; llilli 
 021 417 928 3 
 
Book. ^^ /fi 
 
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 CoRTight]^^ 
 
 CfiRfRIGWr DEPOSm 
 
.i^...— - A 
 
 mmat&tiinimrtm 
 
 m 
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 WALLACE and FRANCES RICE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 BARSE AND HOPKINS 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
 life 
 
M 
 
 •S' 
 
 Copyright, 1912 
 By BARSE and HOPKINS 
 
 gC!.A314300 
 
nrrioTHm 
 
 ^M 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 T ET this be said of Mothers. From 
 •■^ their flesh and blood the race of man 
 is fashioned, from their hopes and prayers 
 the faith of man is molded, from their love 
 and tenderness the heart of man is pulsing 
 warm and red and deep — ^to-day, as through 
 all earthly ages past. Not only at our birth, 
 but to the end, they hold their lives ready 
 to give for ours. In every little soul they 
 nurse to strength the plant of their high 
 hopes and gentle fears ; no noble thought or 
 high ambition gained through human his- 
 tory had not its seed long years before 
 within some mother's prayer; no forward 
 step to aid the sons of men was ever taken 
 save by those who learned to walk within 
 a mother's sheltering care, nor ever left a 
 babe his mother's knee she shed not tears to 
 see him go away. Friends come to men, 
 and loves; but never such sweet friendship, 
 such true love, as mothers know. 
 
 — Wallace Bice. 
 
TO MY MOTHER 
 
 A MOTHER heard our infant cries, 
 "^^ And folded us with fond embrace, 
 And when we woke, our infant eyes 
 Were opened on a mother's face. 
 
 rKJOTER 
 
 Our wishes she did make her own. 
 Her bosom fed and pillowed too. 
 
 Answering each start or fitful moan 
 With trembling pulses fond and true. 
 
 Then knowledge was a thing untaught: 
 Heaven's charity, a daily dole. 
 
 Stole in inaudibly, and wrought 
 Its gentle bonds about the soul. 
 
 — Charles Tennyson Turner, 
 
 /^OD could not be everywhere; therefore ^.. 
 
 ^^ He made mothers. % I 
 
 — Hebrew Proverb, 
 
 TXJ OMEN know 
 ^^ The way to rear up children (to be 
 
 just) ; 
 They know a simple, merry, tender knack 
 Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, 
 And stringing pretty words that make no 
 
 sense, 
 And kissing full sense into empty words; 
 J Which things are corals to cut life upon. 
 Although such trifles. 
 
 —Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 
 
rmi^fcra 
 
 I 
 
 S not a young mother one of the sweetest 
 sights which life shows us? 
 
 — William Makepeace Thackeray, 
 
 TAEAR Lord, dear Lord .... 
 ^^ Thou, who didst not erst deny 
 The mother- joy to Mary mild 
 Blessed in the blessed Child^ — 
 Hearkening in meek babyhood 
 Her cradle hymn, albeit used 
 To all that music interfused 
 In breasts of angels high and good. 
 Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away — 
 Oh, take not to thy songful heaven. 
 The pretty babe thou hast given; 
 Or ere that I have seen him play 
 Around his father's knees, and known 
 That he knew how my love hath gone 
 From all the world to him. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 
 
 The Mother's Prayer. 
 
 A MOTHER only knows a mother's 
 -^^ fondness. 
 
 — Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 
 
 A WOMAN'S love 
 '^^ Is mighty, but a 
 
 mother's heart is 
 
 [ghty, 
 weak 
 And by its weakness overcomes. 
 
 — James Russell Lowell, 
 
1 1 
 
 mrtoTHER 
 
 rilHROUGH many a year a picture dear 
 ''■ Hung just above my bed; 
 It plainly showed a shady road 
 
 That, curving gently, led 
 Past shrub and tree, till I could see. 
 
 Beside a blossoming vine, 
 My mother stand, as once she stood 
 When she was young, and I was good. 
 
 In days all sun and shine. 
 
 I saw her there, so sweet and fair. 
 
 When I drove off to school; 
 I knew the bliss of her fond kiss 
 
 On that deep porch and cool; 
 And every night the blessed sight 
 
 Of her above my bed 
 Consoled me for the boyish woes 
 Of absence — comforted I rose 
 
 When my brief prayer was said. 
 
 T 
 f 
 
 The change and strife of later life. 
 
 The years that leave me gray, 
 Have taken, too, that pictured view; 
 
 But cannoti take away 
 The memory so dear to me. 
 
 That fond and wistful joy: 
 There stands my home, and mother's there. 
 So young, so good, so sweet and fair. 
 
 And I'm her little boy. 
 
 —Oliver Marble. 1^' 
 
rUf nOTHER 
 
 T^HE voices of the Loved and Lost are 
 
 stirring at my heart, 
 And memory's misered treasures leap to 
 
 life, with sudden start — 
 
 Thou art looking, smiling on me, as thou 
 hast looked and smiled. Mother, 
 
 And I am sitting at thy side, at heart a very 
 child. Mother! 
 
 I'm with thee now in soul, sweet Mother, 
 
 much as in those hours, 
 When all my wealth was in thy love, and in 
 
 the birds and flowers. 
 
 And by these holy yearnings, by these eyes 
 
 sweet tears wet, 
 I know there wells a spring of love through 
 
 all my being yet. 
 
 — Gerald Massey. 
 
 P^^ 
 
 NATURE'S loving proxy, the watchful 
 TVk r-k-l-Vi cm* 
 
 — Bulwer-Lytton . 
 
 mother. 
 
 npO rock the cradle of reposing age, 
 -■■ With lenient arts extend a mother's 
 breath. 
 Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of 
 
 death. 
 Explore the thought, explain the asking eye. 
 And keep awhile one parent from the sky ! 
 
 — Alexander Pope, 
 
rnrrioTHER 
 
 ^^■^^ 
 
 /^NCE on my mother's breast, a child, I 
 ^^ crept, 
 
 Holding my breath; 
 There, safe and sound, lay shuddering, andj 
 wept 
 
 At the dark mystery of death. 
 
 Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, 
 
 Spent with the strife, — 
 O Mother, let me weep upon thy breast 
 
 At the sad mystery of life! 
 
 — William Dean Howells, 
 
 T TOAST the mother with the hallowed 
 
 features, 
 Most blessed one of* all created creatures ! 
 What man achieves he owes to woman's 
 
 care — 
 A sweet wife's love or saintly mother's 
 prayer. 
 
 — Fred Emerson Brooks. 
 
 O ACK and forth in a rocker, 
 '^ Lost in revery deep. 
 The mother rocked while trying 
 To sing the baby to sleep. 
 
 The baby began a-crowing. 
 For silent he couldn't keep — 
 
 And after awhile the baby 
 
 Had crowed his mother to sleep. 
 
 — Richard Kendall Munkittrick. 
 
Ss 
 
 m^ 
 
 ny MOTHER 
 
 Ti/rOTHER, crooning soft and low, 
 -*-■*■ Let not all thy fancies go, 
 Like swift birds, to the blue skies 
 Of thy darling's happy eyes. 
 
 Count thy baby's curls for beads, 
 As a sweet saint intercedes; 
 But on some fair ringlet's gold 
 Let a tender prayer be told 
 
 For the mother, all alone, 
 Who for singing maketh moan, 
 Who doth ever vainly seek 
 Dimpled arms and velvet cheek. 
 
 — Mary Frances Butts. 
 
 \^ THEN among all life's miracles I try 
 ^ ^ What highest argument may certify 
 That God is good, however things may seem. 
 On this I rest, and evil dims like dream, — 
 Each little soul that voyages toward birth, 
 When it arrives on earth. 
 Makes gentlest landfall on a mother's breast. 
 — William C. Gannett. 
 
 f 
 
 
 VriGHT sendeth the hour of all apart: 
 '^^ It bringeth the babe to Mother's heart. 
 — Wilbur Dick Nesbit. 
 
 f *-^"' '^- 
 
 
TOTHEP ^ 
 
 rpHERE was a place in childhood that I 
 -*■ remember well. 
 And there a voice of sweetest tone bright 
 
 fairy tales did tell; 
 And gentle words and fond embrace were 
 
 given with joy to me 
 When I was in that happy place, upon my 
 
 mother's knee. 
 
 When fairy tales were ended, "Good night," 
 
 she softly said. 
 And kissed, and laid me down to sleep within 
 
 my tiny bed; 
 And holy words she taught me there — me- 
 
 thinks I yet can see 
 Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my 
 
 mother's knee. 
 
 In the sickness of my childhood, the perils 
 
 of my prime, 
 The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of 
 
 every time; 
 When doubt and danger weighed me down, 
 
 then pleading all for me. 
 It was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent 
 
 my mother's knee. 
 
 — Samuel Lover, 
 
 T ET France have good mothers and she 
 will have good sons. 
 
 — Napoleon, 
 

 i i 
 
 "VrOW I lay me down to sleep: 
 
 ^^ I pray the Lord my soul to keep/ 
 
 Was my childhood's early prayer 
 Taught by my mother's love and care. 
 Many years since then have fled; 
 Mother slumbers with the dead; 
 Yet methinks I see her now, 
 With lovelit eye and holy brow, 
 As, kneeling by her side to pray. 
 She gently taught me how to say, 
 "Now I lay me down to sleep : 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 
 
 Oh! could the faith of childhood's days. 
 Oh! could its little hymns of praise. 
 Oh! could its simple, joyous trust 
 Be re-created from the dust 
 That lies around a wasted life. 
 The fruit of many a, bitter strife ! 
 Oh, then at night in prayer I'd bend, 
 And call my God, my Father, Friend, 
 And pray with childlike faith once more 
 The prayer my mother taught of yore, 
 "Now I lay me down to sleep: 
 I pray the Lord my soul) to keep." 
 
 — Eugene Henry Pullen. 
 
 T THINK it must somewhere be written, 
 '■■ that the virtues of mothers shall be 
 visited on their children as well as the sins 
 of the fathers. 
 
 — Charles Dickens, 
 
 i' \i^ 
 
" '"10THER 
 
 rpHERE is something in sickness that 
 -*" breaks down the pride of manhood; 
 that softens the heart, and brings it back 
 to the feelings of infancy. Who that has 
 lamguished, even in advanced life, in sick- 
 ness and despondency; who that has pined 
 on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness 
 of a foreign land; but has thought on the 
 mother "that looked upon his childhood," 
 that smoothed his pillow, and administered 
 to his helplessness? 
 
 — Washington Irving, 
 
 pOETS sing of Home, mothers sing at 
 Home. 
 
 — Alfred R. Jackson, 
 
 TV/TY Mother! With thy calm and holy 
 ^^^ brow, 
 
 And high devoted hearty which suffered still 
 Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill. 
 And, because Fate hath willed that mine 
 
 should be 
 A poet's soul (at least in my degree), — 
 And that my verse would faintly shadow 
 
 forth 
 What I have seen of pure unselfish worth. 
 Therefore I speak of thee; that those who 
 
 read 
 That trust in woman, which is still my creed. 
 Thy early-widowed image may recall 
 And greet thy nature as the type of all. 
 
 — Sarah Elizabeth Norton. 
 
vi nu 
 
 li/f OTHERS are just the queerest things! 
 iy± 'Member when John went away, 
 All but mother cried andi cried, 
 
 When they said good-by that day. 
 She just talked and seemed to be 
 
 Not the shghtest bit upset — 
 Was the only one who smiled! 
 
 Others' eyes were streaming wet. 
 
 But when John came back again. 
 
 On a furlough safe and sound. 
 With a medal for his deeds. 
 
 And without a single woxmd. 
 While the rest of us hurrahed, 
 
 Laughed and joked and danced about. 
 Mother kissed him, then she cried — 
 
 Cried and cried like all git out! 
 
 — Edwin L. Sdbin. 
 
 TVTY mother was as mild as any saint, 
 ^ ^ And nearly canonized by all she knew, 
 So gracious was her tact and tenderness. 
 
 — Alfred Tennyson, 
 
 T ORD, give the mothers of the world 
 ^^ More love to do their part; 
 That love which reaches not alone 
 The children made by birth their own. 
 
 But every childish heart. 
 Wake in their souls true motherhood, 
 Which aims at universal good. 
 
 — Ella Wheeler Wilcooc, 
 
riYnOTHER 
 
 ^^^1 LOVE," she said, with her faint, 
 -'• sweet smile, 
 
 **But I shall not narrow this life of mine ; 
 Or hid my spirit its thirst beguile 
 
 With the joys that women still count di- 
 vine. 
 Why, I am a soul! I am part of God! 
 I doubt, and question, — have wings to 
 mount; 
 Do you think I shall only moil and plod. 
 And fill my cup at the common fount?" 
 
 That was only a year and a day — 
 
 Last night her fingers were softly pressed 
 On the downy head of a babe, that lay 
 With warm, wet mouth at her gracious 
 breast. 
 "Do you think," she said, "there is rarer 
 bliss 
 Where the long bright cycles of heaven 
 unroll? 
 Or any wonder more deep than this. 
 To share with God in a human soul?" 
 
 — Emily Huntington Miller. 
 
 Ti/T Y merry little daughter 
 
 ^ -*■ Was climbing out of bed — 
 
 "Don't you think I'm a good girl, 
 
 My little daughter said; 
 "For all day long this lovely day 
 
 And all day long to-morrow, 
 I haven't done a single thing 
 
 To give my mother sorrow!" 
 
 ^^ 
 
 m 
 

 
 mrtoTHER^^ 
 
 npHERE is no Love like a Mother's — 
 -*■ 'Tis the Sun that shineth forth; 
 There is no Truth like a Mother's — 
 
 'Tis the Star that points the North; 
 There is no Hope like a Mother's — 
 
 'Tis the April in the clod; 
 There is not Trust like a Mother's — 
 
 'Tis the Charity of God: 
 The Love and Truth, the Hope and Trust 
 That make the mortal more than dust. 
 
 — John Jarvis Holden. 
 
 OOME of the merriest and most genuine 
 ^ of women are old maids; and those old 
 maids, and wives who are unhappily mar- 
 ried, have often most of the true motherly 
 touch. 
 
 — Robert Louis Stevenson, 
 
 \ H, then how sweetly closed those ^ 
 
 crowded days! 
 The minutes parting one by one like rays. 
 
 That fade upon a summer's eve. 
 But oh! what charm, or magic numbers 
 Can give me back the gentle slumbers 
 
 Those weary, happy days did leave? 
 When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. 
 And with her blessing took her nightly 
 
 kiss; 
 Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — 
 E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 
 
 — Washington Allston, 
 
 m 
 
 ""p^ 
 
*Crfi 
 
 rwrioTHHi 
 
 T^EAR beacon of my childhood's day, 
 -*^ The lodestar of my youth, 
 A mingled glow of tenderest love 
 
 And firm, unswerving truth, 
 I've wandered far o'er east and west, 
 
 'Neath many stranger skies. 
 But ne'er I've seen a fairer light 
 
 Than that in Mother's eyes. 
 
 — L, M, Montgomery, 
 
 T^OT a great lady, this mother of mine. 
 
 Easy through social graces, 
 But her eyes are a-shine with a light divine. 
 As they gaze full of tenderness into mine. 
 And her spirit is lucid and clear and fine 
 As the angels in heavenly places. 
 
 — Titus Lowe. 
 
 /COMPARING one man with another, 
 ^^ You'U find this maxim true, 
 That the man who is good to his mother 
 Will always be good to you! 
 
 — Fred Emerson Brooks, 
 
 nPHE ring so worn, as you behold. 
 
 So thin, so pale, was yet of gold: 
 The passion such it was to prove ; 
 Worn with life's cares, love yet was love. 
 
 — George Crdbhe. 
 
 On his Mother's Wedding Ring. 
 
 ^ 
 
HYIIOTHEF^ 
 
 rpHERE are no colors in God's heaven- 
 * bent bow. 
 Nor is there music in the choiring spheres, 
 iV^^^u) Can paint thy smile from out these youth- N^^ 
 ful years, 
 Recall the music of thy voice so low 
 And sweet, dear mother, in the long ago. 
 But gone art thou. Ah! how the bitter 
 
 tears 
 Eurned deep into my heart! How mem- 
 ory sears, 
 But cannot heal those wounds, while tears 
 still flow. 
 Back from those bright and happy days 
 gone by. 
 Echoes of childish mirth and cradle song! 
 Thy guiding hand and presence then were 
 nigh. 
 And I am weary, and life's road seems 
 wrong. 
 I miss thy smiling face, thy watchful eye. 
 Life's heaven was short. Eternity's is 
 long. 
 
 — John Allister Currie, 
 
 \\ 
 
 ^ ^OHALL I take your love to your 
 
 ^ mother," said a lady visitor, who was 
 
 going to see the mother of a little child of 
 
 three years. 
 
 "She has my love," was the reply. 
 
-HER 
 
 '^o^m&A 
 
 ■i-TrSV>ii,^ • 
 
 npHE mother sending forth her child 
 
 To meet with cares and strife, 
 Breathes through her tears her doubts and 
 fears 
 For the loved one's future life. 
 No cold *'adieu," no "farewell" lives 
 
 Within her choking sighs; 
 But the deepest sob of anguish gives, 
 "God bless thee, boy! — good-by!" 
 
 — Eliza Cook. 
 
 'W 
 
 rilHE mother's heart is always with her 
 ^ children. 
 
 \ — Proverb, 
 
 "VTOW, boys, just a moment! you've all 
 
 "^"^ had your say 
 
 While enjoying yourselves in so pleasant a 
 
 way; 
 We've toasted our sweethearts, our friends, 
 
 and our wives; 
 We've toasted each other, wishing all merry 
 •,;^ lives — 
 
 Here's to one in a million, the dearest, the 
 
 best. 
 Like the sun in the heavens, she outshines 
 
 the rest! 
 Don't frown when I tell you this toast beats 
 
 all others, 
 But drink one more toast, boys, a toast to 
 
 "Our Mothers r 
 
 ^ 
 

 ITYnOTHER 
 
 "D ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, 
 
 in your flight. 
 Make me a child again, just for to-night! 
 Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
 Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my 
 
 hair. 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch keep. 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just Hghted with 
 
 gold, 
 Fall on your shoulders again^ as of old ; 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
 Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
 For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
 Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 
 
 W^' 
 
 Mother, dear mother, the years have been 
 
 long 
 Since I last listened your lullaby song : 
 Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
 Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace. 
 With your light lashes just sweeping my 
 
 face. 
 Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 
 — Elizabeth Ahers Allen, 
 
y5^ 
 
 M 
 
 T^ 
 
 riYriOTHER 
 
 /^"^H, there's many a lovely picture 
 ^^ On memory's silent wall. 
 There's many a cherished image 
 
 That I tenderly recall! 
 The sweet home of my childhood, 
 
 With its singing brooks and birds. 
 The friends who grew around me, 
 
 With their loving looks and words; 
 The flowers that decked the wildwood. 
 
 The roses fresh and sweet, 
 The blue-bells and the daisies 
 
 That blossomed at my feet — 
 All, all are very precious. 
 
 And often come to me. 
 Like breezes from that country 
 
 That shines beyond death's sea. 
 But the sweetest, dearest image 
 
 That fancy can create 
 Is the image of my mother. 
 
 My mother at the gate. 
 
 — Matilda C. Edwards. 
 
 1 
 
 T ET us drink with a will to the Maidens, 
 
 ^■^ Who make for us paradise; 
 
 Let us drink to the gold of their tresses. 
 
 To the blue of their wondering eyes. 
 
 And now, when the toasting is ended, 
 
 Let us forthwith the goblet refill. 
 
 And drink to the Mothers! God bless 
 
 them! 
 Come: a toast and a drink — ^with a will! 
 
 — Marie Beatrice Gannon, 
 
^V' 
 
 CO 
 
 nrnoTHEP 
 
 rilHE good man took the Sacred Book, 
 '*■ And the trial of Abraham read, 
 Until in the solemn shadows. 
 
 The sorrow grew wondrous near; — 
 Fathers looked at their own bright sons, 
 And the mothers dropped a tear. 
 
 Thoughtful all sat a little space. 
 
 And then the Dominie said: 
 "David, couldst thou have done this thing? 
 
 And the old man bowed his head, 
 And standing up with lifted face. 
 
 Answered: ''I think I could, 
 For I have found through eighty years 
 
 That the Lord our God is good." 
 
 "Janet, you've been a mother oft. 
 
 Could your faith have stood the test?" 
 She raised her grandchild in her arms. 
 
 And she held it to her breast — 
 "God knows a mother's love," she said. 
 
 While the tears dropped from her eyes; 
 "And never from a mother's heart 
 
 Would have asked such sacrifice." 
 
 "O mother, wise," the preacher said, 
 "O mother, wise and good, 
 
 A deeper depth than man can reach 
 Thy heart hath understood. 
 
 r 
 
 f ^'".V c/iK 
 
nrrtoTHER 
 
 Take Janet's sermon with you, friends, 
 
 And as your years go by, 
 Believe our Father no poor soul 
 
 Beyond its strength will try." 
 
 — Lillie E, Bam 
 
 A Mother's Answer. 
 
 TF I had an eagle's wings, 
 
 How grand to sail the sky 
 But I should drop to the earth 
 
 If I heard my baby cry. 
 My baby — ^my darling. 
 
 The wings may go, for me. 
 
 If I were a splendid queen, 
 With a crown to keep in place, 
 
 Would it do for a little wet mouth 
 To rub all over my face? 
 
 My baby — ^my darling. 
 
 The crown may go for me. 
 
 — Eliza Sproat Turner 
 
 /^NCE I asked my mother why she wa'n't 
 a boy like me, 
 < So she could grow to be a man and sail upon 
 the sea. 
 And be a famous Commodore and have a 
 
 lot of ships; 
 "I would rather be your mother," and her 
 love was on her lips. 
 
 — David Stearns. 
 
nynoTHHR 
 
 (^, 
 
 A WIDOW,— she had only one! 
 "^^ A puny and decrepit son; 
 :,^\{;^ But, day and night, 
 
 Though fretful oft, and weak and small, 
 A loving child, he was her all, — 
 The Widow's Mite. 
 
 The Widow's Mite^ — aye, so sustained. 
 She battled onward, nor complained 
 
 Though friends were fewer: 
 And while she toiled for daily fare, 
 A httle crutch upon the stair 
 
 Was music to her. 
 
 I saw her then, and now I see 
 
 That, though resigned and cheerful, she 
 
 Has sorrowed much: 
 She has — HE gave it tenderly — 
 Much faith and, carefully laid by, 
 
 A little crutch. 
 
 ^ — Frederick Locker-Lampson, 
 
 "D UT one thing on earth is better than the 
 '■^ wife, and that is the mother. 
 
 — L. Schafer. 
 
 rjlHOU, while babes around thee cling, 
 •■• Show us how divine a thing 
 A woman can be made. 
 
 — Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 TT is a poor mother who cannot make her 
 **■ child's hair curl. 
 
 S'-' 
 
rrirnoTHER 
 
 T AM weeping, mother, in your empty 
 
 '- chamber; 
 
 Beyond the pane, a fair familiar scene ; 
 
 As a far dream only may the man remember 
 
 All the mirth of childhood that hath been — 
 
 Hath been here about thy young joy, O my 
 
 mother, 
 All the mirth and laughter of a child. 
 Was it I, indeed, and not another. 
 Whom you folded in your dear arms unde- 
 
 filed? 
 Our nursery with snowy-folded curtain! 
 Here you came to bless the dreaming boy, 
 All is melted to a memory uncertain, 
 Evening prayer, the game, and many a toy. 
 
 — Boden Noel. 
 
 T IKE a sick child that knoweth not 
 ■■-^ His mother while she blesses. 
 And droppeth on his burning brow 
 
 The coolness of her kisses; 
 And turns his fevered eyes around — 
 "My mother, where's my mother?" 
 
 As if such tender words and looks 
 Could come from any other. 
 
 — Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 
 
 "V/f OTHER is indeed a sweet name, and 
 •*' ■* her station is indeed a holy one; for 
 in her hands are placed minds, to be molded 
 almost at her will. 
 
 ^.S 
 
rTOTm:,R 
 
 f ^/ 
 
 t »T'M wantin' to tell you, Davy," he said 
 
 I 
 
 in a confideotial way, as we trudged 
 along, "about the gate o' heaven. . . . An' I 
 been wantin' t' tell you," he added, "for a 
 long, long time." 
 
 "Is you?" 
 
 "Aye, lad; an' about the women at the 
 gate." 
 
 "Women, Skipper Tommy?" said I, puz- 
 zled. "An' pray, who is- they?" 
 
 "Mothers," he answered. "Just mothers/' 
 
 "What they doin' at the gate? No, no! 
 They're not there. Sure they are playin' 
 harps at the foot o' the throne." 
 
 "No," said he positively; "they're at the 
 gate." 
 
 "What they doin' there?" 
 
 "Waitin'." . . . 
 
 "What 's they waitin' for?" I asked. 
 
 "Davy, lad," he answered, impressively, 
 "they're waitin' for them they bore. That's 
 what they're waitin' for." 
 
 "For their sons?" 
 
 "Aye, an' for their daughters, too." . . . 
 
 "Ah, but," I said, . . . "I'm thinkin' 
 God would never allow it t' go on. He'd 
 gather un there, at the foot o' the throne." 
 
 "Look you, lad," he explained, in a sage 
 whisper, "They 're all mothers, an' they'd 
 be wantin' t' stay where they was, an' ecod! 
 they'd find a way." 
 
 — Norma/n Duncan, 
 
 Doctor Luke of the Labrador. 
 
 I ^ 
 
m 
 
 mnoTHER 
 
 ¥ HAVE been wont to bear my head right 
 
 '*• high, 
 
 My temper too is somewhat stern and rough ; 
 
 Even before a monarch's cold rebuff 
 
 I would not timidly avert mine eye. 
 
 Yet, mother dear, I'll tell it openly: 
 
 Much as my haughty pride may swell and 
 
 puff, 
 I feel submissive and subdued enough 
 When thy much cherished, darling form is 
 
 nigh. 
 Is it thy spirit that subdues me then, 
 Thy spirit, grasping all things in thy ken. 
 And soaring to the light of heaven again? 
 By the sad recollection I'm oppressed 
 That I have done so much that grieves thy 
 
 breast, 
 iWTiich loved me, more than all things else, 
 
 the best. 
 
 — Edgar Alfred Bowring, 
 
 From the German of Heine. 
 
 TTITOULD you know the baby's skies? 
 ^ ^ Baby's skies are mother's eyes. 
 Mother's eyes and smile together 
 Make the baby's pleasant weather. 
 
 .^ .. 
 
 Mother, keep your eyes from tears, 
 Keep your heart from foolish fears. 
 Keep your lips from dull complaining. 
 Lest the baby think 't is raining. 
 
 — Mary C, Bartlett. 
 
 '■"SOKKirseisssti^.. 
 

 IT'S a song of love and triumph, it's a song 
 
 ''■ of toil and care, 
 
 It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's 
 
 set in notes of prayer; 
 It is bright with dreams and visions of the 
 
 days that are to be, 
 And as strong in faith's devotion as the 
 
 heart-beat of the sea; 
 It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices 
 
 from above. 
 And is starred with ripest blessing through 
 
 a mother's sacred love. 
 O sweet and strong and tender are the 
 
 memories that it brings. 
 As I list in joy and rapture to the song my 
 
 mother sings. 
 
 — Thomas O'Hagan. 
 
 T 
 
 HE mother's heart is the child's school- 
 room. — Henry Ward Beecher. 
 
 TT never dies, — a mother's love 
 '• Strengthens with every ill that may be- 
 tide ; 
 In every phase of life its waters move 
 With current strong, and fathomless, and 
 wide. 
 From the heart oft other flames may rise, 
 And while they seem as warm and grand 
 and high. 
 The incense o^ one lives to reach the skies, — f 
 A mother's tender love can never die. 
 
 —E. O. Jewell. 
 
 ^m 
 
t 
 
 rarioTHER 
 
 IT UNDREDS of stars in the pretty sky, 
 ''■ ■*• Hundreds of shells on the shore to- 
 gether. 
 Hundreds of birds that go singing by — 
 Hundreds of birds in the sunny weather, 
 
 Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn, 
 Hundreds of bees in the purple clover. 
 
 Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn. 
 
 But only one mother the wide world over. 
 
 The Mother smooths her baby's pillow — 
 Of lace and lawn and softest down ; 
 
 Oh, so she'd smooth out life's least billow. 
 All its mountains, and every frown! 
 
 — Ira M, Webster, 
 
 A LITTLE motherless maid! — what is 
 "^^^ more pitiful in the eyes of men and 
 angels? 
 
 — M. D. Hillmer. 
 
 IV/f Y dear mother with the truthfulness of 
 •^ -"■ a mother's heart, ministered to all my 
 woes, outward and inward, and even against 
 hope kept prophesying good. 
 
 — Thomas Carlyle. 
 
-^ 
 
 CO 
 
 nVNOTHER 
 
 Ti/T Y little dear, so fast asleep, 
 "*• Whose arms about me cling, 
 
 What kisses shall she have to keep 
 While she is slumbering! 
 
 Upon her golden baby-hair 
 
 The golden dreams I'll kiss 
 Which Life spread, through my morning 
 fair. 
 
 And I have saved, for this. 
 
 Upon her baby eyes I'll press 
 
 The kiss Love gave to me. 
 When his great joy and loveliness 
 
 Made all things fair to see. 
 
 And on her lips, with smiles astir. 
 
 Ah me, what prayer of old 
 May now be kissed to comfort her. 
 
 Should Love or Life grow cold? 
 
 — Dollie Radford. 
 
 IV/TOTHER'S kiss— sweeter this 
 Than any other thing! 
 
 — William Allingham. 
 
 rilHE bride she sorrowed for three short 
 -■• weeks. 
 Three years the sister wore blanched white 
 
 cheeks ; 
 But the mother she nursed unending woe. 
 Tin she herself to the grave did go. 
 
mrrioTHER 
 
 ; ^jf\ f?LiiiiirtiifM«v.iB«miiiMimwiii«^ iI m— ■iii w i B ifri^ 1 
 
 OLEEP on, my mother! sweet and inno- 
 ^ cent dreams 
 Attend thee, best and dearest! Dreams 
 
 that gild 
 
 Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleas- 
 ures filled. 
 And saintly joy, such as thy mind be- 
 seems, — 
 Thy mind where never stormy passion 
 gleams 
 Where their soft nest the dovelike virtues 
 build ; 
 And calmest thoughts, like violets dis- 
 tilled. 
 Their fragrance mingle with bright wis- 
 dom's beams. 
 
 Sleep on, sweet mother! not the lily's bell 
 So sweet; not the enamored west wind's 
 
 sighs 
 That shake the dewdrop from her snowy 
 cell 
 So gentle, not that dewdrop ere it flies 
 So pure. E'en slumber loves with thee 
 
 to dwell, 
 O model most beloved of good and wise. 
 — Mary Russell Mitford, 
 
 ly/r OTHER is the name for God in the lips 
 ^ -*■ and hearts of httle children. 
 
 — William Makepeace Thackeray, 
 
 \ 
 nnHE mother makes us most. 
 
 ^ — Alfred Tennyson, 
 
riYrtOTHER 
 
 -^^ « 
 
 QILENT and lone, silent and lone! 
 
 ^ Where, tell me where are my little ones 
 
 7 
 
 There are np little faces to wash to-night. 
 No little troubles for mother to right, 
 No little blue eyes to be sung to sleep, 
 No little playthings to be put up to keep. 
 No little garments to hang on the rack, 
 No little tales to tell, no nuts to crack, 
 No little trundle-beds brimful of rollick. 
 Calling for mamma to settle the frolic, 
 No little soft lips to press me with kisses — 
 Oh ! such a sad, lonely evening as this is ; 
 No little voices to shout with delight. 
 Good night, dear mamma, good night, good 
 night." 
 Silent the house is, no Httle ones here. 
 To startle a smile or chase back a tear. 
 
 Silent and lone, silent and lone ! 
 
 Where, tell me where are my little ones 
 
 gone? 
 It seemeth but yesterday since they were 
 
 young; 
 Now they are all scattered the world's paths 
 
 among ; 
 Out where the great rolling tide-stream is 
 
 flowing, 
 Out where new firesides with love-light are 
 
 glowing. 
 Out where the graves of their life-hopes are 
 
 sleeping, 
 
riYriOTHER 
 
 Not to be comforted, — weeping, still weep- 
 ing, 
 Out where the high hills of science are blend- 
 ing, 
 Up mid the cloud-rifts — ^up, up, still ascend- 
 ing, 
 Seeking the sunshine that rests on the moun- 
 tain ; 
 Drinking and thirsting still, still at the foun- 
 tain; 
 Out in life's throughfare, all of them moil- 
 ing. 
 Out in the wide world, striving and toiling. 
 Little ones, loving ones, playful ones all. 
 That went when I bade and came at my call, 
 Have you deserted me? Will you not come 
 tBack to your mother's arms, back to the 
 home? — Frances D, Gage, 
 
 T OVE! love! — ^there are soft smiles and 
 ■*^ gentle words, 
 \i And there are faces, skillful to put on 
 The look we trust in — and 't is mockery all : 
 A faithless mist, a desert-vapor, wearing 
 The brightness of clear waters, thus to clear 
 The thirst that semblance kindled — ^there is 
 
 none. 
 In all this cold and hollow world, no font 
 Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that 
 
 within 
 A mother's heart. 
 
 — Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 

 rpHERE are soft words murmured by 
 -■• dear, dear lips, 
 
 Far richer than any other: 
 But the sweetest word that the ear hath heard 
 
 Is the blessed name of "Mother." 
 
 O magical word may it never die 
 
 From the lips that love to speak it, 
 Nor melt away from the trusting hearts 
 
 That even would break to keep it. 
 
 Was there ever a name that lived like this ? 
 
 Will there ever be such another? 
 The angels have reared in heaven a shrine 
 
 To the holy name of "Mother." 
 
 — A Year of Beautiful Thoughts, 
 
 npHE Mother looketh from her latticed 
 -*• pane — 
 Her children's voices echoing sweet and 
 clear : 
 With merry leap and bound her side they 
 gain. 
 Offering their wild field-flow'rets : all are 
 
 dear. 
 Yet still she listens with an absent ear: 
 For while the strong and lovely round her 
 press, 
 A halt imeven step sounds drawing near: 
 And all she leaves, that crippled child to 
 
 bless, 
 Folding him to her heart with cherishing 
 
 caress. .. u, ^ 
 
 — Sarah Elizabeth Norton, IHlJ 
 
nyrtoTHEF 
 
 Btt^Ss!9»^ 
 
 TT OME they brought her warrior dead : 
 
 She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: 
 All her maidens watching, said, 
 "She must weep or she will die." 
 
 Then they praised him soft and low. 
 Called him worthy to be loved. 
 
 Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
 Yet she never spoke nor moved. 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place 
 
 Lightly to the warrior stept, 
 Took the face cloth from his face; 
 
 Yet she never moved nor wept. 
 
 Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 
 Like summer tempest came her tears — 
 "Sweet my child, I live for thee." 
 
 — Alfred Tennyson, 
 
 l^THERE crystal streams through end- 
 ^ ^ less years 
 
 Flow over golden sands. 
 And where the old grow young again, 
 I'll clasp my mother's hands. 
 
 —Ellen M. H. Gates. 
 
 K 
 
 A LL women become like their mothers. 
 "^^ That is their tragedy. No man does. 
 That is his. 
 
 — Oscar Wilde. 
 
rrrrioTHER 
 
 /^NLY a factory girl, 
 
 ^^ And she works in the noisy mill, 
 
 But her hands are deft, and her arms are 
 
 strong, 
 And she sings at her work the whole day 
 long. 
 
 And she works with a right good will; 
 For mother at home is growing old, 
 And mother's house is poor and cold. 
 
 And the wintry winds are chill; 
 And she longs for the day to quickly come 
 When mother may have a better home. 
 
 And so she toils in the mill. 
 
 Only a factory girl. 
 
 Her mother's hope and stay. 
 But her love is strong for every one. 
 Like the glowing beams of the morning sun 
 
 As he ushers in the day. 
 Her flowers she gives to the sick and poor. 
 And she always keeps an open door 
 
 For all who come that way. 
 And for all who live by constant toil. 
 In mill or mine or on the soil. 
 
 She hopes for a better day. 
 
 —C, J. Buell 
 
 TVyT Y world may be small, but 'tis happy 
 ^ ^ And peaceful, far from the mad 
 
 whirl. 
 And the day's toil is lost and forgotten 
 In the kiss of my wee baby girl. 
 
 — Louise Malloy. 
 
V "W 
 
 mrto' 
 
 ¥>ECAUSE of one dear infant Head 
 "■^ With golden hair, 
 
 mi 
 
 
 ■-^ 
 
 To me all little heads 
 
 A halo wear; 
 And for one saintly face I kno^f: 
 
 All babes are fair. 
 
 Because of two wide earnest Eyes 
 
 Of heavenly blue, 
 Which looked with yearning gaze 
 
 My sad soul through, 
 All eyes now fill my own with tears 
 
 Whate'er their hue. 
 
 Because of little death-marked Lips, 
 
 Which once did call 
 My name in childish tones. 
 
 No voices fall 
 Upon my ear in vain appeal 
 
 From children small. 
 
 Two little Hands held in my own 
 
 Long, long ago. 
 Now cause me as I wander through 
 
 This world of woe, 
 To clasp each baby hand stretched out 
 
 In fear of foe: 
 The lowest cannot plead in vain — 
 
 I loved Him so! 
 
J>a3Ca3'''-W' IZ .-'««lK.*rt!-crmi" 
 
 m 
 
 i 
 
 ) CO (^ 
 
 npHERE are whips and toys and pieces of 
 '■■ strings, 
 
 There are shoes which no little feet wear, 
 There are bits of ribbon and broken things, 
 
 And tresses of golden hair ; 
 There are little dresses folded away 
 Out of the light of the sunny day. 
 
 There are dainty jackets that never are 
 worn, 
 There are toys and models of ships. 
 There are books and pictures all faded and 
 torn. 
 And marked by the finger-tips 
 Of dimpled hands that have fallen to dust; 
 Yet I strive to think that the Lord is just. 
 
 But a feeling of bitterness fills my soul 
 Sometimes, when I try to pray. 
 
 That a Reaper has spared so many flowers 
 And taken mine away; 
 
 And I almost doubt if the Lord can know 
 
 That a mother's heart can love them so. 
 
 And then I think of my children two — 
 
 My babes that never grew old ; 
 To know they are waiting and watching for 
 you. 
 
 In the city with streets of gold ! 
 Safe, safe from the cares of the weary years, 
 
 From sorrow and sin and war; 
 And I thank my God with falling tears 
 
 For the things in the bottom drawer. 
 
 \> 
 
 \> 
 
v.i«,«l»US*,IS«fi-7>i'v^-V 
 
 rtrnoTHER 
 
 'I^T'HEN Mother was a little girl, 
 ^ ^ Now many years ago. 
 She had to mind her P's and Q's, 
 
 She had to walk just so; 
 And if her mother said, "Be quiet!" 
 
 She didn't dare say "Booh!" 
 For fear they'd send her off to bed. 
 
 Without her supper, too. 
 
 When Mother grew to womanhood, 
 
 And got her children, then 
 She found the fashion turned around, — 
 
 She had to mind again: 
 To-day it's Margaret, Jean, and Jane 
 , , Who do the talking, and 
 
 ^I'^H^^^^ Mother doesn't dare say "Booh!" 
 Except upon command. 
 
 — William Wallace Whitelock. 
 
 li 
 
 *f 
 
 T ET every honest man praise God that 
 '^ all his life through he has the privilege, 
 the royal honor, of daily association with 
 Mothers: In youth with the fountain at 
 once of his life and of his dearest memories ; 
 in manhood with the sweeter mother of his 
 own sweet babes! 
 
 — Eben Willis Smith. 
 
 npHE good mother saith not, "Will you?" 
 but gives. 
 
 — Proverb. 
 
CO 
 
 nrrtoTHER 
 
 r^^iitTMSt 56-i ' "■ -- .Vi:\ejt^f 
 
 "D EFORE me toiled in the whirling wind 
 *^ A woman with bundles great and small, 
 And after her tugged, a step behind, 
 The Bundle she loved the best of all. 
 
 A dear little roly-poly boy 
 
 With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue, 
 Laughing and chattering full of joy. 
 
 And here's what he said — I tell you true; 
 
 "i • 
 
 **You're the goodest mother that ever was." 
 A voice as clear as a forest bird's; 
 
 And I'm sure the glad young heart had cause 
 To utter the sweet of the lovely words. 
 
 Perhaps the woman had worked all day 
 Washing or scrubbing; perhaps she sewed; 
 
 I knew, by her weary footfall's way. 
 That life for her was an uphill road. 
 
 But here was a comfort. Children dear. 
 Think what a comfort you might give 
 
 To the very best friend you can have here, 
 The lady fair in whose house you live, 
 
 If once in a while you'd stop and say, — 
 In task or play for a moment pause. 
 
 And tell her in sweet and winning way, 
 "You're the goodest mother that ever 
 
 
 I 
 
CO 
 
 mnoTHER 
 
 r\ RATAPLAN ! It is a merry note, 
 ^^ And, mother, I'm for listing in 
 
 the morn"; 
 'And would ye, son, to wear a scarlet coat, 
 Go leave your mother's latter age for- 
 lorn?" 
 'O mother, I am sick of sheep and goat, 
 Fat cattle, and the reaping of the corn ; 
 I long to see the British colors float ; 
 For glory, glory, glory, was I born!" 
 
 She saw him march. It was a gallant sight. 
 She blest herself, and praised him for a 
 man. ' 
 
 And straight he hurried to the bitter fight. 
 
 And found a bullet in the drear Soudan. 
 
 They dug a shallow grave — 't was all they 
 
 might ; 
 
 And that's the end of glory. Rataplan! 
 
 — Edward Cracroft Lefroy. 
 
 p>LESSED is the memory of an old- 
 ^^ fashioned mother. It floats to us now, 
 like the beautiful perfume of some wood- 
 land blossoms. The music of other voices 
 may be lost, but the entrancing melody 
 of hers will echo in our souls forever. 
 Other faces will fade away and be for- 
 gotten, but hers will shine on until the 
 light from Heaven's portals will glorify 
 our own. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 m 
 
J\ 
 
 WNOTHER 
 
 T LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare 
 ^ To chide me for loving that old arm- 
 chair? 
 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart, 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
 ^ Would you learn the spell?— a mother sat 
 there, , 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 The hallowed seat with listening ear; 
 And gentle words that mother would give, 
 To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 
 She told me shame would never betide. 
 With truth for my creed and God for my 
 
 guide ; 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow; 
 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she 
 
 died ; 
 And memory flows with a lava tide. 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
 While the scalding tears run down my cheek; 
 But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 — Wiza Cook, 
 
 1VT ONEY builds the house, mothers make 
 
 I- 
 
 the home. 
 
 ■George Zell. 
 
rariioTHm 
 
 r 
 
 'F you have a gray-haired mother in the 
 
 old home far away, 
 
 ,^ .^ Sit you down and write the letter you've put 
 
 I^Y) off from day to day. | 
 
 Don't wait until her weary steps reach 
 
 Heaven's pearly gate, 
 But show her that you think of her, before it 
 is too late. 
 
 — George Bancroft Griffith. 
 
 TV/TOTHER'S smile— that smile 
 
 "^^ "■■ Of all, best fitted sorrow to beguile. 
 
 And strengthen hope, and, by unmarked 
 
 degrees, \^ 
 
 Encourage to their birth high purposes. 
 
 — William Gilmore Simms, 
 
 T ONG, long before the Babe could speak, 
 •*^ And to her bosom press. 
 The brightest angels standing near 
 Would turn away to hide a tear — 
 For they were motherless. 
 
 — John Banister Tabb. 
 
 TN the heavens above 
 
 The angels whispering to one another, 
 Can find, amid their burning terms of love, 
 None so devotional as that of "mother" 
 
 — Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
CO 
 
 mr MOTHER 
 
 ly/TY Mother! When I learned that thou 
 
 ^ ■*- wast dead, 
 
 Say, Wast thou conscious of the tears I 
 shed? 
 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son? 
 
 Wretch even then, Life's journey just be- 
 gun! 
 
 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a 
 kiss? 
 
 Perhaps, a tear? if souls can weep in bliss. 
 
 Ah, that maternal smile! It answers "Yes!" 
 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; 
 
 And, turning from my nursery window, 
 drew 
 
 A long, long sigh; and wept a last Adieu! 
 
 But was it such? It was. Where thou art 
 gone, 
 
 Adieus! and Farewells! are a sound un- 
 known! 
 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 
 The parting sound shall pass my lips no 
 more ! 
 
 The maidens grieved themselves at my con- 
 cern. 
 Oft gave me promise of a quick return. 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed; 
 And disappointed still, was still deceived! 
 Dupe of To-Morrow, even from a child. 
 By expectation every day beguiled! 
 Thus manv a sad to-morrow came and went. 
 
rarrioTHER 
 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 I learned, at last, submission to my lot: 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er for- 
 got! 
 
 — William Cowper, 
 
 /^N Euripides' plays we debated, 
 ^-^ In College, one chill winter night; 
 A student rose up, while we waited 
 
 For more intellectual light. 
 As he stood, pale and anxious, before us, 
 
 Three words, like a soft summer wind, 
 Went past us and through us and o'er us — 
 
 A whisper low-breathed: ''He is blind!" 
 
 And in many a face there was pity, 
 
 And in many an eye there were tears ; 
 For his words were not buoyant and witty. 
 
 As fitted his fresh summer years. 
 And he spoke once or twice, as none other 
 
 Could speak, of a woman's pure ways — ^ 
 He remembered the face of his mother 
 
 Ere darkness had blighted his days. 
 
 — Edmund John Armstrong, 
 
 W 
 
 \\TJ1AT mother is so blest as she who 
 ^ ^ finds in her little one's face not only 
 something of her own look, but also the look 
 of her mother? 
 
riYilOTHER 
 
 rpHE mother yields her little babe to sleep 
 '■• Upori her tender breast, 
 And singing still a lullaby, 
 
 Hushes its heart to rest: 
 "O sleep in peace upon my bosom. 
 And sweetly may your small dreams 
 
 blossom ; 
 And from the fears that made me weep you, 
 And from all pains, as soft you sleep you, 
 The angels lightly guard and keep you. 
 
 And hold you blest! 
 
 l^r'iy 
 
 f>.^ 
 
 d 
 
 'Your mother, dear, is often full of fear. 
 
 As the moments run; 
 Her love entwines so close, ah dear, — 
 
 Dearest little one. 
 Her song is in its music weeping. 
 To think of death and its dark keeping, 
 That yet might turn those red cheeks 
 
 white, — 
 Life's rose, that grows so in her sight, — 
 And your bright eyes, like morning light. 
 
 Dearest little one!" 
 
 — Ernest Rhys, 
 
 1 SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the 
 -■■ breast of its mother; 
 The sleeping mother and babe — shushed, I 
 study them long and long. 
 
 — Walt Whitman, 
 
HYNOTHER 
 
 T TALF the long night, my children, I lie 
 '*■ '*' waking 
 
 Till the dawn rustles in the old thorn tree, 
 Then dream of you, while the red morn is 
 breaking 
 
 Beyond that broad salt sea ; 
 
 In this poor room, where many a time the 
 measure 
 Of your low, regular breathing in mine 
 ear. 
 Brought to my listening heart a keener 
 
 pleasure - s 
 
 Than any music clear ; 
 
 Here, where your soft heads in my bosom 
 
 laying. 
 Ye nestled, with your hearts to my heart 
 
 pressed ; 
 And I have f eit your little fingers playing, 
 All night, around my breast. 
 
 How could ye leave me? Did ye think a 
 mother 
 Was natured like a bird in summer's 
 prime, 
 Who leaves her young brood, hopeful of 
 another 
 In the next glad spring time? 
 
 — Cecil Frances Alexander, 
 
1 1 
 
 ■A 
 
 ^O 
 
 ■f- iv/:- 
 
 Co 
 
 TtOTHH 
 
 TTOW steadfastly she worked at it! 
 
 How lovingly had dressed 
 With all her would-be mother's wit, 
 That little rosy, nest! 
 
 How lovingly she'd hang on it! — 
 It sometimes seemed, she said, 
 
 There lay beneath its coverlet 
 A little sleeping head. 
 
 He came at last, the tiny guest. 
 
 Ere bleak December fled; 
 That rosy nest he never pressed — 
 
 Her coffin was his bed. 
 
 — Austin Dohson, 
 
 ^yjiTHAT is home without a mother? 
 ^ ^ What are all the joys we meet? 
 When her loving smile no longer 
 Greets the coming of our feet? 
 The days are long, the nights are drear, 
 
 And time rolls slowly on; 
 And oh, how few are childhood's pleasures. 
 When her loving care is gone. 
 
 — Alice Hawthorne, 
 
 THE world has no such flower in any 
 land, 
 And no such pearl in any gulf the sea. 
 As any babe on any mother's knee. 
 
 — Algernon Charles Swinburne, 
 
 1 
 
mrrioTHEF 
 
 ^r^C.- 
 
 TylTHEN barren doubt, like a late coming 
 ^ ^ snow, 
 
 Made an unkind December of my spring, 
 That all the pretty flowers did droop for 
 
 woe, 
 And the sweet birds their love no more 
 
 would sing; 
 Then the remembrance of thy gentle faith. 
 Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart ; 
 Fond feeling saved me from the utter scathe. 
 And from the hope I could not live apart. 
 — Arthur Henry Hallam, 
 
 'VrOW in memory comes my mother, 
 y ^ ^ As she used long years agone. 
 To regard the darling dreamers 
 
 Ere she left them till the dawn; 
 Oh, I see her leaning o'er me, 
 
 As I list to this refrain 
 Which is played upon the shingles 
 By the patter of, the rain. 
 
 — Coates Kinney. 
 
 AH! blessed are they for whom 'mid all 
 '^^' their pains 
 
 Thatj faithful and unaltered love remains ; 
 Who, life wrecked round them, hunted from 
 
 their rest. 
 And by all else forsaken or distressed. 
 Claim in one heart their sanctuary and 
 
 shrine 
 As I, my Mother, claimed my place in thine. 
 — Sarah Elizabeth Norton. 
 
 iU-fy 
 
 ^(' 
 
 O&i 
 
f^/^i^K 
 
 CO 
 
 riYrtoTHHi 
 
 /^H, if I could only make you see 
 ^^ The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
 The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 
 The woman's soul, and the angel's face 
 
 That are beaming on me all the while, 
 I need not speak these foolish words: 
 Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 
 She is my mother : you will agree 
 That all the rest may be thrown away. 
 
 — Alice Cary. 
 
 
 'IT^HEN she, a maiden slim, 
 ^ ^ Suffered his yoke and bondage, on 
 
 she took 
 Smooth matron's ways and dalliance for- 
 sook 
 With gossip-girls in girls' shy eagerness 
 To wonder at men's deeds; and with the 
 
 dress 
 Of wife attuned her heart in graver mood 
 To bear the sober fruits of Motherhood. 
 A many children him in time she bore. 
 So many treasure-houses for her store 
 Of love, which ever waxed as each new voice 
 Wailing for succor made her heart rejoice 
 That she was almoner. 
 
 — Maurice Hewlett. 
 
 npHE woman was weak, but the mother 
 -*• found strength. 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 I 
 
mrioTHm 
 
 T ORD, Who ordainest for mankind 
 ■^ Benignant toils and tender cares! 
 We thank Thee for the ties that bind 
 The mother to the child she bears. 
 
 We thank Thee for the hopes that rise 
 Within her heart, as, day by day, 
 
 The dawning soul, from those young eyes. 
 Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray. 
 
 And grateful for the blessing given 
 With that dear infant on her knee. 
 
 She trains the eye to look to Heaven, 
 The voice to lisp a prayer to Thee. 
 
 Such thanks the blessed Mary gave. 
 When from her lap the Holy Child, 
 
 Sent from on high to seek and save 
 The lost of earth, looked up and smiled. 
 
 All-Gracious! grant to those who bear 
 A mother's charge the strength and light 
 
 To lead the steps that own their care 
 In ways of Love, and Truth, and Right. 
 — William Cullen Bryant, 
 
 "C^VERY man, for the sake of the great 
 -■— * blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the 
 love of his own little mother on earth, should 
 handle all womankind gently, and hold them 
 in all honor. 
 
 — Alfred Tennyson, 
 
WriOTHER 
 
 /T' 
 
 ^S^ 
 
 npHE light upon his eyelids pricked them 
 •*" wide 
 
 And staring out at us with all their blue, 
 As half perplexed between the angelhood 
 He had been away to visit in his sleep. 
 And our most mortal presence, gradually 
 He saw his mother's face, accepting it 
 In change for heaven itself with such a smile 
 As might have well been learnt there. 
 
 — Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 
 
 /CHILDREN are what the mothers are. 
 ^^ No fondest father's fondest care 
 Can fashion so the infant heart 
 As those creative beams that dart, 
 With all their hope and fear, upon 
 The cradle of a sleeping son. 
 
 His startled eyes with wonder see 
 A father near him on his knee, 
 Who wishes all the while to trace 
 The mother in his future face ; 
 But 't is to her alone uprise 
 His waking arms; to her those eyes 
 Open with joy and not surprise. 
 
 — Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 Tj^OR unwearying patience and unchan- 
 •*■ ging tenderness, the love of a true 
 mother stands next to the love of our Father 
 in Heaven. 
 
 — A Year of Beautiful Thoughts. 
 
<x^:\i 
 
 m- 
 
 nrrioTHER 
 
 JUST when each bud was big with bloom, 
 ^ And as prophetic of perfume, 
 When spring, with her bright horoscope. 
 Was sweet as an unuttered hope; 
 
 Just when the last star flickered out. 
 And twilight, like a soul in doubt, 
 
 Hovered between the dark and dawn. 
 And day lay waiting to be born; 
 
 Just when the gray and dewy air 
 Grew sacred as an unvoiced prayer. 
 
 And somewhere through the dusk she heard 
 The stirring of a nested bird, — 
 
 Four angels glorified the place: 
 
 Wan Pain unveiled her awful face ; 
 
 Joy, soaring, sang; Love, brooding, smiled; 
 Peace laid upon her breast a child. 
 
 — Aimie B. Stillman 
 
 MAIDS must be wives and mothers, to 
 fulfill 
 The entire and holiest end of; women's being. 
 — Frances Anne Kemhle, 
 
 at, 
 
 iy/f OTHER'S love grows by giving. 
 
 — Charles Lamb. 
 
 P>UT strive still to be man before your 
 ^^ mother. 
 
 — William Cowper. 
 
riY MOTHER 
 
 rpHERE was a gathered stillness in the 
 -*• room : 
 Only the breathing of the great sea rose 
 From far off, aiding that profound repose, 
 With regular pulse and pause within the 
 gloom 
 Of twihght, as if some impending doom 
 Was now approaching; — I sat moveless 
 
 there, 
 Watching with tears and thoughts that 
 
 were like prayer, 
 Till the hour struck, — the thread dropped 
 from the loom; 
 And the Bark passed in which freed souls 
 are borne. 
 The dear stilled face lay there ; that sound 
 
 forlorn 
 Continued; it rose not, but long sat by; 
 And now my heart oft hears that sad sea- 
 shore, 
 When she is in the f ar-oif land, and I 
 Wait the dark sail returning yet once 
 more. 
 
 — William Bell Scott. 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 A MOTHER'S arms are made of ten- 
 •^^^ derness and children sleep soundly in 
 them. 
 
 — Victor Hugo, 
 
 TTEAVEN is kind, as a noble mother. 
 ^ -■■ . Thomas Carlyle, 
 
 !T^««*?^ 
 
rtifrioTHER 
 
 npHREE things there be that nearly 
 ^ break my heart: 
 The thought of Christmas and my mother's 
 
 part 
 In all its sweetness; the soft prayer she said 
 And I beside her ready for my bed; 
 And her last kiss at night. Woe's me, 
 
 alone 
 Here waiting, waiting — and my mother 
 
 gone 
 
 — Christopher Bannister, 
 
 HERE yet was ever found a mother 
 Who'd give her boobv for another. 
 
 — John Gay, 
 
 npHEY say that man is mighty, 
 •■" He governs land and sea, 
 He wields a mighty scepter 
 
 O'er lesser powers that be ; 
 But a mightier power and stronger 
 Man from his throne has hurled. 
 For the hand that rocks the cradle 
 Is the hand that rules the world. 
 
 — William Ross Wallace, 
 
 V /J.. 
 
 
 A MOTHER who boasts two boys was j ,,; 
 , ^^^ ever accounted rich. ^ '" 
 
 I — Robert Browning, 
 
HYnOTHER 
 
 HAT is there down so deep 
 But mother's love will find it? 
 Cover it over and hide it well, 
 lfr)i) Neither with lips, nor by glances tell; 
 
 Have you a trouble? Wherever it dwell, 
 Mother's love finds it out. 
 
 w 
 
 #. 
 
 n 
 
 A' 
 
 What is there up so high, \ 
 
 But mother's love can share it? 
 All that is noble, and good and true, — 
 That which enriches and blesses you, — 
 What you accomplish, and purpose to do ; 
 
 Mother's love shares it all. 
 
 Is anything too hard 
 For mother to do for you? 
 No, obstacles vanish, and cares grow light. 
 Dangers diminish, and clouds become 
 
 bright. 
 Burdens grow small, and roll out of sight 
 For mother when doing for you. 
 
 — A Year of Beautiful Thoughts. 
 
 rpHE very first 
 ^ Of human life must spring from 
 
 woman's breast. 
 Your first small words are taught you from 
 
 her lips, i 
 
 Your first tears quenched by her. 
 
 — Lord Byron. 
 
I 
 
 nynoTHER 
 
 LOVED the woman; he that doth not, 
 
 lives 
 A! drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 
 Or pines in sad experience worse than death, 
 Or keeps his winged affections clipped with 
 
 crime : 
 Yet was there one through whom I loved 
 
 her, one 
 Not learned, save in gracious household 
 
 ways. 
 Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants. 
 No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipped 
 In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
 Interpreter between the Gods and men, 
 j^\ Who looked all native to her place, and yet 
 On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere 
 Too gross to tread, and all male minds per- 
 force 
 Swayed to her from their orbits as they 
 
 moved. 
 And girdled her with music. Happy he 
 With such a mother! faith in womankind 
 Beats with his blood, and trust in all things 
 
 high 
 Comes easy to him, and though he trip and 
 
 faU 
 He shall not blind his soul with clay. 
 
 — Alfred Tennyson, 
 
 f M T I^EMEMBER my mother's prayers 
 and they have always followed me. 
 They have clung to me all my life. 
 
 — Abraham Lincoln, 
 
 ^ 
 
nyrioTHER 
 
 OHE seemed an angel to our infant eyes 
 ^^ Once when the glorifying moon re- 
 vealed 
 Her who at evening by our pillow 
 kneeled, — 
 Soft-voiced and golden haired, from holy 
 
 skies 
 Flown to her love on wings of Paradise, — 
 We looked to see the pinions half-con- 
 cealed. 
 The Tuscan vines and olives will not 
 yield 
 Her back to me who loved her in this wise. 
 
 And since have little known her, but have 
 grown 
 To see another mother tenderly 
 Watch over sleeping children of my own. 
 Perhaps the years have changed her, yet 
 alone 
 This picture lingers ; still she seems to me 
 The fair young angel of my infancy. 
 
 — Edmund Clarence Stedman. 
 
 A Mother's Picture. 
 
 l{ « 
 
 
 rpHERE is a sight all hearts beguiling — 
 -*• A youthful mother to her infant 
 smiling, 
 Who, with spread arms and dancing feet. 
 And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet. 
 
 — Joanna Baillie. 
 
 
 ^ ft(i 
 
CO 
 
 mnoTHER 
 
 
 TV4rY little one begins his feet to try, 
 "*^ ■*■ A tottering, feeble, inconsistent way; 
 Pleased with the effort, he forgets his play. 
 And leaves his infant baubles where thev 
 
 lie. 
 Laughing and proud his mother flutters 
 
 nigh 
 Turning to go, yet joy-compelled to stay, 
 And, bird-like, singing what her heart 
 
 would say; 
 But not so certain of my bliss am I. 
 For I bethink me of the days in store 
 Wherein those feet must traverse realms 
 
 unknown. 
 And half forget the pathway to our door. 
 And I recall that in the seasons flown 
 We were his all — as he was all our own — 
 But never can be quite so any more. 
 
 — Andrew Brice Saxton, 
 
 ,JA 
 
 OHE broke the bread into two frag- 
 ^^ ments, and gave them to the children, 
 who ate with avidity. "She has kept none 
 for herself," grumbled the sergeant. "Be- 
 cause she is not hungry," said a soldier. 
 "Because she is a mother," said the sergeant. 
 
 — Victor Hugo. 
 
 /^OD and thy mother watch o'er thee 
 ^^ keep. 
 
 '.'♦■.<Vi^?! 
 
r\ WHEN the half-light weaves 
 ^-^ Wild shadows on the floor, 
 How ghostly come the withered leaves 
 Stealing about my door! 
 
 I sit and hold my breath, 
 
 Lone in the lonely house; 
 Naught breaks the silence still as death, 
 
 Only a creeping mouse. 
 
 The patter of leaves it may be, 
 But like a patter of feet, 
 
 The small feet of my own baby 
 That never felt the heat. 
 
 The small feet of my son, 
 Cold as the graveyard sod; 
 
 My little, dumb, unchristened one 
 That may not win to God. 
 
 "Come in, dear babe," I cry. 
 Opening the door so wide. 
 
 The leaves go stealing softly by; 
 How dark it is outside! 
 
 And though I kneel and pray 
 
 Long on the threshold-stone, 
 The little feet press on their way. 
 
 And I am ever alone. 
 
 — Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 
 
 U 
 
I ! 
 
 rnrnoTHER 
 
 npHE fire upon the hearth is low, 
 •*■ And there is stillness everywhere; 
 Like troubled spirits, here and there 
 
 The firelight shadows fluttering go; 
 
 And as the shadows round me creep, 
 A childish treble breaks the gloom 
 And softly from a further room 
 
 Comes, "Now I lay me down to sleep." 
 
 And, somehow, with that little prayer 
 And that sweet treble in my ears, 
 My thought goes back to distant years, 
 
 And lingers with a dear one there; 
 
 And as I hear the child's amen. 
 
 My mother's faith comes back to me, — 
 Crouched at her side I seem to be, 
 
 And mother holds my hands again. 
 
 O for an hour in that dear place! 
 O for the peace of that dear time! 
 
 for that childish trust sublime! 
 O for a glimpse of mother's face! 
 Yet, as the shadows round me creep, 
 
 1 do not seem to be alone, — 
 Sweet magic of that treble tone 
 
 And "Now I lay me down to sleep !" 
 
 — Eugene Field, 
 
 /^H, the love of a mother, love which none 
 ^^^ can forget. 
 
 4 
 
 Victor Hugo, 
 
 ?BK2X■i^jJ,_,.^.,,;;^, 
 
CO 
 
 ny MOTHER 
 
 T'D a dream to-night 
 '■' As I fell asleep. 
 Oh, the touching sight 
 
 Makes me still to weep — 
 Of my little lad. 
 Soon to leave me sad. 
 Aye, the child I had. 
 
 But was not to keep. 
 
 As in Heaven high, 
 I my child did seek, 
 
 There, in train, came by 
 Children fair and meek. 
 
 Each in lily white. 
 
 With a lamp alight; 
 
 Each was clear to sight. 
 But they did not speak. 
 
 Then, a little sad. 
 
 Came my child in turn. 
 But the lamp he had. 
 
 Oh, it did not burn! 
 He, to clear my doubt. 
 Said, half turned about, 
 "Your tears put it out; 
 
 Mother, never mourn." 
 
 — William Barnes, 
 
 The Mother's Dream. 
 
 A LL that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my 
 '^^ angel mother. 
 
 — 'Abraham Lincoln, 
 
 Sorter. 
 
nyrioTHER 
 
 I 
 
 Tjl^ YES of blue and hair of gold 
 ^-^ Cheeks all brown with summer tan, 
 Lips that much of laughter hold. 
 That is mother's little Man. 
 
 Shining curls like chestnut brown. 
 Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid, 
 
 Sweetest face in all the town. 
 That is mother's little Maid. 
 
 Dainty room with snow-white bed, 
 Where, two flowers with petals curled, 
 
 Rest in peace two dreaming heads, 
 That is mother's little World. 
 
 — Margaret Alden. 
 
 T may be, mother mine, when you 
 
 departed, 
 
 ' White and silent, that you did not wholly go, 
 
 Never left your children broken-hearted, 
 
 ^ Help them more, are nearer than they know. 
 
 And your remembered tones are more than 
 
 music. 
 More than day the memory of your smile; 
 Clear from all the cadences of sorrow. 
 May I hear them, and behold them in a 
 little while! — Boden Noel, 
 
 'T^HE real religion of the world comes 
 ■*■ from women much more than from men 
 — from mothers most of all, who carry the 
 key of our souls in their bosoms. 
 
 — Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
 
 /<? /I c <r . 
 
HY MOTHER 
 
 A MOTHER'S Love— how sweet 
 •^*' name ! 
 
 What is a Mother's Love? — 
 A noble, pure, and tender flame 
 
 Enkindled from above, 
 To bless a heart of earthly mold; 
 The warmest love that can grow cold: 
 
 This is a Mother's Love. 
 
 To bring a helpless babe to light, 
 Then, while it lies forlorn. 
 
 To gaze upon that dearest sight 
 And feel herself new-born. 
 
 In its existence lose her own. 
 
 And live and breathe in it alone: 
 This is a Mother's Love. 
 
 To mark its growth from day to day, 
 
 Its opening charms admire. 
 Catch from its eye the earliest ray 
 
 Of intellectual fire; 
 To smile and listen while it talks 
 And lend a finger when it walks: 
 
 This is a Mother's Love. 
 
 — James Montgomery, 
 
 /^H, children, more than angels ye; 
 ^^ Of blossoms more than bud; 
 And, perfecting perfection, see! 
 With you goes Motherhood. 
 
 — Wallace Eke, 
 
nrrioTHER 
 
 I 
 
 fTlO hear, to heed, to wed, 
 -■" Fair lot that maidens choose. 
 Thy mother's tenderest words are said. 
 
 Thy face no more she views: 
 Thy mother's lot, my dear, 
 
 She doth in naught accuse; 
 Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear. 
 To love — and then to lose. 
 
 — Jean Ingelow. 
 
 rpHIS book is all that's left me now! 
 -*■ Tears will unbidden start; 
 With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 
 
 I press it to my heart. 
 For manj generations past. 
 Here is our family tree; 
 'My Mother's hands this Bible clasped; 
 She, dying, gave it me. 
 
 — George Pope Morris. 
 
 'VTEVER was prideful wealth, power, or 
 
 '*'^ fame 
 
 That glanced not back beyond its haughti- 
 ness 
 
 With tenderest longing and a welling eye 
 
 Unto those earlier days, when a clear flame -'pd^^ 
 
 Burned steadfast on the hearth of home, to '^'^ J^ 
 bless 
 
 A past that knew no pomp, to smile and 
 
 sigh jf yi 
 
 Wistfully for that better, finer part : 
 The unselfishness that is a mother's heart. 
 
 — Christopher Bannister. 
 
mrrioTHEP 
 
 TTERE, in her old work-basket — 
 •■• '■• Now that my mother's gone — - 
 I find a thread of silver — 
 A single hair alone, 
 
 Than filigree more slender; 
 
 And yet that thread is strong 
 To draw my heart and crush it, 
 
 Till tears are all its song. 
 
 I knew when her locks were golden, 
 
 And here, night after night. 
 Over this old work-basket, 
 
 I saw them change to white. 
 
 This little thread surviving. 
 
 That tender mother gone! — 
 What wonder I am weeping 
 
 As I sit here alone! 
 
 — Christopher Bannister, 
 
 Tj^VEN He that died for us upon the 
 ^^ cross, in the last hour, in the unutter- 
 able agony of death, was mindful of His 
 mother, as if to teach us that this holy love 
 should be our last worldly thought — the 
 last point of earth from which the soul 
 should take its flight for Heaven. 
 
 — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 
 
 A LL that I am my mother made me. 
 -^^ — John Quincy Adams. 
 
rrf rioTHER 
 
 M.:^ 
 
 ,^^j^ 
 
 Tj^AITHFUL remembrancer of one so 
 
 ''■ dear. 
 
 Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here ! 
 
 Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, 
 
 AiFectionate, a mother lost so long, 
 
 I will obey, not willingly alone. 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own; 
 
 And while that face renews my filial grief. 
 
 Fancy shall weave a charm in my relief — 
 
 Shall steep me in Elysian revery, 
 
 A momentary dream, that thou art she. 
 
 — William Cowper, 
 
 On His Mother's Portrait. 
 
 i I 
 
 rilO bear, to nurse, to rear, 
 ^^i -■" To watch, and then to lose: 
 
 To see my bright ones disappear. 
 Drawn up like morning dews — 
 To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
 
 To watch, and then to lose: 
 This have I done when God drew near 
 Among His own to choose. 
 
 — Jean Ingelow, 
 
 On Maternity. 
 
 ::a 
 
 'VTEVER comfes mortal utterance so near 
 ^ to eternity as when a child utters words 
 of loving praise to a mother! Every sylla- 
 ble drops into the jewel box of her memory, 
 to be treasured for ever and ever. 
 
 — George B, Lyon, 
 
 :r4|sU^ 
 
mr MOTHER 
 
 T AM a Mother! — that, and no other, 
 •■■ Lying in peace with my babe at my 
 
 breast ; 
 All my fears banished, all my pain vanished ; 
 Happy — and numbered at last with the 
 
 blest! 
 
 . f Here, at my bosom, I nourish a blossom. 
 
 Fairest of flowers — and mine, mine alone ! 
 How I yearned for thee long ere I bore 
 thee — 
 Thee, little baby, now come to thine own I 
 
 Ah, my sweet dearest, thou 'st brought me 
 >\'\ nearest 
 
 To Heaven a mortal may be 'neath the 
 sun: 
 I am a Mother — that, and no other! 
 
 Here is the crown of my womanhood 
 won! 
 
 — Frances Viola Holden, 
 
 '-sj.;>-. 
 
 TV/f Y Mother, with thy calm and| holy brow 
 ^ -■• And high devoted heart, which suf- 
 fered still 
 Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill, 
 Therefore I speak of thee; that those who 
 
 read 
 That trust in woman, which is still my creed. 
 Thy early-widowed image may recall 
 And greet thy nature as the type of all! 
 — Sarah Elizabeth Norton. 
 
nnioTHER 
 
 ¥ N my darling's bosom 
 
 Has dropped a living rosebud, 
 Fair as brilliant Hesper 
 Against the brimming flood. 
 She handles him. 
 She dandles him, 
 She fondles him and eyes him: 
 And if upon a tear he wakes, 
 
 With many a kiss she dries him: 
 She covets every move he makes. 
 And never enough can prize him. 
 Ah, the young Usurper! 
 
 I yield my golden throne: 
 Such angel bands attend his hands 
 To claim it for his own. 
 
 — George Meredith, 
 
 A FATHER may turn his back on his 
 '^^^ child ; brothers and sisters may become 
 inveterate enemies, husbands may desert 
 their wives, and wives their husbands. But 
 a mother's love endures through all; in good 
 repute, in bad repute, in the face of the 
 world's condemnation, a mother still loves 
 on, and still hopes that her child may turn 
 from his evil ways and repent. 
 
 -Washington Irving. 
 
 "V/TEMORIES of mothers are sweet, but 
 ^ ^ never as sweet as mothers themselves. 
 Some of us forget this. 
 
 — M, D. Hillmer, 
 
\M 
 
 W Al 
 
 ^rarnoTHER 
 
 OINCE you were tired and went away 
 
 We've brought you flowers every day, 
 Now through your grass live daisies peer, 
 O mother, mother dear! 
 
 They say you are not very far. 
 But since we cry we know you are ; 
 We should not cry if you were near, 
 O mother, mother dear! 
 
 Mother, you know we sometimes cry 
 In the dark night, we don't know why ; 
 You would not let us cry for fear, 
 O mother, mother dear! 
 
 We think perhaps you did not know 
 Your little children loved you so. 
 Or you would not have left them here, 
 O mother, mother dear! 
 
 If we are good we think that then 
 Perhaps you will come back again; 
 Come in a week — a month — a year, 
 O mother, mother dear! 
 
 O mother, mother, come to-day! 
 Why did you ever go away? 
 We are so tired of being here 
 
 Without you, mother dear! 
 
 —E. Nesbit Bland. 
 
 zy 
 
 
rnrrioTHER 
 
 9 
 
 #» 
 
 -^JxJK 
 
 A PICTURE memory brings to me: 
 "^^ I look across the years and see 
 Myself beside my mother's knee. 
 
 I feel her gentle hand restrain 
 
 My selfish moods, and know again 
 
 A child's blind sense of wrong and pain. 
 
 But, wiser now, a man gray grown, 
 My childhood's needs are better known, 
 My mother's chastening love I own. 
 
 — John Greenleaf Whittier, 
 
 /^HILD of a day, thou knowest not 
 ^^ The tears that overflow thine urn, 
 The gushing eyes that read thy lot. 
 
 Nor, if thou knewest, could'st return! 
 And why the wish! the pure and blest 
 
 Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep. 
 O peaceful night! O envied rest! 
 
 Thou wilt not ever see her weep. 
 
 — Walter Savage Landor, 
 
 TF you've an old mother who loves you 
 
 ^ to-day. 
 
 Your life should be merry, your work should 
 
 be play; 
 For think of the motherless children there 
 
 are, 
 Who still plow the roads leading ever so far ! 
 
 — Edward A, Guest, 
 
 
 .KL.4^:^'^ 
 X 
 
to 
 
 mnoTHER 
 
 T THOUGHT it was the little bed 
 '*' I slept in long ago; 
 A straight white curtain at the head. 
 And two smooth knobs below. 
 
 I thought I saw the nursery fire. 
 
 And in a chair well known 
 My mother sat, and did not tire 
 ^ril' With reading all alone. 
 
 If I should make the slightest sound 
 
 To show that I'm awake, 
 She'd rise, and lap the blankets round. 
 
 My pillow softly shake ; 
 
 Kiss me, and turn my face to see 
 
 The shadows on the wall, 
 And then sing * 'Rousseau's Dream" to me 
 
 TiU fast asleep I fall. 
 
 But this is not my little bed ; 
 
 That time is far away; 
 'Mongst strangers cold I live instead. 
 
 From dreary day to day. 
 
 — William Allingham. 
 
 ly/fY Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
 ■■■ Hopeless of honor and of gain. 
 
 Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; 
 Think not of me with grief and pain. 
 
 — William Wordsworth. 
 
 T 
 
» 
 
 HYItOTHER 
 
 /^H, there is an enduring tenderness in the 
 ^^ love of a mother to a son, that tran- 
 scends all other affections of the heart! It 
 is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor 
 daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth- 
 lessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will 
 sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; 
 she will surrender every pleasure to his en- 
 joyment; she will glory in his fame, and 
 exult in his prosperity — and if misfortune 
 overtake him, he will be the dearer to her 
 from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon 
 his name, she will still love and cherish him 
 in spite of his disgrace; and if all the world 
 beside cast him off, she will be all the world 
 to him. 
 
 — Washington Irving, 
 
 y^ 
 
 w'^/W) 
 
 "VrOW welcome, welcome, baby boy, unto 
 
 -^ ^ a mother's fears. 
 
 The pleasure of her sufferings, the rainbow 
 
 of her tears, 
 The object of your father's hope, in all he 
 
 hopes to do, 
 A future man of his own land, to live him 
 ^S£ o'er anew. 
 
 * * ' — John Banim. 
 
 T^HE future destiny of the child is always 
 ^ the work of the mother. 
 
 — Napoleon, 
 
v 
 
 rnriioTHER 
 
 "DEHOLD a woman! 
 
 ^^ She looks out from her Quaker-cap — 
 
 her face is clearer and more beautiful 
 
 than the sky. 
 She sits in an arm-chair, under the shaded 
 
 porch of the farmhouse. 
 The sun just shines on her old white head. 
 
 Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen: 
 Her grandsons raised the flax and her grand- 
 daughters spun it with the distaff and 
 wheel. 
 
 The melodious character of the earth, 
 
 The finish beyond which philosophy cannot 
 
 go, and does not wish to go, 
 The justified mother of men. 
 
 — Walt Whitman, 
 
 nPHE child, the seed, the grain of corn, 
 *" The acorn on the hill. 
 Each for some separate end is bom 
 
 In season fit, and still 
 Each must in strength arise to work 
 the Almighty Will. 
 
 So like a sword, the son shall roam 
 
 On nobler missions sent; 
 And as the smith remained at home 
 
 In peaceful turret pent, 
 So sits the while at home the Mother 
 well content. 
 
 — Robert Louis Stevenson, 
 
mnoTHER 
 
 OT. LEON raised his kindling eye, 
 ^ And lifted sparkling cup on high. 
 
 "I drink to one/' he said, 
 ** Whose memory never may depart, 
 Deep graven on this grateful heart. 
 
 Till memory be dead ; 
 
 "To one, whose love for me shall last. 
 When lighter passions long have passed, 
 
 So holy 'tis and true; 
 To one whose love hath longer dwelt. 
 More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, 
 
 Than any pledged by you." 
 
 St. Leon paused, as if he would 
 
 Not breathe her name in careless mood, 
 
 Thus lightly to another; 
 Then bent his noble head, as though 
 To give that word the reverence due, 
 
 And gently said, "My Mother!" 
 
 T^rHAT is there quite so profoundly 
 ^ ^ human as an old man's memory of a 
 mother who died in his earlier years? 
 Mother she remains till manhood, and by- 
 and-by she grows to be as a sister; and at 
 last, when, wrinkled and bowed and broken, 
 he looks back upon her in her fair youth, he 
 sees in the sweet image he caresses not his 
 parent, but, as it were, his child. 
 
 — Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
 
 1 
 
nYNOTHER 
 
 ■i7 i 
 
 /^ SWEET unto my heart is the song my 
 
 ^^ mother sings 
 
 As eventide is brooding on its dark and 
 
 noiseless wings! 
 Every note is charged with memory — every 
 
 memory bright with rays 
 Of the golden hour of promise in the lap of 
 
 childhood's days. 
 The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom 
 
 scents the way, 
 And I feel again the breath of eve among 
 
 the new-mo^vn hay; 
 While through the halls of memory in happy 
 
 notes there rings 
 All the life- joy of the past in the song my 
 
 mother sings. 
 
 — Thomas O'Hagan, 
 
 A MOTHER is a mother still, 
 ^^^ The holiest thing alive. 
 
 i 
 
 -Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 
 
 npHE melodies of many lands erewhile 
 ^ have charmed mine ear, 
 Yet there's but one among them all which 
 
 still my heart holds dear ; 
 I heard it first from lips I loved, my tears 
 
 it then beguiled, 
 It was the song my mother sang when I was 
 but a child. 
 
 —C. W. Glover. 
 
 \\ 
 
 i I 
 
 ^^ri 
 
:'^ 
 
 MYMOTHER 
 
 INFANT! I envy thee 
 
 -■■ Thy seraph smile, thy soul without a 
 
 stain : 
 Angels around thee hover in thy glee, 
 A look of love to gain. 
 
 Thy paradise is made 
 Upon thy mother's bosom; and her voice 
 Is music rich as that by spirits shed 
 
 When blessed things rejoice. 
 
 — Robert Nicoll. 
 
 I 
 
 A SWEET-EYED child 
 ■^^ Looked down and smiled. 
 As to her breast 
 Her doll she pressed. 
 Then raised her head 
 And softly said: 
 "Mamma, when you — 
 Before you grew 
 So tall — ^wore frocks 
 Above your knee 
 And were like me 
 A girlie small — 
 Was I your doll?" 
 
 — Agnes Lee. 
 
 WOMANLINESS means only mother- 
 hood; 
 All love begins and ends there. 
 
 — Robert Browning. 
 
.TYlloTHER 
 
 "TV EAR beacon of my childhood's day, 
 ^"^ The lodestar of my youth, 
 A mingled glow of tenderest love 
 
 And firm, miswerving truth, 
 I've wandered far o'er east and west, 
 
 'Neath many stranger skies, 
 But ne'er I've seen a fairer light 
 
 Than that in mother's eyes. 
 
 In childhood when I crept to lay 
 
 My tired head on her knee. 
 How gently shone the mother-love 
 
 In those dear eyes on me ; 
 And when in youth my eager feet 
 
 Roamed from her side afar. 
 Where'er I went that light divine 
 
 Was aye my guiding star. 
 
 m 
 
 In hours when all life's sweetest buds 
 
 Burst into dewy bloom, 
 In hours when cherished hopes lay dead. 
 
 In sorrow and in gloom; 
 In evening's hush, or morning's glow. 
 
 Or in the solemn night. 
 Those mother eyes still shed on me 
 
 Their calm, unchanging light. 
 
 — i/. M. Montgomery, 
 
 iNE mother is worth a hundred school 
 

 mnoTHER 
 
 I 
 
 -mothers with white 
 
 lips grown softly 
 over sleeping 
 
 LOVE old mothers- 
 hair 
 And kindly eyes, and 
 
 sweet 
 With murmured blessings 
 
 babes. 
 There is a something in their quiet grace 
 That speaks the calm of Sabbath after- 
 noons ; 
 A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes 
 That far outreaches all philosophy. 
 Time, with caressing touch, about them 
 
 weaves 
 The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age. 
 While all the echoes of forgotten songs 
 Seemed joined to lend sweetness to their 
 
 speech. 
 Old mothers! — as they pass with slow-timed 
 
 step. 
 Their trembling hands cling gently to 
 
 youth's strength. 
 Sweet mothers ! — as they pass, one sees again 
 Old garden- walks, old roses, and old loves. 
 
 — Charles S. Ross. 
 
 ^ ^ TT is the nature of a child to be want- 
 '■• ing to do something," said the enthusi- 
 astic kindergartner. "As far as I have no- 
 ticed," said the mother of six, *1t is the na- 
 ture of a child to be wanting to do some- 
 thing else." 
 
 t'W 
 
]^0 matter how far from the right she hath 
 
 strayed ; 
 No matter what inroads dishonor hath made ; 
 No matter what elements cankered the 
 
 pearl — 
 Though tarnished and sullied, she is some 
 
 mother's girl. 
 
 No matter how wayward his footsteps have 
 
 been; 
 No matter how deep he is sunken in sin; 
 No matter how low is his standard of joy; — 
 Though guilty and loathsome, he is some 
 
 mother's boy. 
 
 That head hath been pillowed on some ten- 
 der breast; 
 
 That form hath been wept o'er, those lips 
 have been pressed; 
 
 That soul hath been prayed for, in tones 
 sweet and mild 
 
 For her sake deal gently with — some 
 mother's child. 
 
 — Francis L, Keeler. 
 
 T OVE unfailing, kindly counsel, all the 
 "*— ^ pleasure 
 
 In your mere delightful presence, and your 
 smile 
 It is loss that none may map or measure; 
 Life will feel it every weary mile. 
 
 — Roden Noel. 
 
 To My Mother. 
 
■ s 'f^^^^j'yxasa 
 
 ^ 
 
 t. 
 
 I 
 
 j^riYIIOTHEf. , 
 
 T^ERE 's alius joy when de chillen's home, 
 -*^ Oh, Lawdy, when a' links — 
 De tears somehow dey alius come 
 An' blind me when a' winks. 
 
 Dere 's Gen'l Grant — He 's like he's paw, 
 
 (Go 'way, you teahs, go way) 
 An' Ann Jenette, she 's like heh maw — 
 
 An' Sam 's like boff, dey say. 
 
 An' Ahem Linkum, he 's de boy 
 Whah makes ma old heaht ache; 
 
 He do so many cu'us tings — 
 Dey keep his maw awake. 
 
 But den dey is my chillens — 
 
 An' so de teahs mus' fall. 
 Do some is good, an' some — ah sho' 
 
 Yo' maw she lubs yo' all. 
 
 — Florence Griswold Connor, 
 
 TTOME is a box of jewels, more precious 
 ^ ^ than diamonds or fine rubies. Here, in 
 childhood dwelt your mother's love; here, in 
 riper years, the love of your children and 
 their mother. 
 
 — Albert B. Galloway, 
 
 TJOW can a Being who is all love not be 
 ^ ^ Mother as well as Father? 
 
 — E, L, Valentine, 
 
mrioTHER 
 
 lyf OTHER! Home!— that blest refrain 
 ■*• Sounds through every hastening year : 
 All things go, but these remain 
 
 ^ Held in memory's jewelled chain, 
 
 Names most precious, names thrice dear: 
 v;^^^U Mother! Home! — ^that blest refrain. 
 
 /Z' 
 
 f/ 
 
 How it sings away my pain! 
 
 How it stills my waking fear! 
 All things go, but these remain. 
 
 Griefs may grow and sorrows wane, 
 
 E'er that melody I hear: 
 Mother! Home! — ^that blest refrain, 
 
 Tenderness in every strain, 
 
 Thoughts to worship and revere ; 
 All things go, but these remain; 
 
 Every night you smile again. 
 Every day you bring me cheer: 
 
 Mother! Home! — ^that blest refrain: 
 All things go, but these remain ! 
 
 — John Jarvis Holden. 
 
 TF the child is father to the man, how much 
 ^ more surely the girl is mother to the 
 woman. 
 
 — John B, Frothingham, 
 
nriioTHER 
 
 TF e'er from human bliss or woe 
 
 "'" I feel the sympathetic glow; 
 
 If e'er my heart hath learned to know 
 
 The generous wish or prayer, 
 
 Who sowed the germ with tender hand? 
 
 Who marked its infant leaves expand? 
 
 My mother's fostering care. 
 
 And if one flower of charms refined 
 
 May grace the garden of my mind, 
 
 'T was she who nursed it there. 
 
 She loved to cherish and adorn 
 
 Each blossom of the soil. 
 
 To banish every weed and thorn. 
 
 That oft opposed her toil. 
 
 — Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 rilHE bearing and the training of a child 
 -■■ is woman's wisdom. 
 
 — Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 A MOTHER is the truest friend we 
 -^^ have; when trials, heavy and sudden 
 fall upon us; when adversity takes the place 
 of prosperity; when friends who rejoice 
 with us in our sunshine, desert us when 
 troubles thicken around us, still will she cling 
 to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and 
 counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, 
 and cause peace to return to our hearts. 
 — Washington Irving, 
 
rnrnoTHER 
 
 L II JJWjW I JUJ i li P JJ. 
 
 ^3Ea???€7!5-: -Si-T" >: «,; 
 
 'V^OUTH fades, love droops, the leaves 
 "■• of friendship fall: 
 A mother's secret hope outlives them all. 
 
 — Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
 
 ly/fAMMA, at night, puts out my light, 
 •*-•*• And leaves me in my bed ; 
 Then dreadful things with peaked wings. 
 Go sailing round my head. I 
 
 I can espy a horrid eye 
 
 That looks right through the sheet. 
 Mamma tells me I only see 
 
 The lamp upon the street. 
 
 '' ' She says that guardian angels fair, 
 With little children stay; 
 Btit, when her step dies on the stair, 
 I hear them go away. 
 
 So, if God means to be good 
 To little children in the night, 
 
 I wish He'd leave — of course He could — 
 My own mamma — and light. 
 
 — Mary Baldwin. 
 
 r^ CHASER of the dragon-flies at play, t\ 
 ^^ O son, mv son! 
 jj I wonder where thy little feet to-day 
 Have run! 
 
 — From the Japanese, 
 
M 
 
 nmoTHER 
 
 iWSSSifirlTSS&i 
 
 o 
 
 FT in the after days, when thou and I 
 Have fallen from the scope of human 
 view. 
 When, both together, under the sweet sky 
 We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, 
 Men will recall thy gracious presence 
 ^^H . Wand, 
 
 Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face ; 
 Will pore o'er painting by thy plastic 
 hand. 
 And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of 
 grace. 
 Oh, may they then, who crown thee with 
 true bays, 
 Saying, " What love unto her son she bore!" 
 Make this addition to thy perfect praise. 
 Nor ever yet was mother worshiped 
 
 more!" 
 
 So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame 
 Shall link my love unto thine honored name. 
 
 — Julian Fane. 
 
 IVTY Mother's voice, how often creeps 
 
 "■• Its cadence on my lonely hours! 
 Like healing sent on wings of sleep. 
 
 Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
 I can forget her melting prayer 
 
 When leaping pulses madly fly. 
 But in the still, unbroken air 
 
 Her gentle tone comes stealing by. 
 And years, and sin, and manhood flee. 
 And leave me at my Mother's knee. 
 
 — Nathaniel Parker Willis, 
 
CO 
 
 TJESIDE her babe, who sweetly slept, 
 *^ A widowed mother sat and wept 
 
 O'er years of love gone by; 
 And as the sobs thick-gathering came. 
 She murmured her dead husband's name 
 
 'Mid that sad lullaby. 
 
 While thus she sat, a sunbeam broke 
 Into the room; the babe awoke 
 
 And from its cradle smiled! 
 Ah me ! what kindling smiles met there ! 
 I know not whether was more fair. 
 
 The mother or her child! 
 
 With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms, 
 The smiler stretched his rosy arms, 
 
 And to her bosom leapt — 
 All tears at once were swept away, 
 And said a face as bright as day, 
 
 "Forgive me that I wept!" 
 
 Sufferings there are from nature sprung. 
 Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue 
 
 May venture to declare; 
 But this as Holy Writ is sure : 
 *'The griefs she bids us here endure 
 
 She can herself repair!" 
 
 — John Wilson, 
 
 \ MAN never knows all that his mother 
 '^^ has been to him till it's too late to let 
 her know that he sees it. 
 
 — William Deem Howells. 
 
ILM ■ J rw*' Z MlLIiiUiL \ 
 
 i 
 
 
 "IJirHEN I am sad it comes to me, 
 
 ^ ^ A tender quiet old strain; 
 
 I hear her voice soft, low and sweet, 
 
 Take tip the song again, 
 I lean and listen to the sound, — 
 
 Were ever notes like these? 
 Like brooding thrush, at sunset hour. 
 
 When day is at its close. . . . 
 
 Old, sad and worn, a man of care. 
 
 Life grows confused to me ; 
 The things that were I have forgot. 
 
 Nor care for things to be. 
 Yet, through the halls of memory. 
 
 Comes back that old, old strain, 
 I am a boy — ^my mother sings 
 
 Her old-time song again. 
 
 — Emma M. Johnson, 
 
 A LL hopes and loves unworthy 
 -^^ Fade out at this sweet hour, 
 All pure and noble longings 
 Renew their holy power; 
 For Christ, who in the Virgin 
 Our motherhood has blest. 
 Is near to every woman 
 With a baby on her breast. 
 
 — Mary Frances Butts, 
 
 S one whom his mother comforteth, so 
 will I comfort you. 
 
 — Isaiah, 
 
 ...m^\ 
 
^• 
 
 tmammmmmmm 
 
 TN that happy home above, 
 
 '' Where all perfect joy hath bu*th, 
 
 Thou dispensest good and love. 
 
 Mother, as thou didst on earth; 
 And, though distant seems that sphere, 
 Still I feel thee ever near. 
 
 Though my longing eye now views 
 
 Thy angelic mien no more. 
 Still thy spirit can infuse 
 
 Good in mine, unknown before. 
 Still the voice, from childhood dear, 
 Steals upon my raptured ear. | 
 
 — Anna Cora Ritchie. 
 
 /^H! when a Mother meets on high ^-^ 
 
 ^-^ The Babe she lost in infancy, \ 
 
 Hath she not then, for pains and fears. 
 
 The day of woe, the watchful night. 
 For all her sorrows, all her tears. 
 
 An overpayment of delight? 
 
 — Robert Southey. 
 
 ^ ^OHE made home happy!" through the 
 ^^ long, sad years, 
 The mother toiled and never stopped to 
 
 rest. 
 Until they crossed her hands upon her 
 breast. 
 And closed her eyes, no longer dim with 
 tears. 
 The simple record that she left behind 
 Was grander than the soldier's, to my 
 mind. — Henry Coyle. 
 
« 
 
 f 
 
 rafMOTHER 
 
 IT'ISS the dear old mother, her cheek is 
 ■*^ wan and wasted, 
 Feeble are the footsteps that once were 
 light and gay; 
 Many a bitter cup of sorrow she has tasted. 
 Borne unnumbered trials since her wed- 
 ding day. 
 Think of all the hours that she is sad and 
 lonely. 
 All her vanished pleasures living o'er 
 again ; 
 Cheerful and contented will she be if you 
 will only 
 Kiss the dear old mother now and then. 
 
 When by Fame or Fortune you are proudly 
 knighted. 
 Let the dear old mother enter in your 
 
 joy; 
 
 See the aged pilgrim trembling and de- 
 lighted, 
 At the world's opinion of her boy! 
 Think of all you owe her; seek to give her 
 pleasure. 
 Spite of cruel sneers from cold or careless 
 men; 
 While within your keeping you hold this 
 precious treasure. 
 Kiss the dear old mother now and then. 
 — Josephine Pollard, 
 
 ITOMES are for mothers as nests are for 
 "■" ^ birds. — Arthur B, Laughlin. 
 
 *> 
 
CO 
 
 mr MOTHER 
 
 w 
 
 HO fed me from her gentle breast ■ ^^'' 
 
 And hushed me in her arms to rest 
 ^V^ And on my cheek sweet kisses pressed? 
 My Mother. 
 
 y_"-s . When sleep forsook my open eye 
 \feS^ Who was it sang sweet lullaby 
 
 And rocked me that I should not cry? 
 My Mother. 
 
 C5t->: 
 
 Who sat and watched my infant head 
 When sleeping on my cradle bed 
 And tears of sweet affection shed ? 
 My Mother. 
 
 When pain and sickness made me cry 
 Who gazed on me with heavy eye 
 And wept for fear that I should die? 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay 
 And taught me pretty how to play 
 And minded all I had to say? 
 My Mother. 
 
 ^ 
 
 P^^ 
 
 Who ran to help me when I fell 
 And would some pretty story tell 
 Or kiss the place to make it well? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 —Jane Taylor, 
 
nrrtoTHER 
 
 n 
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 nPHERE is no height, no depth, that 
 "*• could set us apart — 
 Body of mine and soul of mine, heart of 
 my heart. 
 
 There is no sea so deep, no mountain so high, 
 That I could not come to you if I heard you 
 cry. 
 
 There is no hell so sunken, no heaven so 
 
 steep. 
 Where I should not seek you and find yoo 
 
 and keep. 
 
 Now you are round and soft, and sweet as a 
 
 rose ; 
 Not a stain on my spotless one, white as the 
 
 snows. 
 
 r 
 
 ^cr 
 
 If some day you came to me heavy with sin, 
 
 I, your mother, would run to the door and JCM^ 
 
 let you in. vP^X 
 
 I would wash you white again with my tears 
 
 and grief, 
 Body of mine and soul of mine, till you 
 
 found relief. 
 
 Though you have sinned all sins there are 
 
 'twixt east and west, ^ j/ 
 
 You should find my arms wide for you, your 
 head on my breast. 
 
lYffOTHm 
 
 Child, if I were in heaven and you were in 
 
 hell,— 
 Angels white as my spotless one stumbled 
 
 and fell, — 
 
 I would leave the fields of God and Queen 
 Mary's feet, 
 
 Straight to the heart of hell would go seek- 
 ing my sweet. 
 
 God, mayhap, would turn Him at sound of 
 
 the door; 
 "Who is it goes from Me, to come back no 
 
 more?" 
 
 Then the blessed !Mary would say from her 
 
 throne : 
 "Son, 'tis a mother goes to hell, seeking her 
 
 own. 
 
 "Body of mine and Soul of mine, born of 
 
 me, — 
 Thou who wert once little Jesus beside my 
 
 knee, — 
 
 "It is so that mothers are made; Thou 
 
 madest them so. 
 Body of mine and soul of mine, do I not 
 
 know?" 
 
 — Katharine Tynan Hinhson, 
 
 By kind permission of S. S. McClure. 
 
 LB D '12 
 
^mnm^mkiii m 
 
 'i ^' < ^ • ■ • r.rmr 'Hm'h'':'^^>''-•'^^■'.■.'''■■W\nW^^^^^^ 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: Dec. 2007 
 
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