tiliiliiiiliiiiiiii ■iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii lliliUi -. : 1 ) : 1 1 ) It t ) I llil iiilllB m l; fv.f '!i i! iaiiltli UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES l * . OUR MOTHERS 149058 Published, April, 1916 Copyright, 1916 By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. All rights reserved OUR MOTHERS ... •.»,*•.•••..• • • '• . . » t ■fflorwoo5 press BERWICK & SMITH CO. NORWOOD, MASS. U. S. A. GOT I " There is no love like the pood old love the love that mother gave us." Eugene Field. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I desire to express my grateful appreciation to the following publishers and authors for kind per- mission to use their copyright material : To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin & Co., for selections from Long- fellow, Whittier, Holmes, and Bryant; to Dodd, Mead & Co., for selection from " Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush," by Ian Maclaren; to The Christian Herald, for selections from sermon " The Modern Home," by J. Wilbur Chapman ; to the Curtis Pub- lishing Co., for poems, " Shadows," by Alverda Van- Tuyll, and " Muvver Dear," by Everard Jack Ap- pleton, reprinted by permission of The Ladies' Home Journal, copyright, 1912 ; to Charles Scribner's Sons, for poems, " Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep," and " Mother and Child," from poems by Eugene Field, copyright, 19 10; to Forbes & Co., for poems, " His First Night Away," and " Asleep Among His Toys," by Strickland W. Gillilan ; to Fred Clare Bald- win, for poems from " The Life Melodious," " The Trinity of Motherhood," " The Old Home," and " A Lullaby " ; to Ernest Dudley Chase, for vii poem, "Mother," by Emily Selinger; to Edward Earle Purrington, for selections from Center Monthly; to John Wanamaker, for selection, "Mother, Most Beloved!"; to John Martin, for poems, " Mother's Eyes " and " The Beautiful Lady"; to Woman's World, for "The Mother's Prayer," by Beatrice E. Harmon; to The Christian Herald, for " In the Afterglow," by Flora S. Ri- vola; to the Orange Judd Company, for poems, " Mother's Rocking Chair," by Harry Dean, " Mother's Kisses," by Annie Balcomb Wheeler, and " Longing," by Arthur Wallace Peach; to Ed- gar A. Guest, for poem, "Mother's Knee"; to The Mother s Magazine, for poem, " The Moth- er's Prayer," by Helen Metzger ; to The Springfield Republican and Annie Johnson Flint, for poem, " A Glorious End " ; to To-day s Magazine, for poem, " Mother," by Anne Herderdeen; to Charles Park- hurst, for poems, " Mother," by Thomas W. Fes- senden, " In Lilac Time," by Emma T. Lente, " Gone Home," by Emily Huntington Miller, " Faith of our Mothers," by S. Trevena Jackson, "The Spartan Mothers," by A. M. Gordon, " Rest," by M. A. Holt, from Zions Herald. M. A. A. Haverhill, Mass. vui INDEX TO SELECTIONS All Mother ii3 American Motherhood 95 Answer to " Rock Me To Sleep " 75 As A Fond Mother 82 Asleep Among His Toys i74 At Even-Tide 207 At Fourscore 84 AuLD House, The 213 Babie, The 119 Baby 108 Baby Lost, A 142 Baby's Skies 124 Beautiful Child 118 Beautiful Lady, The 178 Because She Is a Mother ... 43 Before It Is Too Late 89 Best 135 Book of Books, The 52 Bravest Battle, The loi Call of Love, The 25 Cares of the Day, The 146 Character-Building 167 Child and Mother 137 Childhood 156 Child's Schoolroom, The 164 Christian Mother, The 37 Cradle Song 116 Cradle Song 122 ix PAGE Cradle Song laS Dearest Baby, The 132 Dear Old-Fashioned Mother 71 Dear Old Mothers 70 Destiny of the Nation, The 94 Dreams i59 End of Glory, The 98 Evening Hearthstone, The 197 Faith of Mother, The 36 Faith of Our Mothers 88 " Glorious End, A " loo Gone Home 220 Good-By — God Bless You! 209 Good-Night Kiss, The 151 Halls of Memory, The 69 Hand that Rocks the Cradle, The 131 Happy Memories 83 Haven of Refuge, A 193 Heroism of the Mother, The 51 Her Words and Prayers 91 His First Night Away 160 His Mother's Sermon 87 His Mother's Song 102 Home 190 Home 211 Home Defined 188 Home Dream, The 186 Home Is Her Kingdom 185 Home Is Home 203 Home Memories i94 Home Rules the Nation, The 201 Home Songs 205 X PAGE Homestead Hearth, The 196 Home to Mother 214 Home Where I Was Born, The 212 Ideal Mother, The 50 I Miss Thee, Dear Mother 21 In Childhood's Hours 157 Influence of Home, The 206 Influence of Mother, The 80 In Lilac Time 23 In the Afterglow 8 Joy of Home, The 192 Joys of Motherhood, The 173 Knight's Toast, The 46 Lincoln's Tribute to His Mother 44 Little Lad's Answer, A 158 Little Man 155 Little Mother of Mine 39 Longing 27 Love of a True Mother, The 172 Love of Mother, The 34 Love of Mother, The 107 Love Sonnet, A 3 Lullaby, A 129 Mammy's Gwine Home 221 Mary, the Mother of Jesus 55 Mater Dolorosa 143 Maternal Love 81 Memories of Mother 65 Memory's Picture 64 Mother 4 Mother 35 Mother 60 xi PAGE Mother and Child m Mother and Home 187 Mother as Teacher, The 165 Mother at the Gate 93 Mother! Home! 189 Mother, Home, and Heaven 220 Motherhood 112 Motherhood 130 "Mother! I Love You" 170 Mother-Love 177 Mother Most Beloved ii Mother of Mine 68 Mother o' Mine 33 Mothers and Sons 162 Mother's Boy 161 Mother's Charge, A 147 Mother's Empire 215 Mother's Eyes i53 Mother's Good-By, A 208 Mother's Heart, A 181 Mother's Heritage 29 Mother's Influence, The 58 Mother's Kiss, A 18 Mother's Kisses 126 Mother's Knee i49 Mother's Love, A 10 Mother's Love, A 4° Mother's Love, A 120 Mother's Love Endures, A 15 Mothers of Distinguished Men 45 Mothers of Great Men 48 Mother's Picture, A 9 xii PAGE Mother's Place, A 24 Mother's Prayer, A i39 Mother's Prayers, A 12 Mother's Prayer, The 121 Mother's Prayer, The 176 Mother's Privilege, The 148 Mother's Rocking-Chair 76 Mother's Sacrifice, The 163 Mother's Secret, The 54 Mother's Shrine 13 Mother's Unselfish Love i6 Mother's Way i45 Mother's Ways 19 Mother's Work 56 Mother's World 125 Mother, The 106 Mother Understands, A 144 Muwer Dear i7S My Dream 3^ My Drowsy Little Queen 140 My Flower 154 My Little Lad Who Died 182 My Mother 7 My Mother 20 My Mother 28 My Mother 61 My Mother 67 My Mother 78 My Mother 85 My Mother Dear 41 My Mother's Bible S3 My Mother's Faith 86 xiii PAGE My Mother's Hands 218 My Mother's Hymn 31 My Mother's Voice 72 Name of Mother, The 42 Name of Mother, The 66 Ne'er Shall I Forget 49 Nobody Knows but Mother 127 No Friend Like Mother 14 "No, I'll Not Forget" 171 No Love Like Mothers 26 Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep 73 Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep 150 Oh, to Be Home Again 204 Old Arm-Chair, The 77 Old Home, The 202 Only a Baby Small 109 Only a Little Grave 180 Only Me 168 Only One Mother 6 Our Mothers 17 Peace at Last 103 Philip, My King! . 179 Queenliest Woman, The 114 Queen of Baby-Land, The 134 Queen of the Home, The 184 Quietude of Home, The 198 Real Queen, The 97 Refuge, The 138 Rest 219 Reveries of the Old Kitchen 216 Rhyme of One, The 123 Rockaby Baby "5 xiv PAGE Rocking-Chair Throne, The 59 Rock Me to Sleep 74 Rocking the Baby to Sleep 117 Shadow of a Mother's Love, The 57 Shadows 152 She Made Home Happy 217 Silent and Lone 183 Sleep, Little Baby of Mine 141 Smile of Home, The 199 Some Mother's Child 32 Songs My Mother Sings, The 30 Spartan Mothers, The X04 Sweet and Low 133 There's No Place Like Home 191 Tired Mothers 136 To My Mother 79 Toys, The 169 Tribute to Mother, A 47 Trinity of Motherhood, A 5 True Christian Home, The 200 Trust 90 Two Fates, The 105 Two Magical Words no Two Pictures 210 Voices of the Loved and Lost 22 Ways of Love, The 63 Way with Mothers, The 99 Welcome Home 195 What Is Home Without a Mother? 92 When Mother Calls 62 Wise Mother, The 166 World's Queen, The 96 XV Here's to one in a million. The dearest, the best; Like the sun in the heavens. She outshines the rest! Dont frown when I tell you This toast beats all others. But here's one more toast, boys — A toast to OUR MOTHERS/ George Cooper. OUR MOTHERS A LOVE SONNET TO MOTHER QONNETS are full of love, and this my tome ^^ Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home. To my first love, my mother, on whose knee I learned love — love that is not troublesome, Whose service is my special dignity, And she my loadstar while I go and come. And so because you love me, and because I love you, mother, I have woven a wreath Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name ; In you not fourscore years can dim the flame Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the law^ Of time and change and mortal life and death. — Christina Rossetti. 3 MOTHER ^~^0T) thought to give the sweetest thing in His ^^ almighty power To earth; and deeply pondering what it should be — one hour In fondest joy and love of heart outweighing every other, He moved the gates of Heaven apart and gave to earth — a mother ! — G. Newell Lovejoy. ' I '*HE partnership with God is Motherhood, -■■ What strength, what purity, what self-control, What love, what wisdom shall belong to her Who helps God fashion an immortal soul. — Anon. l%yr OTHER! Dear sacred name and sweet! XtX jyy-g ^^^Q j^gj. tender, daily care just As the thoughtless flowers look up to God For daily light, — because we know 'tis ours. — L. H. Underwood. A TRINITY OF MOTHERHOOD A MOTHER'S love — its meaning who can ^ measure, Or who such depths of hallowed mystery sound? Outside the heart of God so rich a treasure Has never yet been found ! A mother's face — all radiant and resplendent Where memory guards the shrine with watchful care! What master hand e'er wrought with touch tran- scendent A thing so wondrous fair? A mother's kiss — oh, how its impress lingers Through all the change that o'er one's soul may creep ! It thrills me now as these poor trembling fingers The chords of memor>'^ sweep ! — Fred Clare Baldwin. ONLY ONE MOTHER T TUNDREDS of stars in the pretty sky, ■*■ •*■ Hundreds of shells on the shore together, Hundreds of birds that go singing by, Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather; Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn, Hundreds of lambs in the purple clover, Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn, — But only one mother the world over. — Anon. FOR mother in lowly cabin, or mother in palace hall, Is ever the truest and dearest, and ever the best of all. Mother with hands toil-hardened, mother in pearls and lace. The light of heavenly beauty shines in her tender face. — Margaret E. Songster. /^NE lamp, thy mother's love, amid the stars ^^ shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before the throne of God burn through eternity. ~J. P. Willis. 6 MY MOTHER ' I ''HE sweetest face in all the world to me, "*• Set in a frame of shining silver hair, With eyes whose language is fidelity; This is my mother. Is she not most fair? • • • • • • • mother! in the changeful years now flown. Since, as a child, I leant upon your knee, Life has not brought to me, nor fortune shown, Such tender love! such yearning sympathy! Let fortune smile or frown, whiche'er she will; It matters not, I scorn her fickle ways! 1 never shall be quite bereft until I lose my mother's honest blame and praise! — May Riley Smith. T BEAR a happy heart, mother! yet when fond -■■ eyes I see, And hear soft tones and winning words I ever think of thee. And then, the tears my spirit weeps unbidden fill my eye; And, like a houseless dove, I long unto thy breast to fly. — Forrester. 7 IN THE AFTERGLOW "|%yr OTHER o' mine, in the afterglow -^*-'- Of mothering years, I love you so; For loving me e'er life I knew, When next your heart a new life grew, Loving me on into fair childhood, When I so little understood The long, hard way we all must go Mother o' mine, I love you so. Mother o' mine, in the afterglow Of motherhood's years, I thank you so For gifts to me from out of your heart. At thoughts that rise my hot tears start; God give me ways to make you know How great is my love before you go Away to rest from your mothering; I would remove life's every sting. And give you rest in the afterglow, For, Mother o' mine, I love you so. — Flora S. Rivola. 8 A MOTHER'S PICTURE ''A LADY, the loveliest ever the sun looked ■*' ^ down upon, You must paint for me. O, if I could only make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign svv^eetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face, That are beaming on me all the while, But I need not speak these foolish words; One word tells you all I would say. She is my mother: and you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away." — Alice Gary. SHE seemed an angel in our infant eyes. Once when the glorifying moon revealed Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled, — Soft-voiced and golden-haired from holy skies Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise, We looked to see the. pinions half-concealed. • •••••• This picture lingers ; — still she seems to me The fair angel of my infancy. — Edmund Clarence Stedman. 9 A MOTHER'S LOVE A MOTHER'S love! What can compare with ■*■ ^ it ! Of all things on earth, it comes nearest to divine love in heaven. A mother's love means a life's devotion — and sometimes a life's sacrifice — with but one thought, one hope and one feeling, that her children will grow up healthy and strong, free from evil habits and able to provide for themselves. Her sole wish is that they may do their part like men and women, avoid dangers and pitfalls, and, when dark hours come, trust in Providence to give them strength, patience and courage to bear up bravely. Happy is the mother when her heart's wish is an- swered, and happy are her sons and daughters when they can feel that they have contributed to her noble purpose, and, in some measure, repaid her unceasing, unwavering love and devotion. — Anon. I F there is aught surpassing human deed or word or thought, it is a mother's love. — Marchioness De Spadoro. 10 MOTHER MOST BELOVED! THE years roll on, Mother dearest, that bring me nearer to you, but you have never seemed very far away. The wheels of time have left their tracks on all about us, but your dear face has remained just the same. What you said to us and the memories of what you did for us come back and back to your children in the silent seasons of the night and the busy hours of the day, and never is there a sickness or trial nor a joy that you are not present in some form. More than a thousand times since you journej^ed on we have said, if only Mother were here as of old that we might say the word and do the thing we postponed or forgot. — John Wanamaker. MY mother was the sheet-anchor of my life, and the most perfect lady in all Scotland. The end of the whole matter is, that I think there is nobody like mother in the whole world. — Daniel Macmillan. II A MOTHER'S PRAYERS T CANNOT name any time, day or place when I "*• was converted. It was my mother's steady and constant influence that led me gradually along, and I grew into a religious life under her potent train- ing, and by the power of the Holy Spirit working through her agency. I feel now that the happy fifty-six years that I spent in the glorious ministry of the gospel of redemption is the direct outcome of that beloved mother's prayers, teaching, example, and holy influence. — Theodore L. Cuyler. TN a college where one hundred and twenty young "■■ men were preparing for the ministry, it was found that more than one hundred had been led to Christ by their mothers. — /. S. C. Abbott. TTOLY as heaven a mother's tender love, the love ■*-■■• of many prayers and many tears, which changes not with dim declining years. — Mrs, Norton. 12 MOTHER'S SHRINE OHE is a priestess, and her shrine is an immortal ^ spirit. . — Anon. ^ I '*HE instruction received at the mother's knee, -■■ and the paternal lessons, together with the pious and sweet souvenirs of the fireside, are never effaced entirely from the soul. ^ — Lamennais. /RESERVE how soon, and to what a degree, this ^^ influence begins to operate! Her first minis- tration for her infant is to enter, as it were, the val- ley of the shadow of death, and win its life at the peril of her own! How different must an affection thus founded be from all others! — Mrs. Sigourney. A MOTHER'S prayers, silent and gentle, can never miss the road to the throne of all — Henry Ward Beecher. 13 NO FRIEND LIKE MOTHER 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. TN after life you may have friends — fond, dear *■• friends; but never will you have again the inex- pressible love and gentleness lavished upon you which none but a mother bestows. — Macaulay. HE was my friend — I had but her — no more, ^^ No other upon earth — and as for heaven, 1 am as they that seek a sign, to whom No sign is given. My mother! Oh, my mother! — Bayard Taylor. M OTHER — that was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries. — T. DelVitt Talmage, A MOTHER'S LOVE ENDURES A FATHER may turn his back on his child, •*- ■*- brothers and sisters may become inveterate enemies, husbands may desert their wives, 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; still she remembers the infant smiles that once filled her bosom with rapture, the merry laugh, the joyful shout of his childhood, the opening promise of his youth; and she can never be brought to think of him all unworthy. — Washington Irving. TN a single day, I, a strong man, with nothing "*■ else to occupy my mind, am reduced to physical and mental worthlessness by the necessities of two boys not over-mischievous or bad. And you — heaven only knows how — have unbroken weeks, months, years, yes, lifetimes, of just such experi- ences, and with them the burden of household cares, of physical ills and depressions, of mental anxieties that pierce your hearts with as many sorrows as grieved the Holy Mother of old. — John Habberton. 15 MOTHER'S UNSELFISH LOVE *''' I ^O think of mother is to recall her unselfish ■*■ devotion, her limitless, unfaltering love through good and evil report, never wavering, but growing stronger and stronger with the years; and to remember that she asks nothing in return for herself; she only asks of us and for us that we be good men and women. If we fail she does not love us less, but more. Wonderful, constant, miraculous mother's love ! " — John Burke. A MOTHER'S love Is indeed the golden link ■*■ ■*■ that binds youth to age; and he is still but a child, however time may have furrowed his cheek, or silvered his brow, who can yet recall, with a softened heart, the fond devotion or the gentle chidings of the best friend that God ever gives us. — Bovee. "]%T OTHER love . . . hath this unlikeness ^^ -^ to any other love: Tender to the object, it can be infinitely tyrannical to itself, and thence all its power of self-sacrifice. — Lew Wallace. i6 OUR MOTHERS. ALL days are yours, our mothers. Mothers of our own and those no less beautiful mothers of our children. We seem never to be deprived by nature of the mothering by those two noble M^omen. Rossini's " Stabat Mater " is ever singing on its glorious way. But a nobler, sweeter music is al- ways sounding round the globe. The joy of infancy and childhood centers in the mother, while memory finds in her its highest consolation. The best wis- dom of all ages is what mother said. Nor is there any other knowledge that so keeps its hold upon us. " Blessed art thou among women." As long as the love for his mother remains responsive in a son's heart he is safe from overthrow, and to the daugh- ter such love is a never-failing shield if she will use it. — Emory J. Haynes. 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 his own mother, the fountain of his life and of his dearest memories; in manhood with the sweeter mother of his own sweet babes! — Eben Willis Smith. 17 A MOTHER'S KISS "A KISS from my mother made me a painter," ■^ ^ said the veteran artist, Benjamin West, after he had won fame and hung his pictures in Royal Academies. When she looked at his first boyish sketch, she praised it. If she had been a silly or sulky parent, she might have said, " Foolish child, don't waste your time on such daubs," and so have quenched the first spark of ambition. — Theodore Cuyler. A RCHBISHOP LEIGHTON says: "Fill the '*■ -^ bushel with good wheat, and there will be no room for chafiE or rubbish." This is a good thought for every mother while tending her children, and watching the growth of their power in body and mind. Children are wonderful imitators, so that it is comparatively easy to lead them early into good ways. While by all means it is well to send children to school, the largest portion of their education, whether good or evil, is carried on at home, often unconsciously in their amusements, and under the daily influence of what they see and hear about them. — Mothers Treasury. i8 MOTHER'S WAYS A ^.lOTHER comforts by clinging tenderness, •*• -^ by tactful suggestion, and by sympathy. Happy is the child who can come home to mother with his or her first heartache. — W. J. Twort. A MOTHER is as different from anything else that God ever thought of as can possibly be. — Henry Ward Beecher. '** I ''IS a mother's large affection hears with a mys- -■■ terious sense, — Breathings that escape detection, whispers faint, and fine inflection Thrills in her with power intense. Childhood's honeyed words untaught heareth she in loving thought, Tones that never thence depart, for she listens — with her heart. — Laman Blanchard. M OTHER'S love is ever in its spring, Mother's truth keeps constant youth. — From The French. 19 MY MOTHER! T NEVER call that gentle name, "*• My mother ! but I am again E'en as a child ; the very same That prattled at thy knee; and fain Would I forget, in momentary joy. That I no more can be thy happy boy. I've lived through foreign lands to roam, And gazed on many a classic scene ; But oft the thought of that dear home, Which once was ours, would intervene, And bid me close again my languid eye, To think of thee and those sweet days gone by. I've pored o'er many a yellow page Of ancient wisdom, and have won Perchance a scholar's name; yet sage Or poet ne'er have taught thy son Lessons so pure, so fraught with holy truth. As those his mother's faith shed o'er his youth. — George W. Bethune. 20 I MISS THEE, DEAR MOTHER 1MISS thee, my mother, when young health has fled. And I sink in the laguor of pain. Where, where is the arm that once pillowed my head, And the ear that once heard me complain? Other hands may support me, gentle accents may fall — For the fond and the true are still mine; I've a blessing for each ; I am grateful to all, — But whose care can be soothing as thine? I miss thee, my mother! thy image is still The deepest impress'd on my heart. And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill, Ere a line of that image depart. — Eliza Cook. ** I ''HOUGH sunny smiles wreath blooming lips, -*- While love-tones meet my ear; My mother, one fond glance of thine were thousand times more dear. — Forrester. 21 VOICES OF THE LOVED AND LOST THE 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. 22 IN LILAC TIME \ RE the lilacs blooming in God's fair gardens, ■^ -^ Mother o' mine? They are blossoming here by your cottage doorway, Purple and fine. Their fragrance floats in the open window Like breath of wine. Where used to sit in your happy leisure, Mother o' mine. You were fair and fine as the dainty blossoms. Mother o' mine, And the love that shone from your eyes upon me, Was love divine. Your burial bed is covered with lilacs Purple and fine. But oh, do they bloom in your heavenly places, Mother o' mine? — Emma A. Lente. 23 A MOTHER'S PLACE 1^TO earthly friend can fill a mother's place! -^ ^ There is an instinct love, an added sense, Within a mother's breast, that draweth hence Rare quickness of perception, to discern Her offspring's wants. She needeth not to learn By voice or gesture. Swift her footsteps glide. Noiseless as Silence's self; and at the side Of her beloved one, with love's strength inspired, She is content to watch for hours untired — To move the weary limb, and soft recline The aching head ; the language of a sigh. Wishes unshaped in words, by glance or sign, Quick to interpret and to gratify. — Anon. 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, 24 THE CALL OF LOVE A NORTHERN soldier boy lay dying in a Southern hospital. The mother heard of it. She must reach him in some way. A pass from the President places her beyond the lines of the Northern army. Her storj^ passes her through the ranks of the enemy and to see her boy. " He has a little while to live," the doctor tells her. " He would not know you. He has not known any one for the past three days. You had better not go in. It may hasten his death." But the mother's pleading wins her a place beside the boy. It is only one word, spoken just above a whisper, " Charley! " But the mother speaks it. There is life and healing in the voice. Death is robbed of its victim. Love ever answers to the call of the one it loves. — David C. Cook. "IT THEN we are sick, where can we turn for ^ ' succor ; And when the world looks cold and surly on us, Where can we go to meet a warmer eye With such sure confidence as to mother? — Johanna Baillie. 35 "f NO LOVE LIKE MOTHER'S npHERE i"s 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 no Trust like a Mother's — 'Tis the Charity of God: The Love and Truth, and Hope and Trust That makes the Mortal more than dust. — John Jarvis Holden. ' I '*HERE is not a grand inspiring thought, There is not a truth by wisdom taught, There is not a feeling pure and high, That may not be read in a mother's eye. There are teachings in earth, and sky, and air, The heavens the glory of God declare; But louder than voice, beneath, above. He is heard to speak through a mother's love. — Emily Taylor. 26 LONGING T TOW often in the after 3'ears when time -^ -^ Has touched us whitely with his frosty rime In silent moments never spoken of We long to know again a mother's love. Bright gold hard labor's guerdon may be ours And fame have brought us satisfying dowers, Yet in the moment when our life has all — All would we give to hear her gently call. When fevered with the fret of life and toil, The strife of living, and the day's turmoil, How do we yearn, so deeply and so much, To feel again the healing of her touch. When bitter in defeat, by failure stung, When from the heart, hot, careless words are flung, How thoughts brings back, our dark moods to beguile. The pleased, reproving laughter in her smile! Ah, mothers, little do you know or guess How in our secret hearts your name we bless; How you are present through life's joys and tears, Forgotten not through life's increasing years! — Arthur JVallace Peach. 27 MY MOTHER T\ yf"Y mother! It was she who put her arms "^ "*■ around us when father died. It was she who made it possible for us to have even the small com- forts of life, and when we were so poor that we scarcely had food to eat or fire to warm us it was she who protected us. All that is good in my life, I think, has come from her; and I have never come near Northfield that I have not found myself walk- ing nervously up and down the aisle of the car, anxious to reach home, that I might see my mother. — Dwight L. Moody. 1% /TOODY loved his mother, and her sweet in- ■^^-*- fluence followed him all the workadays of his life. He wrote her every twenty-four hours of his absence, and never was too much engaged to visit her whenever he was near her. It was another case of Lord Langdale, who said, " If the world were put into one scale and my mother in the other, the world would kick the beam." On the human side no influence could have been injected into the man's life which would have given him greater inspiration. — Bishop Hamilton. 28 MOTHER'S HERITAGE 1% T Y mother's voice ! Fond memory can no richer -^'-*' treasure bring, No songs are half so sweet to me as those she used to sing. No tales so well remembered are as those rehearsed to me, A happy, trusting little child, beside my mother's knee. My mother, when I think of all thy self-forgetting zeal, That sought another's grief to share, another's woes to heal; The little shining deeds of love the world not often sees, Ah me! I cannot count the worth of blessings such as these! But still in fadeless memories they are treasured every one. Those little golden threads of life her hands so deftly spun ; And often as in revery they come again to mind, I would that I might leave as rich a heritage behind. — Helen C. Smith. 29 THE SONGS MY MOTHER SINGS /^ H, sweet unto the 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 child- hood days. The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way, And I feel again the breath of eve among the new mown hay; While through the halls of memory in happy notes there rings All the life joys of the past in the songs my mother sings. — Thomas O'Hagan. OOME of these songs you will never forget. ^^ They have made an indelible impression on j^our mind, and sometimes the music of your mother's voice as she sang these songs comes back to you like the sound of a far-away melody. — Maurice Meredith. 30 MY MOTHER'S HYMN. T IKE patient saint of oldentime, with lovely face '*'-' almost divine, So good, so beautiful and fair, her very attitude a prayer ; I heard her sing so low and sweet, " His loving kindness — oh, how great! " Turning, behold the saintly face, so full of trust and patient grace. " He justly claims a song from me. His loving- kindness — oh, how free ! " Sweetly thus did run the song, " His loving kind- ness " all day long. Trusting, praising, day by day, she sang the sweet- est roundelay — " He near my soul hath always stood His loving kindness — oh, how good!" " He safely leads my soul along, His loving kindness — oh, how strong!" So strong to lead her on the way To that eternal better day. Where safe at last in that blest home, All care and weariness are gone, She " sings, with rapture and surprise, His loving kindness in the skies." — Anon. 31 N SOME MOTHER'S CHILD O 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 tender 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. 32 MOTHER O' MINE '\7'OU nursed me through my infant years ■■■ You loved me as a child, You shared with me my hopes and fears, With counsels good and mild, And when my erring footsteps strayed. How sad that heart of thine, You loved me better than before. Dear Mother, Mother mine. — Anon. TF I was hanged on the highest hill, -'■ Mother o' mine, oh. Mother o' mine, I know whose love would follow me still. Mother o' mine, oh, Mother o' mine. — Rudyard Kipling- ' I ^O the one who loves us when fortune's bright, ■■- But more when the sky's overcast ; Whose heart reveals, yet never conceals, Our Mother! first and last. — Anon. 33 THE LOVE OF MOTHER. T T /"HAT is there down so deep ' ' But a mother's love will find it? Cover it over and hide it well, Never with lips, nor by glance tell; Have you a trouble? Wherever it dwell, Mother's love will find it out. 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, — WTiat 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. — Anon. 34 MOTHER TN the heavens above, ■■■ The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their luring terms of love None so devotional as that of " mother." — Edgar Allan Poe. r\ WONDER-WORD ! That throbs and thrills ^^ Through heart of man and ever fills The universe with endless song Echoing from angelic throng! Its magic quiets human pain ; It bids the hopeless hope again; It stills the helpless infant's cry, Gives strength to live; gives faith to die. First friend of joy! Last at the cross! Joy of our gain! Comfort for loss! The peaceful gift — to earth-born given ; Love of the Heart, of Home, of Heaven! — Emily Selinger. 35 THE FAITH OF MOTHER TT 7"HEN I recall the joys of my forty-four years ^ ' of public ministry, I often shudder at the thought of how near I came to losing them. For many months my mind was balancing between the pulpit and the attractions of a legal and political career. A single hour in a village prayer meeting turned the scale. But perhaps behind it all a mother's prayers were moving the poised balance, and made souls outweigh silver and eternity out- weigh time." _ 7^;^,,^,,, ^, Quyler. THE simple gospel of the humble carpenter, preached by the twelve fishermen, has sur- vived the centuries, and outlives all other philoso- phies of eighteen hundred years. I am not versed in the terminology of philosophies. I believe them to be of little use to reach the hearts, and to influence the action of simple men. . . . The simple faith of my mother is good enough for me. If we believe this faith, what harm? If we dis- believe it and thereby do wrong, what of our future? —ChaunceyM.Depew. 36 I THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER ONCE met a thoughtful scholar. He said that for years he read every book that had assailed the religion of Jesus Christ, and he would have become an infidel but for three reasons: "First," said he, " I am a man. I am going somewhere. To-night I am a day nearer the grave than I was last night. I have read all that such books can tell me; they shed not one ray of hope upon the dark- ness. They shall not take away the guide and leave me stone blind. Second, I had a mother. I saw her go down into the dark valley where I am going, and she leaned upon an unseen arm as calmly as a child goes to sleep on the breast of its mother. I know that she was not dreaming. Third, I have three motherless daughters. They have no pro- tection but myself. I would they should die rather than I should leave them in this sinful world, if you blot out from it the teachings of the Gospel." — Bishop Whipple. THERE is one point on which, till his dying day, her child can be made to feel — his mother's influence. —J. M. Matthews. 37 149058 MY DREAM A VOICE came softly to me in my dreams And wakened me and breathed a word in tone So gentle that, although I was alone I put my hand out pleadingly; it seems A spell was cast — again a spirit word Was whispered — one I long ago had heard. Again she spoke, and then to me it seemed That I was back once more to infancy ; And all those old sweet things she said to me. Made heart give thanks to God that I had dreamed ; Those dear old days, when I was "just her Boy," I understood too late to know the joy. And then I was alone — and still not so. For memory was left, and fancy could Point out the very spot where she had stood And made a Mecca for me — for I know That even though 'twas but a dream, this part was true — I heard her say this word, " Sweet- heart." — M. N. Baker. 38 LITTLE MOTHER OF MINE MOTHER, O mother! the years are so lonely, Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret! Can't you come back to me, for to-night only, Mother, my mother And sing " Little brother Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet ! " — James Whitcomb Riley. THE years have altered the form and the life, But the heart is unchanged by time, And still he is only thy boy as of old, O little Mother of Mine. — Walter H. Brown. MOTHER is rocking thy lowly bed All night long, all night long, Happy to smooth thy curly head. To hold thy hand and to sing her song; 'Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old, Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold, And the burthen it beareth is not of gold: But it's " Love, love! nothing but love — Mother's love for dearie! " — Eugene Field. 39 A MOTHER'S LOVE A MOTHER'S Love — how sweet the 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. 40 MY MOTHER DEAR ^ I ''HERE was a place in childhood that I remem- **■ ber 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 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. 41 M THE NAME OF MOTHER OTHER is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children, — William M. Thackeray. TUST as a mother with sweet, pious face, ^ Yearns toward her little children from her seat. Gives one a kiss, another an embrace, Takes this upon her knees, that on her feet; And while her actions, looks, complaints, pretenses. She learns their feelings and their various will, To this a book, to that a word dispenses, And whether stern or smiling, loves them still, — So Providence for us, high, infinite. Makes our necessities its watchful task. Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants, And e'en if it denies what seems our right, Either denies because 'twould have us ask. Or seems but to deny, and in denying grants. Felicaja, translated by — Leigh Hunt. A S one whom a mother comf orteth, so will I com- fort you. — Isaiah. 42 BECAUSE SHE IS A MOTHER OHE broke the bread into two fragments, and ^ gave them to the children, who ate with avidity. " She hath kept none for herself," grumbled the Sergeant. " Because she is not hungr)'," said a soldier. " Because she is a mother," said the Sergeant. — Victor Hugo. N O language can express the power and beauty and heroism of a mother's love. — Chapin. *" I ''HE 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 uneven step sounds drawing near; And all she leaves, that crippled child to bless. Holding him to her heart with cherishing caress. — Sarah Elizabeth Norton. 43 LINCOLN'S TRIBUTE TO HIS MOTHER "PROBABLY no words of Lincoln's have been -■■ more widely quoted, or are more character- istic of his noble nature, than this grand tribute to his mother : " All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother — blessings on her memory! " Surely none, more than he, could claim the dis- tinction of being a self-made man, and yet he was willing to ignore all his midnight study, arduous labor and self-sacrificing toil, and lay the glory of his achievements at the feet of the gentle woman who so tenderly cared for him during his infancy, instructed him in the stories of the Bible, and in the rudiments of reading and writing, instilled within him a desire for intellectual improvement, and left him when only a little lad of nine with this parting benediction: "Be a good boy, be kind to Sarah and your father — live as I have taught you and love your Heavenly Father." — Austin Cook. T- REMEMBER my mother's prayers — and they ■*■ have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life. — Abraham Lincoln. 44 MOTHERS OF DISTINGUISHED MEN "IX 7" HAT a debt of gratitude the world owes to J^ ' * godly minded Monica ! She trained up Au- gustine to be the champion defender of the gospel in a day of dark apostasies. But for good, faithful Susannah Wesley, the world might never have been enriched with John and Charles, the twain founders of Methodism, Richard Cecil says that in his early manhood he tried hard to be an infidel. But he never could get over the unanswerable arguments of his own mother's godly life and influence. They were too much for him; they conquered him for Christ. — Theodore L. Cuyler. T OOK to the childhood of Matthew Henr>^ "*-^ Edwards, Dwight, Payson, and the whole army of those who are this day owned and hailed as the champions of truth, and you will find them all to have been sons of pious and faithful mothers. . . . There is no influence so powerful as a moth- er's on the coming destinies of the church and world. And to her, also, it falls to train those who are to do for their generation what she has done for hers. — J. M. Matthews. 45 THE KNIGHT'S TOAST 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 past. So holy 'tis and true; To one w^hose 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!" — Anon. Attributed to Sir Walter Scott. 46 A TRIBUTE TO MOTHER * I ^O-NIGHT, looking back over the long years -■• since you left me, I crave with every fiber of my manhood, which j'ou built, to weave a garland of words tied with my ambitions and lay them with my soul at your dear feet — a perfect tribute for the one woman ! Out of my heart's blood would I write of what you have meant to me these long, long years. You were always so patient and loving, always gentle and forgiving. ^ Giving me always the best of your life, asking nothing in return but that mine should be a happy and worthy one. Ready to efface yourself or needs that I be served thereby. The one woman in the world who loved me perfectly! It is to you and your influence and your love that I owe all the success I may be to-day as citizen, home maker or man. Through the gateway of your pain I came into life; through your building and your counsel that life has achieved worldly success, and when the time comes that the life be released to the realms beyond, for the happiness there I humbly ask the Giver of All to send me to the one, the perfect woman — my mother. — Chicago Tribune. 47 MOTHERS OF GREAT MEN \ X yTHATEVER I have done in my life has simply ' ' been due to the fact that when I was a child my mother daily read with me a part of the Bible, and made me learn a part of it by heart. — Wendell Phillips. 'VT'OU speak of a mother's love, and ask, " What ''■ love is comparable to hers? " An allusion like this dissolves my heart, and causes it to grow liquid as water. I had a mother once, who cared for me with such a passionate regard, who loved me so in- tensely, that no language can describe the yearning of her soul. — William Lloyd Garrison. /^ PIOUS mother! kind, good, brave and truth- ^^ ful soul as I have ever found, and more than I have ever elsewhere found in this world, your poor Tom, long out of his schooldays now, has fallen very lonely, very lame and broken in this pilgrimage of his ; and you cannot help him or cheer him by a kind word any more. From your grave in the kirkyard, yonder, you bid him trust in God, and that also he will try if he can understand and do. — Thomas Carlyle. 48 NE'ER SHALL I FORGET DEAR mother ! ne'er shall I forget Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile ; Though in the sea of death hath set Thy star of life, my guide awhile, Oh, never shall thy form depart From the bright pictures in my heart. And like a bird that from the flowers, Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest, My spirit, e'en in manhood's hours. Turns back in childhood's Home to rest; The cottage, garden, hill, and stream, Still linger like a pleasant dream. And while to one engulfing grave By Time's swift tide we're driven. How sweet the thought that every wave But bears us nearer Heaven! There we shall meet, when life is o'er In that blest Home, to part no more. — William Goldsmith Brown. 49 THE IDEAL MOTHER THE ideal woman feels that all the children of want — bodily, mental, moral want, the in- fant of days or the man bowed with age, — are all children whom the Lord has given her, and over a wide and ever-widening circle beams the radiance of her spotless motherhood. — Gail Hamilton. TT is a wonderful thing, a mother; other folks ■■■ can love you, but only your mother understands. She works for you, looks after you, loves you, for- gives you anything you may do, understands you, and then the only bad thing she ever does to you is to die and leave you. — Baroness Von Hutton. ^ I ''HE loss of a mother is always felt ; even though -■• her health may incapacitate her from taking any active part in the care of the family, still she is a sweet rallying point, around which affection and obedience and a thousand tender endeavors to please, concentrate ; and — dreary is the blank when such a point is withdrawn. — Lamartine. 50 THE HEROISM OF THE MOTHER TS not the highest heroism that which is free even ■*• from the approbation of the best and wisest? The heroism which is known only to our Father, who seeth in secret? The God-like lives lived in obscurity? How many thousands of heroines there must be now, of whom we shall never know. But still they are there. They sow in secret the seed of which we pluck the flower, and eat the fruit, and know not that we pass the sower daily in the streets. One form of heroism — the most common, and j^et the least remembered of all — namely, the heroism of the average mother. Ah! when I think of that broad fact, I gather hope again for poor humanity ; and this dark world looks bright — this diseased world looks wholesome to me once more — because, whatever else it is not full of, it is at least full of mothers. — Charles Kingsley. A LL that is purest and best in man is but the • echo of a mother's benediction. The hero's deeds are a mother's prayers fulfilled. — Frederic W. Morton. 51 THE BOOK OF BOOKS WE search the world for truth; we cull the good, the pure, the beautiful From graven stone and written scroll, from all old flower fields of the soul. And, weary seekers of the best, we come back laden from our quest, To find that all the sages said is in the book our Mothers read. — John Greenleaf JVhittier. THE Bible, of all books, when tenderly in- terpreted to the young mind, becomes a source of infinite culture and joy. The mother of Phillips Brooks always told Bible stories to her boys after they were in bed, and who may compute the in- fluences communicated in this manner to the great preacher who was destined to become so potent a factor in the world of thought? — Lilian Whiting. NO great nation can survive its own temptations and its own follies that does not indoctrinate its children in the Word of God. — Woodrow Wilson. 52 MY MOTHER'S BIBLE "1% yTY mother's Bible — companion of her best and "^ -*■ holiest hours, source of her unspeakable Chris- tian life and character. It was constantly by her side; and as her eyes grew dim with age, more and more precious to her became the well-worn pages. One morning, just as the stars were fading into the dawn of the coming Sabbath, she passed on beyond the stars and beyond the morning, and entered into the rest of eternal Sabbath — to look upon the face of Him whom, not having seen, she had loved. And now, no legacy is to me more precious than the old Bible. Years have passed ; but it stands there on the shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life, and a silent monitor to the living. When sometimes I come back to the study, weary of the world and tired of men — of men that are so hard and selfish, and a world that is so unfeeling — I seem to hear that Book saying, as with the well-re- membered tones of a voice, long silent: " Let not your heart be troubled." " For what is your life? It is even as a vapor." " Be not cast down, my son." Then my spirit becomes calm, and the little world sinks into its true place again. — Bishop Gilbert Haven. 53 THE MOTHER'S SECRET T TOW sweet the sacred legend — if unblamed In my slight verse such holy things are named — Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy, Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy! • ••••••• The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed, Told how the shining multitude proclaimed, "Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed morn! In David's city Christ the Lord was bom!" " Glory to God! " let angels shout on high, "Good-will to men!" the listening earth reply! They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. No trembling word the mother's joy revealed — One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed; Unmoved she saw the rustic train depart, But kept their words to ponder in her heart. Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall: A mother's secret hope outlives them all. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. 54 MARY, THE MOTHER OF JESUS A T God's right hand sits one who was a child, ■*■ ^ Born of the humblest, and who here abode Till of our sorrow He had sufFered all. They now who weep, remember that He wept. The tempted, the despised, the sorrowing, feel That Jesus, too, drank of these cups of woe. And oh, if our joys be tasted less — If all but one passed from His lips away — That one — a mother's love — by His partaking. Is like a thread of heaven spun through our life. And we in the untiring watch, the tears. The tenderness and fond trust of a mother, May feel a heavenly closeness with God, For such, all human in its blest excess Was Mary's love for Jesus. — 2V. F. Willis. A ND since that hour when first for thee, the ■^ ^ Hope of all the ages smiled. And love and loss were reconciled, no Mother's heart but thrills to see The world's Redeemer in her child. — Emily Huntington Miller. 55 MOTHER'S WORK TF thy work be holding dimpled cheeks of babies ■*■ to thy breast, Fashioning small garments where the needle moves to inward tune. Stitching dainty scallops for a little rounded wrist, Or knitting a silk sheathing for feet as soft as rose- leaves. Count thyself a sister of the gentle Judean woman, Mother of a Saviour! How knowest thou the out- come Of this beauteous bud of home? With thee lies the unfolding. Make thy garden fragrant with tender self-denying. With love purged pure by prayer, woo the opening blossom. Thine a holy business set thee by the Father ; All its pains rewarded by gifts of honeyed kisses, And angel looks that babies bring from heaven. Clasping of soft arms, and murmuring of lovers Innocent as birds in the dewy boughs of Maytime. — Mary Frances Butts. 56 THE SHADOW OF A MOTHER'S LOVE ^T /"HAT are Raphael's Madonnas but the shadow " " of a mother's love fixed in permanent outlines forever? — Thomas JVentworth Higginson. TT never dies, — a mother's love strengthens vi^ith "*■ every ill that may betide; 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 of one lives to reach the skies, a moth- er's tender love can never die. — E. O. Jewel. T OVE ! Love ! — there are soft smiles and gentle -*— ' words, And there are faces, skillful to put on the look we trust in — and 'tis mockery all. . . . Therfe 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. 57 THE MOTHER'S INFLUENCE '' I ''HERE are very few who do not feel them- -■■ selves indebted to the influence that clustered around their cradles, for whatever good there may be in their character and condition. Home, based upon Christian marriage, is so evident an institution of God, that man must become profane before he can deny it. Of this realm woman is the queen. It takes the cue and hue from her. . . . The men of the nation are what these mothers make them as a rule; and the voice that those men speak in the ex- pression of power, is the voice of the woman who bore and bred them. — Scribner's Monthly. T BELIEVE I should have been swept away by the flood of infidelity if it had not been for one thing: the remembrance of the time when my sainted mother used to make me kneel by her side, taking my little hands folded in hers, and cause me to repeat the Lord's Prayer. — Thomas Randolph. 58 THE ROCKING-CHAIR THRONE T ET us glorify the vocation of motherhood above "^^ all other, for the only queen that shall survive is the mother on the rocking-chair throne, with a curly-headed subject kneeling by her side, a soft hand on its pure forehead, and its sweet voice saying, " Now I lay me down to sleep." But that mother must be regent over all earthly powers, even the divine one that dares invoke another life; she must be God's and her own, a free woman to whom shall never come the annunciation of her highest office and ministry', save from the deepest intuitions of her nature responding to the voice of a love so pure that it is patient and bides its time until the handmaid of the Lord shall say: "Be it unto thee even as thou wilt." — Frances E. IVillard. "j\ yrOTHER'S old chair has stopped rocking for -^ -*■ a good many years. It may be up in the loft or garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. . . . When the son came into the room where his dead mother lay, he cried out, " What your life could not do, death shall effect. This moment I give my heart to God." And he kept his promise. An- other victory for the vacant chair. — T. Deii'itt Talmage. 59 MOTHER VI/'HEN first I was, the world of sound Fell strangely on my baby ear ; All meaning blurred, until their came Your voice, my dear. And now, where paths of life divide In ways I cannot understand, The blur returns, until I feel On mine, your hand. The sun has set the clouds aflame, The rose is perfumed by the dew, But, miracle of miracles. The heart of you! — Anne Herendeen. lyrOTHERHOOD is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand. — Helen Hunt Jackson. 60 MY MOTHER \/^OU painted no Madonnas ■■• On chapel walls in Rome; But with a touch diviner, You lived one in your home. You wrote no lofty poems That critics counted art ; But with a nobler vision, You lived them in your heart. You carved no shapeless marble To some high soul-design ; But with a finer sculpture, You shaped this soul of mine. You built no great cathedrals That centuries applaud ; But with a grace exquisite, Your life cathedraled God. Had I the gift of Raphael Or Michelangelo Oh, what a rare Madonna My mother's life should show! — Thomas W. Fessenden. 6i WHEN MOTHER CALLS 'ITT'HEN mother calls — you must come in! ~ ' And how that call through all the din Amid the childhood memories high, Is ringing still within your ears! You thought it very awful then To leave the game and leave the fun And just because your mother called To have to say good-bye and run. • • • • . . • You chaffed because you thought it soon, To have to come, 'twas early yet; And so you left the game in tune To some reluctant spell of fret. When mother calls — so different seems The memory of it now to you; . . . You wouldn't keep her waiting there As once you did. You'd hear her now And leap to fly along the air, And lean to kiss her dear old brow. When mother calls — ah, lads of life. Don't keep her waiting there to call! Put down the tumult and the strife, And go before the shadows fall! — Boston Post. 62 THE WAYS OF LOVE T HOLD that this is true — •■■ From lads in love with their mothers Our bravest heroes grew^. Earth's grandest hearts have been loving hearts, Since time and earth began; And the boy who kissed his mother Is every inch a man! — Anon. ' I '*HE ways of love and tenderness -*• Are never out of style; Remember this and tell her so — Don't wait till after a while. Let not affection wane with years; It waneth not for you. Go, put your arms around her now — Kiss her as you used to do. Life does not hold enough of years In which we can repay A mother's love — but do your best Before she goes away. — Pittsburg Gazette-Times. 63 >^« MEMORY'S PICTURE 'T^HROUGH many a year a picture clear 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. The change and strife of later life, The years that leave me gray, Have taken, too, that pictured view; But cannot 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. 64 MEMORIES OF MOTHER I CALL the old time back ; I bring these lays To thee, in memory of the summer days When, by our native streams and forest ways. We dreamed them over ; w^hile the rivulets made Songs of our own, and the great pine-trees laid On warm moon-lights the masses of their shade. And she was with us, living o'er again Her life in ours, despite of years and pain — The autumn's brightness after latter rain. Beautiful in the holy peace as one Who stands, at evening, when the work is done, Glorified in the setting of the sun ! Her memory makes our common landscape seem Fairer than any of which the painters dream. Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream ; For she whose speech was always truth's pure gold Heard, not unpleased, its simple legends told. And loved with us the beautiful and old. — John Greenleaf Whittier. 65 THE NAME OF MOTHER nr^HE light, the spell-word of the heart, Our guiding star in weal or woe, Our talisman — our earthly chart — That sweetest name that earth can know. We breathed it first with lisping tongue When cradled in her arms we lay; Fond memories round that name are hung That will not, cannot pass away. We breathed it then, we breath it still. More dear than sister, friend, or brother ; The gentle power, the magic thrill Awakened by the name of Mother. — Fanny J. Crosby. /~\ 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 thine? will there ever be another? The angels have reared in heaven a shrine to the holy name of Mother. — Anon. 66 MY MOTHER IX yTY mother, with thy calm and holy brow And high devoted heart, which suffered 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. \ S pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed eternal "^ •*■ as the sky; And like the brook's low song, her voice, a sound which could not die. Sw^eet promptings unto kindest deeds were in her very look; We read her face, as one who reads a true and holy book. — John Greenleaf Whittier. 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. 67 MOTHER OF MINE 1\ /TOTHER of mine, I see your face in every crowded street. My heart is light when I recall your features kind and sweet. I long to hear your voice again, and see your face divine, I send with this my heart's best love. Mother, Mother of mine. — E. G. ^ I ""HERE'S no other word that's spoken 'neath "*■ the starry sky above, Can so touch our hearts as " Mother " or inspire so pure a love. It awakened with our being, and in sweet maternal ways, It was hallowed as 'twas nurtured in our happy childhood days. In our eyes and thoughts no other has so kind and saintly face, And of all we fondly cherish, none can ever fill her place. — E. B. Grimes. 68 THE HALLS OF MEMORY T T /"HEN I am sad it comes to me, * * A tender quiet old strain ; I hear her voice soft, low and sweet, Take up the song again. • •••••* 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 S one who stands at evening by the ocean's *■ ^ lonely shore May hear the voice of Memory above the breakers' roar, So, calm and clear and beautiful as bells for curfew rung, I hear above life's surge and flow the songs my mother sung. — Anon. 69 DEAR OLD MOTHERS T LOVE old mothers — mothers with white hair ■^ And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweet With murmured blessings over sleeping babes. There is a something in their quiet grace That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons ; 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. In the dear old-fashioned gardens, where hollyhocks and lavender grew, The lads with ways gallant did woo our mothers! the sweetest flowers of all. — Anon. 70 DEAR OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER *" I '*HERE is a home where an old-fashioned "*■ mother presides like a queen. Thank God, some of us have, and others have had, old-fashioned mothers. Dear, old-fashioned, sweet-faced mother! Eyes in which the love-light shone, her brown hair threaded with silver, lying smoothly on the faded cheek; her dear hands, worn with much toil, gently guiding our tottering steps in childhood and smooth- ing our pillow in sickness, ever reaching out to us in yearning tenderness. Precious memory of an old- fashioned mother! It floats to us now, like the powerful perfume of some fragrant blossom. The music of other voices may be lost, but the entrancing memory of her will echo in our souls forever. — /. Wilbur Chapman. "DLESSED is the memory of an old-fashioned -*-' mother. It floats to us now like the beautiful perfume of some woodland blossoms. The music of our voices may be lost, but the entrancing melody of hers will echo in our souls forever. Other faces will fade away and be forgotten, but hers will shine on until the light from Heaven's portal will glorify our own. — Anon. 71 MY MOTHER'S VOICE 1\ /TY mother's voice, how often creeps ■^ '■■ It's 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 IVillis. T NEVER can forget the voice ■■■ That always made my heart rejoice; Tho' I have wandered God knows where, Still I remember mother's prayer. Whene'er I think of her so dear, I feel her angel spirit near; A voice comes floating on the air, Reminding me of mother's prayer. J. W. Van De V enter. - 72 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP i i "VJO W I lay me down to sleep : •^^ I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep." Was my childhood's early prayer Taught by my mother's love and care. . . , 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 thee, Lord, my soul to keep." Oh ! could the faith of childhood's days, Oh ! could its little hymn of praise, Oh! could its simple, joyous trust Be recreated 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 thee. Lord, my soul to keep." — Eugene Henry Pullen. 73 ROCK ME TO SLEEP T> 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 ! Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like Mother-love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours: None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I have 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 Akers Allen. 74 ANSWER TO " ROCK ME TO SLEEP " 1% yTY child, oh my child! thou art weary to-night, Thy spirit is sad and dim is the light; Thou wouldst call me back from the echoless shore, To the trials of life, to thy heart as of yore; Thou longest again for my fond loving care, For my kiss on thy cheek, for my hand on thy hair ; But angels around thee their loving Avatch keep, And angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. " Backward? " Nay, onward, ye swift rolling years! Gird on thy armor, keep back thy tears; Count not thy trials nor efforts in vain — They'll bring thee the light of thy childhood again. Thou shouldst not wear>^, my child, by the way, But watch for the light of that brighter day; Not tired of " Sowing for others to reap," For angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. They'll sing thee to sleep with a soothing song, And waking, thou'lt be with a heavenly throng ; And thy life, with its toil and its tears and pain Thou wilt then see has not been in vain. • •*•••• Never hereafter to suffer or weep. The angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. — Anon. 75 MOTHER'S ROCKING-CHAIR /^NCE upon a time she'd take me — ^^ Take me in her arms each night; Softly croon a song of slumber, Bid me close my eyes so tight; For she said: " The Sandman's coming! " Then I knew I must beware, Lest he catch me with them open, As we rocked in that old chair. Long that's been; I'm worn and weary, And I would that I could rest With her arms entwined around me, And my head upon her breast. She would croon to me so softly, And she'd gently stroke my hair; While I'd drift away to Dreamland, Rocked to sleep in that old chair. But that chair has long been empty — Where it is I do not know; And the songs she sang so sweetly. Were forgotten long ago. But to-night I feel her presence — Seem to see her face so fair, And to hear her softly crooning In that old, old rocking-chair. — Harry M. Dean 76 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR I LOVE it, — I love it, and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize — I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs ; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart, Not a tie will break nor 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. I sat and watched her many a day, When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray, And I almost worshipped her when she smiled And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on, but the last one sped — My idol was shattered — my earth star fled; I learnt how much the heart can bear. When I saw her die in the old arm-chair. — Eliza Cook. 77 MY MOTHER 1% /TY Mother! At that holy name •^ Within my bosom there is a gush Of feeling, which no time can tame, A feeling, which, for years of fame, I would not, could not crush! — George P. Morris. ' I '*HEY tell us of an Indian tree, -*■ Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free. And shoot and blossom wide and high. Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth. From which the life that fills and warms Its grateful being first had birth: 'Tis thus, though wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame — if fame it be — This heart, my own dear mother, bends. With true love's instinct, back to thee. T — Thomas Moore. 78 TO MY MOTHER \ ND canst thou, mother, for a moment think -*■ ^ That we, thy children, when old age shall shed Its blanching honors on thy weary head, Could from our best duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink, Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day. Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought! wher'er our steps may roam, O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee. And paint the pleasure of thy peaceful home ; While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. — Henry Kirke White. T7 VEN He that died for us upon the cross, in the -■-^ last hour 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 JVadsworth Longfellow. 79 THE INFLUENCE OF MOTHER TTOLD diligent converse with thy children! have ■^ ■*■ them Morning and evening round thee; love thou them, And win their love in these rare, beauteous years, For only while the short-lived dream of childhood Lasts are they thine; — no longer! — Anon. /^UR mothers are our earliest instructors, and ^^ they have an influence over us, the importance of which, for time and eternity, surpasses the power of language to describe. The formative period of building character for eternity is in the nursery. The mother is queen of that realm and sways a sceptre more potent than that of kings and priests. — M. H. H. \ ND say to mothers what a holy charge ■^ ^ Is theirs — with what a kingly power their love Might rule the fountains of the newborn mind. Warn them to wake at early morn and sow good seed, before the world has sown its tares. — Lydia H. Sigourney. 80 MATERNAL LOVE MATERNAL love! thou word that sums all bliss, Gives and receives all bliss, — fullest when most Thou givest! spring-head of all felicity, Deepest when most is drawn ! emblem of God ! O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink! — Pollok. NEXT to Omnipotence, a mother's is the strongest moral influence known upon earth. By her quick intuition she is " Ready to detect The latent seeds of evil: to encourage All better tastes and feelings, and to fling So bright a radiance o'er a life of virtue That children seek it as God's glorious gift." A mother is both the morning and the evening star of life. The light of her eye is always the first to rise, and often the last to set upon a man's day of trial. — fV. K. Tweedie. A MOTHER'S love, in a degree, sanctifies the most worthless offspring. — Hosea Ballou. 8x AS A FOND MOTHER A S a fond mother, when the day is o'er, ■*- ■*■ Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half-willing, half-reluctant to be led. And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of other in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more ; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends that we know. — Henry JVadsworth Longfellow. "jlyTY mother! Manhood's anxious brow and -*-*-*■ sterner cares have long been mine; Yet turn I to thee fondly now, as when upon thy bosom's shrine '^ My infant griefs were gently hushed to rest, And thy low whispered prayers my slumber blessed. — George W. Bethune. 82 HAPPY MEMORIES * I '*HERE is one rule that it is always safe to en- "*■ force in the family — the rule of love which will send each child to bed with a smile on its lips and peace in its heart. They will have happier memories of their childhood when they have gone out from the home nest into the world, and they will enshrine in their hearts, as household saints, the mothers who gave them a good-night kiss with smiles and benedictions every night of their young lives. — M. L. Rayne. "V TEVER, never has one forgotten his pure, right- -^ ^ educating mother! On the blue mountains of our dim childhood, towards which we ever turn and look, stand the mothers who marked out to us from thence our life; the most blessed age must be forgotten ere we can forget the warmest heart. You wish, O woman, to be ardently loved, and forever, even till death. Be, then, the mothers of your children. — Richter. 83 AT FOURSCORE OHE sits in the gathering shadows *^ By the porch where the roses blow And her thoughts are back in the summer That vanished long ago. She forgets the graves on the hillside, — She forgets that she is old, And remembers only the gladness That the old times used to hold. She hears, as of old, the voices Of the dear ones who are dead; She smooths out the shining tangles That crown each little head; She kisses the faces lifted To her as in days of old. And the heart of the dreaming mother Is full of peace untold. So, while the night comes round her, She sits with her children there. Forgetting the years that took them, And the snowflakes in her hair. — Eben E. Rexford. 84 MY MOTHER QUCH a weak, little, tiny body, ^^ To shelter so brave a heart, Such morsels of hands to labor so long. And bear such a valiant part In the battle of life, such diminutive feet To journey so far and so fast On the road which leads up from the glimmer of dawn To the glory of sunset at last. Yet so great is the power of a woman, If only her will is strong. She is mighty to fight and conquer, (Though the struggle be dreary and long) With the armies of pain and sorrow, If her soul be but pure and true. There is nothing through all the ages, She has not been able to do, — The Household. 85 MY MOTHER'S FAITH NEW dogmas and new doubts replace The creeds our young lips breathed, These, heavy with their inward grace Those light with graces wreathed. These, with a mother's love inwrought, Like violets pure and fair ; Those with fantastic fancies fraught Like orchids fed on air. Give me the dear old blossoms yet, The lilac and the pink; The pansy and pale mignonette, Whatever others think; No greenhouse gives me half the joy Some old-time garden yields; And love I still, as when a boy. The wild flowers of the fields. And mine shall be the faiths of old In God, and Christ, and heaven; In reason's creeds I am not bold. But fear their human leaven; With the old nosegays in my hand. The old creeds in my heart. Beside the cross I'll humbly stand And thence from earth depart. — William C. Richards. 86 HIS MOTHER'S SERMON T TE was broken that day, and his sobs shook the '*■ bed, for he was his mother's only son and fatherless, and his mother, brave and faithful to the last, was bidding him farewell. " Dinna greet like that, John, nor break yir hert, for it's the will o' God, and that's aye best. " Ye 'ill no forget me, John, I ken that weel, and I'll never forget j'ou. I've loved ye here and I'll love ye yonder. " Ye 'ill follow Christ, and gin he offers ye his cross ye 'ill no refuse it. . . . Ye 'ill no fail me," and her poor cold hand that had tended him all his days tightened on his head. But he could not speak, and her voice was fail- ing fast. " I canna see ye noo, John, but I know yir there, an' I've just one other wish. If God calls ye to the ministry, ye 'ill no refuse, an' the first day ye preach in yir ain kirk, speak a gude word for Jesus Christ, an', John, I'll hear ye that day, though ye 'ill no see me, and I'll be satisfied." A minute after she whispered, " Pray for me," and he cried, " My mother, my mother." It was a full prayer, and left nothing unasked of Mary's Son. — Ian Maclann. 87 FAITH OF OUR MOTHERS T?AITH of our mothers! living still -*- In all that's beautiful and brave; How nobly will we work God's will And seek from sin our souls to save! Faith of our mothers! living faith! We will be true to thee till death! Faith of our mothers! living still In hearts of hope and songs of praise, We gladly join with one accord, To sing to God our sweetest lays; Faith of our mothers! constant faith! We will be true to thee till death! Faith of our mothers! living still In love and life that ne'er shall die, And children's children ever dear Shall hold the faith that brings God nigh ; Faith of our mothers! holy faith! We will be true to thee till death! — S. Trevena Jackson. 88 BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE IF you have a gray-haired mother In the old home far away, Sit down and write the letter You put off day by day. If you have a tender message, Or a loving word to say, Don't wait till you forget it, But whisper it to-day. Who knows what bitter memories May haunt you if you wait? So make your loved ones happy Before it is too late. The tender words unspoken, The letter never sent, The long-forgotten messages. The wealth of love unspent, For these some hearts are breaking, For these some loved ones wait — So show them that you care for them Before it is too late. — George Bancroft Griffith. 89 TRUST ^ I ''HE same old baffling questions ! O my friend, I cannot answer them. In vain I send My soul into the dark where never burn The lamps of science, nor the natural light Of reason's sun and stars! I cannot learn Their great and solemn meaning, nor discern The awful secrets of the eyes which turn Evermore on us through day and night. With silent challenge, and a dumb demand Proffering the riddle of the dead unknown. Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone, Questioning the centuries from the vale of sand. I have no answer for myself or thee Save that I learned beside my mother's knees; " All is of God and is to be ; And God is good." Let this suffice us still. Resting in childlike trust upon his will Who moves to his great end unthwarted by the ill. — John Greenleaf Whittier. 90 HER WORDS AND PRAYERS QHE led me first to God; *^ Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew — For when she us'd to leave The fireside every eve, I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew. How often has the thought Of my mourn'd mother brought Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power The tempter to repel! Mother, thou knowest well That thou hast bless'd me since my natal hour. — John Pierpont. "VXTOULD, Mother, thou couldst hear me tell ' * How oft, amid my brief career, For sins and follies loved too well, Hath fallen the free, repentant tear. And, in the waywardness of youth, How better thoughts have given to me Contempt for error, love for truth, 'Mid sweet remembrances of thee. — James J Id rich. 91 WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT A MOTHER? "IXT'HAT is home without a mother? What are all the joys we meet? When her loving smile no longer Greets the coming of our feet? — Alice Hawthorne. '^'IX/HAT is home without a mother?" — ~ ^ there's the motto on the wall, Hanging in a place obtrusive, where it may be seen by all; And the question's never answered : we can't know what home would be, If its gentle guardian angel in her place no more we'd see. What is home without a mother? That we'll never realize. Till the light of life has faded from the kind and patient eyes; When the implements of labor fall unheeded from her hand. And the loving voice is silent — then, at last, we'll understand. — fValt Mason. 92 MOTHER AT THE GATE /^H, there's many a lonely 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 the 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. 93 THE DESTINY OF THE NATION '"T^HE destiny of the nation lies far more in the •*■ hands of women — the mothers — than in the hands of those who possess power or those who are innovators, who seldom understand themselves. We must cultivate women, who are educators of the human race, else a new generation cannot ac- complish its task. — Froebel. ** I ''HE woman's task is not easy — no task worth -■■ doing is easy — but in doing it, and when she has done it, there shall come to her the highest and holiest joy known to mankind; and having done it, she shall have the reward prophesied in Scripture: for her husband and her children, yes and all people who realize that her work lies at the very founda- tion of all national happiness and greatness, shall rise up and call her blessed. — Theodore Roosevelt. TFT were asked to name one principle that seemed ■'■ to have an almost universal application, it would be this one — show me the mother and I will show you the man! — Theodore L. Cuyler. 94 AMERICAN MOTHERHOOD ** I ''HERE are times when big thoughts burst, .-■■ meteor-like, upon the modern world. One of them has come from the senate of the United States, where there is a bill providing for a Parthe- non, to be devoted to exploiting the achievements of the mothers of the republic. There has been set aside a park between the Capitol and the new union station in Washington and a bill has been intro- duced to allot a portion of this space for memorials to the motherhood of America as a recognition of the part she had in making America what it is to- day. Every warrior and statesman has been inspired to deeds of valor or wisdom by a woman, a patriotic or far-seeing wife or mother. Women have liter- ally helped to fight the nation's battles and they have laid upon its altar sacrifices as heroic as those of any hero at the head of conquering armies or in the serried ranks; and there is not a statesman or publicist in all the nation's history who will not gladly acknowledge his obligation to womanhood for keener and higher visions of what makes for a country's noblest good. — Haverhill Gazette. 95 THE WORLD'S QUEEN T SHOULD not be surprised if, in the ages to ■*■ come, there would be crowned a Queen of the World. This change of dominion is not of sex but of soul. We are appreciating tenderness, pur- ity, kindness, temperance, and other womanly gifts, as we never did before. We are slowly being trans- formed by the accumulated generations of mothers. How the world moves depends on how the women of the world aspire. And how women work reveals how they aspire. A woman, to succeed in this work, must have her heart in it. And this lesson we all need to learn. Labor lacking love is slow suicide. Men, if underpaid, as a body refuse to work; but do you suppose any sort of economic pressure could force the mothers of the nation to go on a strike? — Edward Earle Purington. THE mother in her office holds the key Of the soul ; and she it is who stamps the coin Of character, and makes the being, who would be a savage But for her gentle cares, a Christian man. Then crown her Queen of the World. — Old Play. 96 THE REAL QUEEN 1% yriGHTY art thou, because of the peaceful ■^ -^ charms of thy presence; That which the silence does not, never the boastful can do. Many, indeed, have ruled through the might of the spirit of action, But then, thou noblest of crowns, they were deficient in thee. No real queen exists but the womanly beauty of woman ; Where it appears, it must rule; ruling because it appears, — Schiller. "U EVERED, beloved — O you that hold a nobler ■'■^ office upon earth Than arms, or power of brain or birth could give the warrior's kings of old. Her court was pure ; her life serene ; God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; A thousand claims to reverence closed in her as Mother, Wife, and Queen. — Alfred Tennyson. 97 THE END OF GLORY "/^ 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 forlorn? " " 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 — 'twas all they might; And that's the end of glory. " Rataplan ! " — Edward Cracoft Lefroy. /^ WONDROUS power! how little understood, ^^ — entrusted to the mother's mind alone. To fashion genius, form the soul for good, inspire a West, or train a Washington! — Sarah J. Hale. 98 THE WAY WITH MOTHERS 1\yT OTHERS are just the queerest things! ■^ '*■ 'Member when John went away, All but mother cried and cried When they said good-by that day. She just talked and seemed to be Not the slightest 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 wound. 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. Sabin. 99 "A GLORIOUS END" (Title of picture by English war artist) ** I ''HE soldier tells of that fierce charge -*■ In which his hero brother died: The father stands with lifted head As if he saw the splendid ride, The sister hears with face grown pale And eyes that brim with tears of pride; The mother does not heed the tale, — She only knows that he has died. She makes no moan, she sheds no tears, She feels no thrill of pride or joy, For, looking back across the years, She sees a little, little boy. Their words are but an idle tale Of war and battle, sword and gun; She has not heard that he was brave. She does not care what he has done; She only turns her head aside. She has no thought for glory won She only knows that he has died, — Her son — her son — her firstborn son. — Annie Johnson Flint. lOO THE BRAVEST BATTLE ^ I ^HE bravest battle that ever vi^as fought! -■- Shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not. 'Twas fought by the mothers of men. Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With a sword or noble pen ; Nay, not with eloquent words or thought From mouths of wonderful men! Oh, ye with banners and battle shot, And soldiers to shout and praise! I tell you the kingliest victories fought Were fought in those silent ways. O spotless woman in a world of shame, With splendid and silent scorn, Gro back to God as white as you came — The kingliest warrior born! But deep in a walled-up woman's heart — Of a woman that would not yield, But bravely, silently bore her part — So, there is that battle-field ! No marshaling troops, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam and wave; But oh! these battles, they last so long — From babyhood to the grave. — Joaquin Miller. lOI HIS MOTHER'S SONG BENEATH the hot midsummer sun The men had marched all day ; And now beside a rippling stream,- Upon the grass they lay. Tiring of games and idle jests, As swept the hours along, They called to one who mused apart, " Come, friend, give us a song." " I fear I cannot please," he said ; " The only songs I know Are those my mother used to sing For me long years ago." " Sing one of those," a rough voice cried, "There's none but true men here; To every mother's son of us, A mother's songs are dear." • •••••• The songs are done, the camp is still. Naught but the stream is heard; But, ah! the depths of every soul By those old hymns are stirred. — Anon. 102 PEACE AT LAST ■]\yrOTHER darling! I am dying, life is ebbing •^ -*• fast away; Night is settling down upon me — oh, how long has been the day! ... Oh, how often in the trenches mother's prayers have been my stay, Mother's God has been my solace, mother's Christ has lit my way ! — Kass me, mother, I am dying, you will miss your soldier boy, But one thought w-ill still your weeping — he has passed to endless joy — Up above earth's strife and battle, where no war can rage and tear. In that Home away in Heaven, Home of peace so bright so fair. Sweetest mother, when your heart aches, feels it has too much to bear, Try to see your boy up yonder, waiting, waiting for you there. — Lucy Booth Hellburg. 103 THE SPARTAN MOTHERS /^OME with your shield or on it. Thus would ^^ say The Spartan mothers when into the fray They sent their sons to dare, to do, or die; And from maternal lips was wrung no cry If on those shields their sons at last were borne, With pale, still faces, for why should they mourn A son who yet as worthy hero came Upon his shield ? Without it were his shame ! Dear, noble heart! Bravely you've kept the shield Of Christian faith on earth's great battlefield! And now, spent, pale, and silent, you are borne Home from the conflict. But why should we mourn? For no defeat is yours, nor yours the shame Of faithless sons who back from battle came Without their shields. Hail, conqueror! as you come Upon your shield to your eternal home. — A. M. Gordon. 104 THE TWO FATES nr^ HERE'S a thrill to the tramp of the fighting ■■■ hosts Who go to the front to die, Though none may say from day to day Wherever their bones may lie. But the mother hears through her unshed tears Her baby's call down the sweet lost years. There's a cheer of the drum for the shrinking heart When the captain swings ahead, When the air is thick with the click, click, click, Of the singing storms of lead ; But the sad wife hears through her throbbing fears The living sobs of the lonely years. There's a glow to the dare of a noble soul That beckons death to a throw. With a life for a stake to save or break, And no one to see or know. But the pale maid hears when the war cloud clears The voice of woe and the word that sears. Brothers, who have the harder fate — The men who fall or the women who wait? — The British IVeekly. 105 THE MOTHER pALER, and yet a thousand times more fair •*- Than in thy girlhood's freshest bloom, art thou: A softer sun-flush tints thy golden hair, A sweeter grace adorns thy gentle brow. Lips that shall call thee " Mother! " at thy breast Feed the young life, wherein thy nature feels Its dear fulfillment: little hands are pressed On the white fountain Love alone unseals. Look down, and let Life's tender daybreak throw A second radiance on thy ripened hour: Retrace thy own forgotten advent so. And in the bud behold thy perfect flower. Nay, question not: whatever lies beyond God will dispose. Sit thus. Madonna mine, For thou art hallowed with a love as fond As Jewish Mary gave the Child Divine. The father in his child beholds this truth, His perfect manhood has assumed its reign: Thou wear'st anew the roses of thy youth, — The mother in her child is born again. — Bayard Taylor. 1 06 B THE LOVE OF MOTHER UT one upon earth is more beautiful and better than a wife — that is the mother. — L. Schefer. T7 RE yet her child hath drawn its earliest breath, -*-' A mother's love begins — it grows till death ! Lives before life, with death, not dies, but seems The very substance of immortal dreams. — Anon. ^Il yTY heart grew softer as I gazed upon ^^ ^ That youthful mother, as she soothed to rest, With a low song, her lov'd and cherish'd one. The bud of promise on her gentle breast ; For 'tis a sight that angel ones above May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss. When Innocence upon the breast of Love Is cradled, in a sinful world like this, — A.B. Welby. ^ I ''HERE is no velvet so soft as a mother's lap, -■■ no rose so lovely as her smile, no path so flowery as that imprinted with her footsteps. — Archbishop Thomson. 107 BABY "r\IMPLED and flushed and dewey pink he lies, "*-^ Crumpled and tossed and lapt in snowy bands ; Aimlessly reaching with his tiny hands, Lifting in wondering gaze his great blue eyes. Sweet pouting lips, parted by breathing sighs; Soft cheeks, warm tinted as from tropic lands; Framed with brown hair in shining silken strands, — All fair, all pure, a sunbeam from the skies ! O perfect innocence! O soul enshrined In blissful ignorance of good and ill, By never gale of idle passions crossed ! Although thou art no alien from thy kind, Though pain and death may take thee captive, still Through sin, at least, thine Eden is not lost. — Elaine Goodale. /^'ERWEENING mother-love, that still can see ^^^ In furrowed brow and bearded lips, the trace Of that she holds most dear in memory, Love's dimpled prototype, — a baby's face. — Marion F. Ham. io8 ONLY A BABY SMALL /^NLY a baby small, dropped from the skies ; ^^ Only a laughing face, t\\'o sunny eyes. Only two cherry lips, one chubby nose, Only two little hands, ten little toes. Only a tender flower, sent us to rear, Only a life to love, while we are here. Only a baby small, never at rest, Small, but how dear to us God knoweth best. — Mathias Barr. \ 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. Her wishes she did make her own. Her bosom fed and pillowed too, Answering each start and fitful moan With trembling pulses fond and true. — Charles Tennyson Turner. log TWO MAGICAL WORDS A WIFE! A mother! Two magical words, "*• -^ comprising the sweetest source of man's felicity. Theirs is a reign of beauty, of love, of reason, — always a reign. — Jimi Martin. ^/"OUNG mother, your motherhood is in God's -*■ sight a holier and a more blessed thing than you know. Be sure that all the tender interest and solemn thoughts, all the quiet trust and joyful hope which expectant motherhood calls forth may be sanctified and refined by God's Holy Spirit, and you may be united under the overshadowing of His heavenly grace. — Andrew Murray. T X 7"HEN Eve was brought unto Adam, he became * ' filled with the Holy Spirit, and gave her the most sanctified, the most glorious of appellations. He called her Eva — that is to say, the Mother of All. He did not style her wife, but simply mother — mother of all living creatures. In this consists the glory and the most precious ornament of woman. — Luther. no MOTHER AND CHILD 1\ /TY 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 this 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? — Dolly Radford. ** I ''HE mother smooths her baby's pillow -*• Of lace and lawn and softest down ; Oh, so she'd smooth our life's least billow, All its mountains, and every frown! — /. M. Webster. Ill MOTHERHOOD THERE is a sight all hearts beguiling — A youthful mother to an infant smiling, Who, with spread arms and dancing feet. And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet. — Joanna Baillie. THE tie which links mother and child is of pure and immaculate strength. Holy, simple, and beautiful, it is an emblem of all we can imagine of fidelity and truth. — Washington Irving. ^ I ''HE purest thing I know in all earth's hold- -■■ ing Is mother love, her precious child enfolding; Yet when the mother's footstep feeble groweth, As sweet the child love then which round her floweth. — Anon. ipERHAPS there are tenderer, sweeter things ■*- Somewhere in this sunlight land. But I thank the Lord for His blessings, And the clasp of a little hand. — Frank L. Stanton. 113 ALL MOTHER TF I had an eagle's wings, how grand to sail ^ the sky! But I should drop to earth if I heard my baby cry. My baby — my darling, the wings may go, for me. If I was 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 S. Turner. JUST a little baby lying in my arms, Would that I could keep you with your baby charms ; Helpless, clinging fingers; downy, golden hair, When the sunshine lingers, caught from other- where ; Roly-poly shoulders, dimple in your cheek; Dainty little blossom, in a world of woe; Thus I fain would keep you, for I love you so. — Louise C. Moulton. "3 THE QUEENLIEST WOMAN ^ I '*HE queenliest woman, bravest, best of all -■■ sweet things beneath the sun? I say the queenliest is that one — seek north or south or east or west — Who loves to fold the little frock and hear the cradle rock and rock. I say the purest woman, best beneath our forty stars is she Who loves her spouse most ardently and rocks the cradle oftenest — Wlio rocks and sings, and rocks, and then when birds are nestling, rocks again. — Joaquin Miller. ** I '"EN little heads have found their sweetest rest -*- Upon the pillow of her loving breast ; The world is wide ; yet nowhere does it keep So safe a haven, so secure a rest. 'Tis counted something great to be a queen, And bend a kingdom to a woman's will. To be a mother such as mine, I ween, Is something better and more noble still. — May Riley Smith. 114 ROCKABY BABY T> OCKABY baby — Somebody sings — -■-^ Rockaby baby, my baby. Dreams in his bundle the SLeepman brings; You shall have some of them, maybe; You shall have dreams, if you close your wee eyes, Of wonderful things under far-away skies Where little ones go when they sleep, I surmise — Rockaby baby, my baby. Rockaby baby. Soon you shall be — Rockaby baby, my dearie — Safely afloat on the crystalline sea That kisses the Slumberland cheery; And all little bairnies my baby shall greet In valleys of beauty, with wonders replete, Where their toes are the things that the babies all eat — Rockaby baby, my dearie. — Alfred J. fVaterhouse. 115 CRADLE SONG ** I '•HE winds are whispering over the sea, -■■ And the waves are listening smilingly, — They are telling tales of the shining sky, And the dusky lands they travel by. They are telling tales they have often told — Of faces new and feelings old, Of hope and fear, and love and hate, Of birth and death and human fate, Of homes of joy and hearts of pain. Of storm and strife, and peace again, Of age and youth, of man and maid, And of baby mine in a cradle laid. And the sun laughs down in his own kind way. For the heart of the sun is as young as they; And the sea looks up as a loved one should, — They are old ; they know it is good, all good. You may feel the waves as the cradle swings. And the air is stirred with the wind's soft wings, And mother has heard from the sky and the sea That they send " sweet sleep and dreams " to thee. Then hush! my baby, gently rest In the night's wide arms, on the earth's broad breast. The sky above, beneath, the sea, And a greater than all to shelter thee. — Merle Si. Croix Wright. Ii6 ROCKING THE BABY TO SLEEP T3 ACK and forth in a rocker, lost in memory 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 a while the baby had crowed his mother to sleep. — Richard Kendall Munkittrick, T SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the breast of its ■*■ mother ; The sleeping mother and babe — hushed, I study them long and long. — Walt Whitman. T ONG, long before the babe could speak, "*— ' When he would kiss his mother's cheek And to her bosom press, The brightest angels, standing near, Would turn away to hide a tear, For they are motherless. — J. W. Tabb. 117 BEAUTIFUL CHILD OEAUTIFUL child, to thy look is given "^ A gleam serene. — not of earth, but of heaven ; With thy tell-tale eyes and prattling tongue, Would thou couldst ever thus be young. Like liquid strain of the mocking bird. From stair to hall thy voice is heard; How oft in the garden nooks thou'rt found, With flowers thy curly head around! And kneeling beside me with figure quaint, Oh, who would not dote on my infant saint? Beautiful child, may'st thou soar above, A warbling cherub of joy and love; A drop on eternity's nightly sea, A blossom of life's immortal tree; Floating, flowering forevermore, In the blessed light of the golden shore. And as I gaze on thy sinless bloom And thy radiant face, they dispel my gloom; r feel He will keep thee undefiled. And His love protect my beautiful child. — W. A. H. Sigourney. Il8 THE BABIE "^TAE shoon to hide her tiny taes, ■^ ^ Nae stockin' on her feet ; Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet. Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double dim, dimplit chin, Her puckered lips and baumy mou' Wi' na ane tooth within. Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things; Her face is like an angel's face: We're glad she has nae wings. She is the buddin' o' our luve, A giftie God gied us: We maun na luve the gift ouer weel; 'Twad be nae blessin' thus. We still maun lo'e the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given ; An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our baby straight frae heaven. — J. E. Rankin. 119 A MOTHER'S LOVE (Typical of God's love") T IKE a cradle, rocking, rocking, — silent, peace- ^~^ ful, to and fro; Like a mother's sweet looks dropping on the little face below, — Hangs the green earth swinging, turning, jarless, noiseless, safe and slow; Falls the light of God's face, bending down and watching us below. And as feeble babes that suffer, toss and cry and will not rest, Are the ones the tender mother holds the closest, — loves the best; So when we are weak and wretched, by our sins weighed down, distressed. Then it is God's greatest patience holds us closest, loves us best. — Saxe Holm. I20 THE MOTHER'S PRAYER FATHER, I thank thee — First, because Thou has made me a mother, and of all women the mother is most blessed. Second, because Thou has helped me to be a true mother, by giving me understanding that I may teach my children. Be with me in my daily tasks; shed Thy bright radiance about my home that the young hearts growing here may be nourished with the living waters. Guard them against evil, O Father, and keep them fresh in faith and trust. Keep them pure of thought and deed. Bless them with love, and with that strong belief in Thee which exalts the heart and sweetens the life. Strengthen them. Lord, with knowledge, and teach them to honor the duties Thou seest fit to impose upon them. Give them richness of spirit, and the eternal joy which earthly shadows but deepen. Guide them ever, O Father, and grant that they be well pleasing unto Thee. In the name of Thine own Son, Jesus, I ask it. Amen. — Beatrice E. Harmon. 121 y CRADLE SONG O LEEP, baby sleep ! '^ Thy father's watching the sheep, Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree, And down drops a little dream for thee, Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep, The little stars are the lambs, I guess, The bright moon is the shepherdess, Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! The Saviour loves His sheep; He is the Lamb of God on high Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep! — Elizabeth Prentiss. /'^ OLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes ^^ Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby. — Thomas Decker. 122 THE RHYME OF ONE "\70U sleep upon your mother's breast, your race ■*■ begun, A welcome, long a wi'sh'd for Guest, whose age is One. A Baby-Boy, you wonder why you cannot run; You try to talk — how hard you try ! You're only One. . . . Some day, too, you may have your joy, and envy none; Yes, you yourself may own a boy who isn't One. He'll dance and laugh and crow; he'll do as you have done (You'll crown a happy home, though you are only One). But when he's grown shall you be here to share his fun, And talk of times when he (the Dear!) was hardly One? Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be my little Son; I'm glad„ though I am old, you see, — while you are One. — Frederic Locker. 123 BABY'S SKIES VIJOULD you know the baby's skies? Baby's skies are mother's eyes. Mother's eyes and smiles 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 'tis raining. — Mary C. BartletU IV/fY child is lying on my knee, The signs of heaven she reads ; My face is all the heaven she sees, Is all the heaven she needs. And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, If heaven is in my face; Behind it all is tenderness And truthfulness and grace. Lo! Lord I sit in thy wide space. My child upon my knee; She looketh up into my face And I look up to Thee. — George MacDonald. 124 MOTHER'S WORLD Tj' YES of blue and hair of gold ■*--' Cheeks all brown with summer tan, Lips that much of laughter hold, This is mother's little Man. Shining curls like chestnut brown, Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid, Sweetest face in all the town, This 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. "jl/TY 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 M alloy. 125 MOTHER'S KISSES \ KISS when I wake in the morning "*■ ^ A kiss when I go to bed, A kiss when I burn my fingers, A kiss when I bump my head. A kiss when I give her trouble, A kiss when I give her joy: There's nothing like mamma's kisses To her own little baby boy. — Anon. ** I ^HEY'RE good for bumps, and good for lumps, ■*■ They're even good for dumps and grumps. They're good for stings of " bumbly-bees " And barks from " shinnying " cherry-trees. For splinters, sun-burn, " skeeter-bites," For " injured feelings " after fights, And scratches, scratched while Tabby hisses — Mother's kisses. There's naught so pure, there's naught so sure, Indeed, they seem a heavenly cure. For pounded fingers, stubbied toes, And all the long, long list of woes, Yet did you ever think it queer That while they're fine for every fear They're just as fine with all the blisses — Mother's kisses. — Annie Balcomb Wheeler. 126 NOBODY KNOWS BUT MOTHER HOW many buttons are missing to-day ? How many playthings are strewn in her way? Nobody knows but mother. How many thimbles and spools has she missed? How many burns on each little fist? How many bumps to be cuddled and kissed? Nobody knows but mother. How many stockings to -dam, do you know? How many muddy shoes all in a row? Nobody knows but mother. How many little torn aprons to mend? How many hours of toil must she spend? What is the time when her day's work shall end? Nobody knows but mother. How many cares does a mother-heart know? How many joys from her mother-love flow. Nobody knows but mother. How many prayers by each little white bed? How many tears for her babe has she shed? How many kisses for each curly head? Nobody knows but mother. — Haverhill Record. 127 CRADLE SONG WHAT does little birdie say in her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, then she flies away. What does little baby say, in her bed at peep of day ? Baby says, like little birdie, let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, baby too shall fly away. — Alfred Tennyson. 128 A LULLABY HUSH, my babe, in all the westland. Angel hands have veiled the skies ; Hark, my babe, from out the restland Voices bid thee close thine eyes. Let the night winds not alarm thee, Stars are watching thee above; Whispering shadows shall not harm thee — Round thee guards a mother's love. Dreamland calls thee, go and wander Through her pathways wild and free; By the jewelled doorway yonder Mother's heart will wait for thee. On the hills when morn is breaking, And shadows lift from laughing streams. Mother's joy will clasp thee waking, Within the pearl-mist of thy dreams. — Fred Clare Baldwin. 129 MOTHERHOOD "]\ TOT HER, 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 liyriGHTY is the force of motherhood! It '^'-'- transforms all things by its vital heat; it turns timidity into fierce courage, and dreadless defiance into tremulous submission ; it turns thought- lessness into foresight, and yet stills all anxiety into calm content ; it makes selfishness become self-denial, and gives even a hard vanity the glance of admiring love. — George Eliot. 130 THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE ^nr^HEY 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. "^TEVER in the history of the human race was ■^ ^ the " hand that rocks the cradle " held in higher respect than to-day. Never was motherhood more honored or more honorable. A careful study of great men's lives will reveal that much of their force of character they owe to their mother. What is known of Lincoln's mother is so meager that it makes a bare-looking picture, but enough is known to make it certain that she gave to the world one of the noblest of men, and that he was noble largely because of the influence of his mother. — P. H. Murdick. 131 THE DEAREST BABY '^ORTH and South, East and West, -^ ^ Where is the baby that I love best? A little papoose under the trees? A Chinese beauty beyond the seas? An English child among the mills? A Switzer baby between the hills? A dark-eyed darling in Southern vales? An iceland baby in Northern gales? What nonsense talk to speak of these! The dearest baby is on my knees! — Mary Frances Butts. ** I '^HE world has no flower in any land, ■■■ And no such pearl in any gulf or sea, As any babe on any mother's knee. — Algernon Charles Swinburne. A MOTHER is a mother still — The holiest thing alive. — Coleridge. 132 SWEET AND LOW OWEET and low, sweet and low, '^ Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go. Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. — Alfred Tennyson. 133 THE QUEEN OF BABY-LAND TTOW many miles to Baby-land? Any one can tell ; up one flight, To the right — Please to ring the bell. What can you see in Babj^-land? Little folks in white, downy heads, Cradle beds, Faces pure and bright. What do they do in Baby-land? Dream and wake and play. Laugh and crow, shout and grow; Jolly times have they. What do they say in Baby-land? Why, the oddest things; might as well Try to tell What a birdie sings. Who is queen of Baby-land? Mother, kind and sweet; and her love. Born above. Guides the little feet. — George Cooper. 134 BEST MOTHER, I see you with your nursery light, Leading your babies, all in white. To their sweet rest; Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night, And that is best. I cannot help tears, when I see them twine Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine On your warm breast; But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine — He can love best. You tremble each hour because your arms Are weak; your heart is wrung with alarms, And sore opprest; My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms. And that is best But grief is selfish; I cannot see. Always, why I should so stricken be. More than the rest; But I know that, as well as for them, for me, God did the best. — Helen Hunt Jackson. 135 TIRED MOTHERS A LITTLE tired elbow leans upon your knee,- -*■ •*- Your tired knee that has so much to bear ; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers holding you so tight; You do not prize the blessing overmuch, — You almost are too tired to pray to-night. But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day — We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow To catch the sunshine as it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me That while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good. 136 CHILD AND MOTHER r\ MOTHER-MY-LOVE, if you'll give me ^-^ your hand And go where I ask you to wander, I will lead you away to a beautiful land — The dreamland that's waiting out yonder. We'll walk in the sweetest posie gardens out there, Where moonlight and starlight are streaming. And the flowers and the birds are filling the air With the fragrance and music of dreaming. There'll be no little, tired-out boy to undress, No questions or cares to perplex you; There'll be no little bruises or bumps to caress. Nor patchings of stockings to vex you. For I'll rock you away on the silver-dew stream And sing you asleep when you're weary, And no one shall know of our beautiful dream, But you and your own little dearie. • •••••• So, Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear hand And away through the starlight we'll wander — Away through the mist to that beautiful land — The dreamland that's waiting out yonder. — Eugene Field. 137 THE REFUGE "jl/TY faith grew weak in sorrow's night, -*■-*■ So long delayed the morning light ! The bitterness, the mystery Of pain and loss that came to me, Against my soul hard onslaught made, I trembled — I was sore afraid. And then I saw a sweet, strange thing That filled my soul with wondering: The clouds hung black, the lightning flashed In deadly fire, the thunder crashed — And through it all a little child Lay in its mother's arms and smiled ! Ah, sweet for me the lesson learned, To God's strong refuge then I turned. Securely held from life's alarms I rested in my Father's arms, And in that sure abiding-place I smiled into His loving face. — Faith Wells. 138 A MOTHER'S PRAYER OO many cares to burden all the day, ^^ So many wounds to bind, and hurts to heal, So many steps to guide along the way, So much for hands to do and hearts to feel. Thou knowest. Lord, how weary mothers grow; How at the close of day, we come with lagging feet And ofttimes aching head, to ask Thy help Just to keep sweet. The cup of little things, things that worry so, Comes often to a mother's lips to drink. The griefs and joys that only mothers know Make up her chain of days, forged link by link. Dear Lord, a mother draws her strength from Thee, Her wisdom, too, to guide the childish feet; But always, Lord, our daily need will be Just to keep sweet. — Helen P. Metzger. 139 MY DROWSY LITTLE QUEEN "jl /TY little girl is nested within her tiny bed, J-T A With amber ringlets crested around her dainty head; She lies so calm and stilly, she breathes so soft and low, She calls to mind a lily half hidden in the snow. I kiss your wayward tresses, my drowsy little queen; I know you have caresses from floating forms unseen ; O angels ! let me keep her to kiss away my cares, This darling little sleeper who has my love and prayers. „ , ,^. „ , — oamuel Minturn feck. "IX /TOTHER, what are those little things that ^^ ^ twinkle from the sky?" " The stars, my child." — " I thought, mother, they were the angels' eyes. And always when I shut my eyes, and said my little prayers, I felt so safe, because I knew that they had opened — Kjeorge IV. Doane. 140 SLEEP, LITTLE BABY OF MINE SLEEP, little baby of mine. Night and the darkness are near, Jesus looks down through the shadows that frown. And baby has nothing to fear; Shut little sleepy blue eyes. Dear little head be at rest; Jesus like you, was a baby once too. And slept on His own mother's breast, Lullaby, Lullaby, Sleep, my baby, sleep. Sleep little baby of mine. Soft on your pillow of white; Jesus is here to watch over you, dear, And nothing can harm you to-night; Oh, little darling of mine, What can you know of the bliss. The comfort I keep, awake or asleep, Because I am certain of this. Lullaby, Lullaby Sleep, my baby, sleep. — An on. HI A BABY LOST '' I ''HE baby's skirts and kilts are gone, -*- The dresses laid away, For little Bob has trousers on — He's five }'ears old to-day! And mother smiles — as mothers will — Each smile a fond caress, But something blurs her yearning eyes With misty tenderness! For well she knows the years are fleet — That but a trifling span, And Time, who stole her baby's lisp, Will make her boy a man. And well she knows the rugged path That waits the youthful feet, The tortuous trail 'neath winter's wrath And summer's scorching heat. And though she smiles — as mothers will — When little Bob can see, Her heart cries out "A baby lost! God bring him back to me ! " — Hilton R. Greer. 142 MATER DOLOROSA "DECAUSE of one dear infant head ■*-^ With golden hair, To me all little heads A halo wear. And for one saintly face I knew, 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 mine own with tears Whate'er their hue. 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 or foe; The lowest cannot plead in vain, I loved him so. — C. C. Hahn. 143 A MOTHER UNDERSTANDS TXT'HEN mother sits beside my bed At night, and strokes and smooths my head, And kisses me, I think, some way, How naughty I have been all day; Of how I waded in the brook. And of the cookies that I took, And how I smashed a window light A-rassling — me and Bobby White — And tore my pants, and told a lie; It almost makes me want to cry When mother pats and kisses me; I'm just as sorry as can be, But I don't tell her so — no, sir. She knows it all; you can't fool her. — Anon. "\T7'HEN I bin swimmin* all day long. And had a fight or two An' coming home in the ev'nin' time A feelin' mad and blue. There's just one thing that always seems My angry thoughts to smother; An' I forget them when I see The smilin' face of mother. — Harry T. Fee. 144 MOTHER'S WAY TT7HENEVER I am bad all day ' ' Until I'm really 'shamed to pray, I wait till mother comes to say " Good night, dear child." That's mother's way. And then, somehow, I don't know why, I tell her everything and cry. She hugs me then, and right away I feel less sad. That's mother's way. And mother kneels down by my bed And pulls my face close to her head, And we both snuggle down and pray, That's why I'm glad for mother's way. — Epworth Herald. MY mother she's so good to me, if I was good as I could be, I couldn't be as good, no, sir; can't any boy be good as her. — James JVhitcomb Riley. 145 THE CARES OF THE DAY /^H, mothers, so weary, discouraged ^^ Worn out with the cares of the day, You often grow cross and impatient, Complain of the noise and the play. For the day brings so many vexations, So many things going amiss; But, mothers, whatever may vex you. Send the children to bed with a kiss. — Anon, T WONDER so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the day is wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot. Or cap or jacket on my chamber floor; If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear it patter in my home once more. — May Riley Smith. 146 A MOTHER'S CHARGE T ORD, who ordaineth 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 For that dear infant on her knee. She trains the eye to look to Heaven, A voice to lift 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 that 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. 147 THE MOTHER'S PRIVILEGE ^ I ^HERE may be some mothers who feel it to be "*• a self-denial to leave their parlors, or fireside, or nook, to put their children to bed. They think that the nurse could do just as well ; that it is of no consequence who " hears the children say their prayers." Now, setting aside the pleasure of open- ing the little bed and tucking the darling up, there are really important reasons why mothers should not yield this privilege to any one. In the first place, it is the time of all times when a child is inclined to show its confidence and affec- tion. All its little secrets come out with truth and less restraints; its naughtiness through the day can be reproved and talked over with less excitement, and with tenderness and calmness necessary to make a permanent impression. The last tones at night are of great importance, even to the babies of the flock; the very tones of the voice they last listened to make an impression. — Mother's Magazine. OTORIES first heard at a mother's knee are ^^ never wholly forgotten — a little spring that never quite dries up in our journey through scorch- ing years. — Ruffini. 148 MOTHER'S KNEE WHAT is so wondrous as mother's knee? Where so delightful a spot can be? Beautiful garden, where children play, Romping and laughing the livelong day; There are sung all of our nursery rhymes, And little ones have all the best of times. A wonderful playground is mother's knee. The best place on earth for a child to be. What is so wondrous as mother's knee? When night comes it's the place to be; No longer a playground it is at night, But a drowsy cradle, soft and white, That gently swings, until it seems Like a fairy ship on the sea of dreams; Oh, a mother's knee is the place that's best When a weary baby wants a rest. But age creeps on and we grown-ups see No longer the haven of mother's knee; When weary and faint with our weight of woe, We've no such comforting place to go. When night time comes we must sink to rest, With our troubled brows still uncaressed; And we'd give our all once again to be A child once more at our mother's knee. — Edgar A. Guest. 149 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP '"T^HE 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 ! O for that childish trust sublime! 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. 150 THE GOOD-NIGHT KISS MOTHERS, do not think the time wasted which you spent in reviewing the day with your little boy or girl, do not neglect to teach it how to pray, and pray for it in simple and earnest language, which it can understand. Soothe and quiet its little heart after the experiences of the day. It has had its disappointments and trials as well as its play and pleasures; it is ready to throw its arm around your neck and take its good-night kiss. — Mothe/s Magazine. *" I ^HE sweetest sound heard through our earthly "*• home. The brightest ray that gleams from heaven's dome. The loveliest flower that e'er from earth's breast rose, The purest flame that, quivering, gleams and glows, Are found alone, where kneels a mother mild, With heart uplifted, praying for her child. — M. H. H. 151 SHADOWS A LL day they frisk about the tree, quick darting •*■ ^ as if shy, And stay right close till ev'ning drives the sunset from the sky; But when the last ray's gone below the hills 'way in the west The little shadows spread about and lull the world to rest. And even in the sitting-room, and all 'round Mother's chair. Those frisky shadows dance and dart — they're in the very air. But one place where they never come is in my mother's eyes. I've looked and looked, but never can I see one shadow rise; They always shine a steady glow — it must be different light My mother's eyes show all the time from that which leaves at night. And while I like the soft dark when I'm safe and snug in bed. It's good to know of one place where there's always light instead. — Alverdb Van Tuyll. MOTHER'S EYES THERE'S something in my mother's eyes when bedtime comes at night That makes me want to look at her and do the thing that's right. At bedtime, mother's eyes are strange, they are so soft and true; Her words are very gentle and her hands are gentle, too. I ask her questions when I'm there beside her on the floor That I don't like to ask till then, or never thought before. Of course her eyes can't talk, I know, but, when I look, I see There's something in them every time that must be just for me. I do not tell her what I see, or of the pain it brings, It is a sort o' pain that makes me want to do good things. — John Martin. 153 MY FLOWER \ LL day long I had worked and worried, ■^ ^ Too sad for solace, too tired for thought. Under life's crushing burdens buried I had spent my strength and my brain for naught. • •••••• Close to my side in the lengthening shadows Crept my beautiful five-year-old, Flushed with play in the flowering meadows, Head like a nodding marigold. Voice of the wood-thrush in the clover: " Does big folks get tired and sleepy too? Look at ze rose I bringed you, muwer. Pretty and sweet. It dus' like you." Quick to my desolate heart I strained him. He had known no shadow his whole life long. He should know none now. The soul that trained him Should wring from sorrow his evensong. He had given me love and a rose. O Father, Though my dream had faded, my eyes were dim, I would not fail him. Lord help me rather To give the rose of my life to him. — Eleanor Duncan Wood. 154 LITTLE :vIAN LITTLE MAN! Little Man! come to me now! Come, let me hold you tight! I will fold you away in the nest of my heart, Far from all harm to-night — Deep in my heart is a garden Of lilies of love, and they glow In the light, blooming into an Eden That only a mother can know. Little Man! Little Man! close your dear eyes; I'll sing you off to sleep, While mystical elfins of babyhood dreams Hover about you, and creep Ever so lightly to lead you Into the realm where love Dimples your pathway with kisses As pure as the dew from above. Little Man! Little Man! now you are safe, Forever safe on my breast. Your heart in my heart is embedded, And night croons a song of rest. Rest while the beautiful lilies Of love guard your slumber and glow In the light of an earthly Eden That only a mother can know. — Anon. 155 CHILDHOOD T3EFORE life's sweetest mystery still the heart ■^'^ in reverence kneels; The wonder of the primal birth the latest mother feels. We need love's tender lessons taught as only weak- ness can ; God has his small interpreters ; the child must teach the man. And happy, pleading long with Him for sin-sick hearts and cold, The angels of our childhood still the Father's face behold. Of such the kingdom! Teach thus us, O Master most divine, To feel the deep significance of these wise words of thine ! The haughty feet of power shall fail where meekness surely goes ; No cunning find the key of heaven, no strength its gates unclose. Alone to guilelessness and love those gates shall open fall; The mind of pride is nothingness, the childlike heart is all. — John Greenleaf Whittier. IN CHILDHOOD'S HOURS 'T^HERE was a place in childhood that I remem- -'■ her well, And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell. — Samuel Lover. THE years pass like summer clouds, and the children of yesterday are the wives and mothers of to-day. Even I do sometimes discover the mild eyes of my Prue fixed pensively upon my face, as if searching for the bloom which she remem- bers there in the days, long ago, when we were young. She will never see it there again, any more than the flowers she held in her hand, in our old spring rambles. Yet the tear that slowly gathers as she gazes is not grief that the bloom has faded from my cheek, but the sweet consciousness that it will never fade from my heart; and as her eyes fall upon her work again, or the children climb her lap to hear the old fairy-tales they already know by heart, my wife Prue is dearer to me than the sweetheart of those days long ago. — George W. Curtis. 157 A LITTLE LAD'S ANSWER /^UR little lad came in one day ^^ With dusty shoes and tired feet ; His playtime had been hard and long, Out in the summer's noontide heat. " I'm glad I'm home," he cried, and hung His torn straw hat up in the hall. While in the corner by the door He put away his bat and ball. " I wonder why," his auntie said, " This little lad comes always here, When there are many other homes As nice as this and quite as near ? " He stood a moment deep in thought. Then, with a love light in his eye. He pointed where his mother sat. And said : " She lives here, that is why." With beaming face the mother heard; Her mother-heart was very glad. A true, sweet answer he had given. That thoughtful, loving little lad. And well I know that hosts of lads Are just as loving, true, and dear; That they would answer as he did: " 'Tis home, for mother's living here." — Christian Advocate. 158 DREAMS A MOTHER sat in the twilight dim, ■*- •*- Holding her boy while she talked to him. " Now, tell me, what are you going to be When grown to a man, dear heart," said she. " A soldier ! " eager replied the child. But the mother tenderlj^, sadly smiled. "And fight — and be killed, perhaps? No, no! My laddy! I could not let you go! " "A sailor, speeding the ocean o'er! " But the mother cuddled him close once more. "And maybe never come back? Fie, fie!" She whispered in tones part laugh, part sigh. A puzzled look on the boy's fair face Showed of his wavering thoughts a trace. At length, in a voice all satisfied : "Why — then I'll marrj^!" he stoutly cried. The mother jealously smoothed his head. " And what will become of mef " she said. The lips of the boy sought hers anew — "But, darhng mother, I'll marry you!" — E. L. Sabin. 159 HIS FIRST NIGHT AWAY ' I ^HE neighbor lad had teased, and so had he, -■■ Till Mother sighed : " Well, if it has to be ! " And Father said: " Sure! Let him run along; It's so near by there's nothing can go wrong." So Mother rolled his gown into a lump Smaller than one her throat held ; put his comb In with it; and he left, with joy a-jump — First time he stayed all night away from home! He choked a little when he said good-night To stranger-parents ; and he saw a light Shining in his own house, two worlds away In the next block; then dreamed till dawning day That he was homeless. At their breakfast-time He could not eat, but made his homesick flight Without adieux — to him no social crime — When first he stayed away from home all night. And mother met him with her arms outspread, And in her loving bosom hid his head A long, long time while neither of them stirred Nor anybody said a single word. In her a pang old as maternity Forewarned her of long partings that must come ; For him had ended all eternity — First time he'd stayed all night away from home! — Strickland W. Gillilan. 1 60 MOTHER'S BOY TN the days of childish troubles, when our little "*• world was darkened With the clouds that mean such gloomy times when on young hearts they rest, There was one unfailing refuge, one sure fount of consolation, And all our troubles faded, sobbed out on our mother's breast. Oh, that refuge of our childhood! Oh, that love which never faltered ! To whose sympathies so tender not a sorrow was too small For the kindest understanding, for the fondest of consoling, Till the clouds began to roll away, and love to lighten all. When a man keeps fresh within him that touch of a child's dependence, All his nature feels the power of its softening alloy ; And more human to his fellows, more responsive to all feeling. Is the man who deep down in his heart is still "a mother's boy." — Baltimore American. l6i v MOTHERS AND SONS "|\/rOST boys go through a period when they have ■^ -*• need of great patience at home. They are strangely wilful and perverse and very sensitive to the least word of censure or effort at restraint. Authority frets them. They are leaving childhood, but they have not reached the sober good sense of manhood. Now is the mother's hour. Her boy needs her now more than when he lay in his cradle. Her fine insight and serene faith may hold him fast and prevent his drifting into dangerous courses. There is very much a mother can do for "her son, and that a son can receive only from his mother in this critical period of life. — Christian Intelligencer. TT is a good thing for a boy to be proud of his mother; to feel complacent when he introduces her to his comrades, knowing that they cannot help seeing what a pretty woman she is, so graceful, win- some, and attractive! There is always hope for a boy when he admires his mother, and mothers should care to be admirable in the eyes of their sons. — M. H. H. 162 THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE '' I ''HERE is an enduring tenderness in the love of ■■■ a mother to a son, that transcends all the affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity; and if adversity over- take him, he will be dearer by misfortune; and if disgrace settles upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world beside cast him ofi, she will be all the world to him. — Washington Irving. ^ I '*0 a man there Is no better support nor comfort "*■ than his mother, whose love is more nearly divine than any other human love which he can ever experience, because it is the most unselfish of all loves, and the love which is sure to remain his from the cradle to the grave. — Francis Evans. 163 THE CHILD'S SCHOOLROOM ^ I ""HE mother's heart is the child's schoolroom. -■■ When God thought of Mother, He must have laughed with satisfaction and framed it quickly, — so rich, so deep, so divine, so full of soul, power and beauty was the conception. — Henry Ward Beecher. A^OD made mothers before He made ministers; ^^ the progress of Christ's kingdom depends more upon the influence of faithful, wise and pious mothers than upon any other human agency. My mother's discipline was loving but thorough. She never bribed me to good conduct with sugar plums ; she praised every commendable deed heartily, for she held that an ounce of honest praise is often worth more than many pounds of punishments. — Theodore Cuyler. O'ER wayward children would'st thou hold firm rule And sun thee in the light of happy faces? Love, Hope and Patience, — these must be thy graces, And in thine own heart let them first keep school. — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 164 THE MOTHER AS TEACHER FOR she is and must be, whether she knows it or not, the greatest, strongest, and most lasting teacher her children ever have. Other influences come and go, but hers is continual ; and by the opin- ion men have of women we can generally judge of the sort of mother they had. — Hannah JVhitall Smith. OF all the influences which can be exercised in the training of children, the force of a good example is most potent. A child's imitative faculty is extraordinary, and he copies instinctively, even during babyhood, the habits, the ways, the very intonations of his parents. Its standard of right and duty is their standard. It thinks and believes as they think and believe, and if parents build a faulty foundation for their child's character, the help and instruction of after years cannot altogether repair the injury. — Eleanor A. Hunter. 165 THE WISE MOTHER 'TT^HE wise mother, training her daughter not for •*■ the moment but for all time, will realize that there are no small things where a child is concerned ; that some things, apparently the most trivial, will have far-reaching results, and thus with a critical eye she will scan all influences that surround the infant and eliminate all that seem in the least cal- culated to interfere with her most harmonious de- velopments. — Mary Wood Allen. OTRENGTH and dignity are her clothing; ^^ And she laugheth at the time to come. She openeth her mouth to wisdom ; And the law of kindness is on her tongue. She looketh well to the ways of her household, And eateth not the bread of idleness; Her children rise up and call her blessed, Her husband, also, and he praiseth her, saying, Many daughters have done virtuously, But thou excelleth them all. — Prov. 3i;25-2g. 1 66 CHARACTER-BUILDING 'TP^HE most important thing for the mothers to -*■ consider to-day is the building of character, not alone for themselves, but also for the precious little ones who are the sunlight of their homes. In character-building there must be considered the physical, the mental and the spiritual; in other words, body, mind and soul. In human life these must vibrate harmoniously in order to make the well-developed, the self-poised man or woman, able to bear calmly whatever of pleasure or pain falls to their lot. And she is a wise mother who begins this work with her children in their earliest years. It is because woman is the mother of the race that upon her rests the burden of responsibility for the development of this side of the character. The mother of the race! Oh, the glory of it! For do you not see how it links her with the great creative spirit that broods over the universe? Do you not see how in the mother-heart lies nestling the love which is the law of life? This it is which makes it so necessary for woman to hold herself to the highest ideals. — Emily S. Boulton. 167 ONLY ME A LITTLE figure glided through the hall. " Is that j^ou, Pet? " the words came tenderly. A sob, suppressed to let the answer fall, — " It isn't Pet, mamma, it's only me." The quivering baby lips! They had not meant To utter any word could plant a sting, But to that mother-heart a strange pang went, She heard, and stood like a convicted thing. One instant, and a happy little face Thrilled 'neath unwonted kisses rained above; And from that moment " Only me " had place And part with Pet in tender mother-love. — Caroline A. Mason. A ND if God wills that even baby feet ■^ ^ Shall feel the sharpness of life's toilsome way, Be sure that recompense most full and sweet Is waiting for these little ones some day. — May Riley Smith. 1 68 THE TOYS 1% TY little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes, ■^'^-*- And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him and dismissed With hard words and unkissed, — His mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep. With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing, wet. And I with moan. Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach. And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with Careful art. To comfort his sad heart. — Coventry Patmore. 169 "MOTHER! I LOVE YOU" OOMETIMES there will come to our notice in ^^ the busiest moments of the daj'^ some sincere sentiment which will stir the tenderest chords of our being. A pleasant-faced woman boarded a trol- ley car with her two small sons during the busy noon hour of the holiday season. The smaller boy sat with his mother upon one side of the car, while the older, who was about four years old, took a seat opposite. It interested him to look out of the win- dow, but frequently he glanced across at his mother. At length he called softly: "Mother!" No an- swer. Again he spoke: "Mother!" This time it was said a bit louder, and the mother looked over and smiled. The boy's eyes lighted, and he whis- pered: "Mother! I love you." The mother turned a glorified face upon her small son, and men and women in the car looked tenderly from one to the other. The trolley car had suddenly become a place of blessing because a little boy had voiced this ever-beautiful sentiment: "Mother! I love you." — Zions Herald. 170 " NO, I'LL NOT FORGET " /^NE day the mother was holding her little lad ^^ upon her lap, as she often did. But on this occasion she gazed so searchingly into his eyes that the little fellow waxed uneasy under the glance. Answering his childish questions, she told him that she was looking for his heart. " Look in your mother's eyes, lad," said she, " and say after me this: " ' My mother — looked upon my heart — and found it brave — and sweet — willing for the day's work — and harboring no shameful hope.' " She had him repeat it again and again, until he knew every word by heart. Then, at last, the mother said: "Ah, but you'll forget!" Swiftly the lad answered, " No, no! I'll not forget." Years passed, and as the child, now a man, spoke of that distant hour of childhood, he said: " But I have not forgotten — I have not forgotten — I have never forgotten — that when I was a child my mother looked upon my heart and found it brave and sweet, willing for the day's work and harboring no shameful hope." — Norman Duncan. 171 THE LOVE OF A TRUE MOTHER TT^OR unwearying patience and unchanging ten- ■*- derness, the love of a true mother stands next to the love of our Father in Heaven. — Anon. TN 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. — L. M. Montgomery. A ND though the miles divide us, we'll still walk ■*' ^ hand in hand. For mother heart or child heart will all things understand. No matter where I journey, or what my life shall fill, My heart shall yet be loyal — thou art my mother still. — Edwin Osgood Graver. 172 THE JOYS OF MOTHERHOOD ^ I ^HE bliss the mother casts aside when she does -■■ not respond to her baby's appeal for love and guidance is untold. Said an overburdened and overworked mother not long ago: " It is not the constant occupation or the severity of my tasks which I deplore, but the fact that I am missing something that can never come again — all my child's beautiful babyhood. Think of that, mothers, who get away as fast and as far as possible from the care and ministry of your chil- dren. Do 5'ou realize what you miss of the charm of your baby's presence, the waking of new intelli- gence in his eyes, the caressing of dimpled fingers, the comfort of the warm little head against your neck, the first cooing laugh, the first effort to speak, the blessed movements over his cradle, and the holy time when he sinks away to sleep in your arms ? Whatever in the life of a woman deprives her of the qualities that make good motherhood deprives the child of its best heritage — wise guidance and tender care — and deprives the nation of its strong- est molding influence and its greatest power for good. — Tiion's Herald. 173 ASLEEP AMONG HIS TOYS T FOUND my babe asleep among his toys. ^ A quarter-hour I'd missed his jocund noise And wondered what so quieted the lad, Saying: " He's never still unless he's bad," But when I tiptoed in — Love's stealthy spy — A touching picture met my doting eye: One hand lay on the engine of his train, The other grasped a tiny aeroplane. Some time the great, kind Father of us all, Noting we make no answer to His call, Will find us 'mid our playthings, fast asleep, Our toys about us in a tumbled heap. Each weary hand upon a trinket laid — Some phantom hope born in the marts of trade. Then, in His arms, the cares our hearts possessed Will yield their place to sweet and dreamless rest. — Strickland Gillilan. 174 MUWER DEAR T AS' year they wasn't any ChnVmus to our house -'-^ For anybody, though they tried an' tried To make it seem like Chris'mus, 'ceptin' me; I was so lonesome I jest cried an' cried. My fawer is the goodest man that is, But still he couldn't take Her place — not near. They was a tree an' presinks — everything 'Cept Muvver dear. She wasn't here las' year! Long time afore, I writed out my list Of what I wanted, an' 'twas lots of fun, But Muwer dear, she didn't 'joy it much; She had a orful headache when 'twas done. Next day the doctor come an' talked an' talked, An' made her smoke a 'mometer, an' nen He took her 'way away in his machine To where folks live till they get well again. But on Thanksgivin' Fawer smiled an' smiled, An' pinch my ear an' say, " Good news, my lad; In one month more we'll have her back again All well an' happy. My ! won't we be glad ! " They ain't a thing I want this Chris-mustime Esceptin' Muvver dear — an' she'll be here! — Everard Jack Appleton. 175 THE MOTHER'S PRAYER T^EAR 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 music inter- fused In breasts of angels high and good. Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away — Oh, take not to thy songful heaven, The pretty baby 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. /^H, the love of a mother, love which none can ^^ forget. — Victor Hugo. 176 MOTHER-LOVE T WILL shut these broken toj's away •*• Under the lid where they mutely bide ; I will smile in the face of noisy day, Just as if baby had never died. I will take up my work once more, As if I had never laid it down; Who will dream that I ever wore Motherhood's regal, holy crown? Man's way is hard and sore beset ; Many may fall, but few can win. Thanks, dear Shepherd ! my lamb is safe, — Safe from sorrow, and safe from sin. Nevertheless, the way is long. And tears leap in the light of the sun ; I'd give my world for a cradle-song. And a kiss from baby — only one. — Mary Clemmer. 177 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY T KNOW a pretty Lady and I like to see her go ■*■ Into the garden where the vines and trees and flowers grow, She walks along the gravel path as if she were a queen, She is the very nicest one that you have ever seen. I like to see her pick a rose just with her finger tips, For then her eyes have smiles in them exactly like her lips; The Lady says, I am her knight: that she's my Lady Fair. She says: "Go forth, Sir Noble Knight, and bravely do and dare." These are the words I've often heard my lovely Lady say. And I remember, as I try to mind in every way. Come over to my house and play, and she'll be nice to you; For she's my Mother all the time, and Lovely Lady, too. — John Martin. 178 PHILIP, MY KING! T OOK at me with thy brown eyes, ^-^ Philip, my king! For round thee the purple shadows lie Of babyhood's royal dignities; Lay on thy neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible scepter laden; I am thine, Esther, to command Till thou shalt find thy queen handmaiden, Philip, my king! Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king! When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter love-crowned, and there Sitteth, love glorified ! — Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair; For we that love, oh ! we love so blindly, Philip, my king! — Dinah Muloch Craik. 179 ONLY A LITTLE GRAVE 6 4TT'S only a little grave," they said, -■- " Only a child that's dead ; " And so they carefully turned away From the mound the spade had made that day. Ah ! They did not know how deep a shade That little grave in our home had made. 'Tis a little grave; but oh, have care! For world-wide hopes are buried there; And ye, perhaps in coming years. May see, like her, through blinding tears, How much of light, how much of joy, Is buried with an only boy. — Anon. WHEN babes that in their cradles sleep, Or cling to you in perfect trust, Think of the mothers left to weep Their infants lying in the dust. And when the step you wait for comes. And all your world is full of light, O woman safe in happy homes. Pray for all lonesome souls to-night. — Anon. 1 80 A MOTHER'S HEART A LITTLE dreaming, such as mothers know ; A little lingering over dainty things; A happy heart, wherein hope all aglow Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings, And that is all. A little clasping to her yearning breast; A little musing over future years; A heart that prays: " Dear Lord, Thou knowest best — But spare my flower life's bitterest rain of tears — And that is all. A little spirit speeding through the night; A little home grown lonely, dark and chill; A sad heart groping for the light; A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill — And that is all. A little gathering of life's broken thread ; A little patience keeping back the tears; A song that sings, " Thy darling is not dead, God keep her safe through His eternal years " — And that is all. — Macmillan's Magazine. i8i MY LITTLE LAD WHO DIED T HEARD their prayers and kissed their sleepy -*■ eyes, And tucked them in all warm from feet to head, To wake again with morning's glad sunrise, — Then came where he lay dead. Those other children to men have grown, — Strange, hurried men, who give me passing thought. They go their ways. No longer now my own. Without me they have wrought. So when night comes, and seeking mother's hour, Tired childish feet turn home at eventide, I fold him close, — the child that's left to me, My little lad who died. — Anon. OO, one by one, the children have gone, ^ The boys were five and the girls were three; And the big brown house is gloomy and lone, With but two old folks for its company. They talk to each other about the past, As they sit together in eventide, And say, " All the children we keep at last Are the boys and girls who in childhood died." — Anon. 182 SILENT AND LONE SILENT and lone, silent and lone! WTiere, tell me where are the little ones gone? There are no little faces to wash to-night, No little troubles for mother to right, No little blue eyes to be sung to sleep No little plaj'things to be put up to keep. . . . 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 little ones here, To startle a smile or to 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 ; 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 Back to your mother's arms, back to the home? — Frances D. Gage. 183 THE QUEEN OF THE HOME A LONE she moves, the queen of her own quiet •^^ home. — Mark Trafton. ' I ^HE Mother with her needle and her shears gars -*■ auld claes look amaist as weel's the new. — Robert Burns \T70MEN know " ^ The way to rear up children (to be just) They have a merry, simple, tender knack Of tying sashes, fitting babies' shoes, And stringing pretty words that make no sense And kissing full sense into empty words. Which things are corals to cut life upon Although such trifles. — Elizabeth Barret Browning. T>LAYING with the little people "■■ Sweet old games forever new, Coaxing, cuddling, cooing, kissing, Baby's every grief dismissing. Laughing, sighing, soothing, singing While the happy days are winging, This is what the mothers do. — Mary L. C. Robinson. 184 HOME IS HER KINGDOM HOME is her kingdom, love is her dower; She seeks no other wand of power To make home sweet, bring heaven near, To win a smile and wipe a tear And do her duty day by day In her own quiet place and way. Around her childish hearts are twined, As with some reverend saint enshrined, And following hers the childish feet Are led to ideals true and sweet And find all purity and good In her divinest motherhood. She keeps her faith unshadowed still; God rules the world in good and ill; Men in her creed are brave and true And women pure as pearls of dew, And life for her is high and grand By work and glad endeavor spanned. — L. M. Montgomery. 185 THE HOME DREAM TF you wanted to gather up all tender memories, -■• all lights and shadows of the heart, all banquet- ings and reunions, all filial, fraternal, paternal, con- jugal affections, and had only just four letters with which to spell out the height and depth and length and breadth and magnitude and eternity of mean- ing, you would write it all out with these four capital letters: HOME. — T. DeWitt Talmage. /^F all dreams, the home dream, the dream of ^^ the little old place. The path where the willows are bending and there's many a happy face. With the ringing of sunny laughter and the music of hearts that sing In the golden porches of beauty as home to the dream they wing. — Anon. T TOME is the resort "*■■*■ Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where Supporting and supported, polish'd friends, And dear relations mingle into bliss. — James Thomson. i86 MOTHER AND HOME THERE is one vision that never fades from the soul, and that is the vision of mother and the home. No man in all his many wanderings ever goes out beyond the overshadowing arch of home. Let him stand on the surf-beaten coast of the At- lantic, or roam our western wilds, and every dash of the wave and murmur of the breeze will whisper, home, sweet home. Set him dovvn among the gla- ciers of the North, and even there thoughts of home, too warmed to be chilled by the eternal frosts, will float upon him. Let him rove through the green, waving groves, and over the sunny slopes of the South, and in the smile of the soft skies, and in the kiss of the balmy breeze, home will live again. — H. H. Birkins. "IT /"HERE we love is home. ^ ^ Home where our feet may leave but not our hearts. Though o'er us shine the jasper-lighted dome; — The chain may lengthen but it never parts. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. 187 HOME DEFINED TTOME'S not merely four square walls, -■■ Though with pictures hung and gilded Home is where affection calls, Filled with shrines the heart hath builded ! Home! go watch the faithful dove, Sailing 'neath the heaven above us; Home is where there's one to love! Home is where there's one to love us. Home's not merely roof and room, It needs something to endear it, Home is where the heart can bloom. Where there's some kind lip to cheer it! What is home with none to meet. None to welcome, none to greet us? Home is sweet, and only sweet — When there's one we love to meet us. — Charles Swain. i88 MOTHER! H0:ME! TV/rOTHER! Home! that blest refrain ^"-*- Sounds through every hastening year; All things go but these remain Held in memorj'^'s jewelled chain, Names most precious, names thrice dear; Mother! Home! that blest refrain. 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. 189 HOME ** I '^HERE is a spot of earth supremely blest, -■■ A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, Whilst in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend. Here woman reigns: the mother, daughter, wife — Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life. In the clear heaven of her delightful eye An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; Around her knees, domestic duties meet And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. — James Montgomery A ND home will sweeten in the coming days, When widening love shall warm these human ways; When every mother, pressing to her face. Her child, shall clasp all children of the race. Then will the rafter and the oaken beam Be laid with music and the poet's dream — Then Earth, as far as flies the feathered foam, Shall have in it the friendly feel of home. — Edwin Markham. 190 THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME ' "]\ yTTD pleasures and palaces though we may ■^ -*■ roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ; A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, Home! sweet, sweet Home! There's no place like Home ! There's no place like Home! Hew sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile ! Let others delight 'mid pleasures to roam. But give me, oh, give me, the pleasure of home! Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! There's no place like Home ! There's no place like Home! To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; No more from that cottage again will I roam; Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home! There's no place like Home ! There's no place like Home! — John Howard Payne. 191 THE JOY OF HOME A HEALTHY home, presided over by a thrifty, ■*■ ^ cleanly woman, is the abode of comfort, of virtue, and of happiness. It is the scene of every ennobling relation in family life. It is endeared to a man by many delightful memories, by the affec- tionate voices of his wife, his children, and his neighbors. Such a home is regarded not as a mere nest of common instinct, but as a training ground for young immortals, a sanctuary for the heart, a refuge from storm, a sweet resting place after* labor, a consolation in sorrow, a pride in success, and a joy at all times. — Samuel Smiles. O HAPPY home! O bright and cheerful hearth! Look round with me, my lover, friend and wife, On these fair faces we have lit with life. And in the perfect blessing of their birth. Help me to live our thanks for so much heaven on earth. — Martin F. Tupper. 192 A HAVEN OF REFUGE A REAL HOME is a haven of refuge. The •^ ^ world does this for us all ; it makes us hunger for a loving sympathy and a calming, soothing touch. The true mother gives this freely, gladly, never counting the cost. We take the charity for granted, seldom thinking of the other side. Who is there to comfort the mother in her time of need? All women crave a soul fortress, builded and guarded by a lover of superhuman strength. But the spirit- ual giant is rare among men. And the infinite pathos of earth dwells in the eyes of the woman who longs to creep like a tired child into the arms of her lover — but cannot, for he would not under- stand. — Edward Earle Purington. IS there aught so lovely, so attractive, so invalu- able as a real home, where every life considers every other life, and the whole household economy is as a concerted piece of music? In this direction all men, women and children should move. Home should be the sweetest, happiest place on earth. — Parker. 193 HOME MEMORIES T REMEMBER, I remember, the house where I "*■ was born, The little window where the sun came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, where I was used to swing. And thought the air must rush as fresh to swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, that is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool the fever on my brow ! I remember, I remember, the fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, but now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven than when I was a boy. — Thomas Hood. 194 w WELCOME HOxVIE E stretch our hands, we lift a jojful cr>', Words of all words the sweetest — " Wel- come home ! " — Anne Rothwell Christie. ' I '*HERE is no place like the old place where you "^ and I were born ! Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendor of the morn, From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore. Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more! — Oliver Wendell Holmes. ^ I '"HIS fond attachment to the well-known place -■■ Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. — William Cowper. A BSENT many a year — •^ ^ Far o'er the sea, his sweetest dreams were still Of that dear voice that soothed his infancy. — Robert Southey. 195 THE HOMESTEAD HEARTH OIT with me at the homestead hearth, ^ And stretch the hands of memory forth To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze. — John Greenleaf IVhittier. T3 Y the gathering round the winter hearth, ■*^ When twilight called unto household mirth; By the fairy tale or the legend old In that ring of happy faces told; By the quiet hour when hearts unite In the parting prayer and the kind good-night; By the smiling eye and the loving tone, Over thy life has a spell been thrown. — Felicia Dorothea Hemans. /^UR homestead had an ample hearth, ^-^ Where at night we loved to meet; There my mother's voice was always kind And her smile was always sweet ; . . . But that broad hearth's light, oh that broad hearth's light! And my father's look, and my mother's smile, They are in my heart to-night! — Phoebe Gary. 196 THE EVENING HEARTHSTONE A^LADLY now we gather around it, for the ^^ toiling day is done, And the gay and solemn twilight follows down the golden sun, Shadows lengthen on the pavement, stalk like giants through the gloom Wander past the dusky casement, creep around the fire-lit room. Grates are glowing, music flowing from the lips we love the best; Oh, the joy, the bliss of knowing there are hearts whereon to rest! Hearts that throb with eager gladness — hearts that echo to our own — While grim care and haunting sadness mingle ne'er in look or tone. Care may tread the hall of daylight, sadness haunt the midnight hour. But the weird and witching twilight brings the glowing hearthstone's dower. Altar of our holiest feelings! Childhood's well- remembered shrine! Spirit yearnings — soul revealings — wreaths im- mortal 'round thee twine! — Anon. 197 THE QUIETUDE OF HOME '"jT^HANK God! O woman! for the quietude of -*■ your home, and that you are queen in it. Men come at eventide to the home, but all day long you are there, beautifying it, sanctifying it, adorning it, blessing it. Better be there than wear Victoria's coronet. Better be there than carry the purse of a princess. It may be a very humble home. There may be no carpet on the floor. There may be no silks in the wardrobe; but by your faith in God, and your cheerful demeanor, you may garni- ture that place with more splendor than the up- holsterer's hand ever kindled. — T. DeWitt Talmage. 'TT^HERE the good angel of the house, the mother -*■ and the wife, With gentle care and thoughtful love, is minister- ing unto life. — Martin F. T upper. I VALUE this delicious home feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent can bestow. — Washington Irving. iq8 THE SMILE OF HOME QWEET is the smile of home; the mutual look, ^ Where hearts are of each other sure ; Sweet are the joys that crowd the household nook, The haunts of all affections pure. — John Keble. T TOME of our childhood ! How affection clings -*- -■■ And hovers round thee with her seraph wings! Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown, Than fairest summits which the cedars crown; Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze Than all Arabia breathes along the seas! The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's sigh. For the heart's temple is its own blue sky. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. BY the fireside still the light is shining, The children's arms round the parents twining. From Love so sweet, O, who would roam. Be it ever so homely, home is home. — Dinah Mulock Craik. 199 THE TRUE CHRISTIAN HOME Tn\OWN in Kentucky there lived years ago a -*-^ sweet-tempered, beautiful woman, with all the virtue of a good mother. She did not know much about books, but she knew the Bible, and, with her little boy upon her knees, she told him wonderful stories. She knew little of science and art, but she knew nature, and she talked to her little son about the glories of God in the world. She had no knowledge of philosophy, but she told her boy that the meanest thing in the world was to be a liar or a hypocrite, and the greatest thing was to be a good man. When he was nine years of age she died, but that boy was Abraham Lincoln, and he says that all he was he owed to his mother. If our homes are to be as God would have them, the mother must be true. The atmosphere must be quiet and peaceful. To cross the threshold of such a home would mean to enter into blessing. Mothers have always influenced for good or evil in a mightier way than any other person, — J. Wilbur Chapman. G OD could not be everywhere; therefore He -* made Mothers. — Hebrew Proverb. 200 THE HOME RULES THE NATION Tj^OR one I care little for the government which ■*■ presides at Washington, in comparison with the government which rules the millions of Ameri- can homes. No administration can seriously harm us if our home-life is pure, frugal, and godly. No statesmanship or legislation can save us, if once our homes become the abode of ignorance or the nestling- place of profligacy. The home rules the nation. If the home is demoralized it will ruin it. The real seed-corn whence our republic sprang was the Christian households, the "Mayflower"; or which set up the family altar of the Hollander and the Huguenot. All our best characters, best legisla- tion, best institutions, and best church-life were cradled in those early homes. They were the tap- root of the republic, and of the American churches. — Theodore L. Cuyle?; "VTAPOLEON cherished a high conception of a ■*- ^ mother's power, and believed that the mothers of the land could shape the destiny of his beloved France. Hence, he said in his sententious, laconic style: "The great need of France is mothers." — H. H. Birkins. 201 THE OLD HOME A WEATHER-BEATEN house, an unkept yard, With needs for flowers, and no gate to guard. The path whose every inch to thought is sweet, Because once pressed and oft by her dear feet; An empty crumbling house with but a door, Yet on its hinges but tells me o'er and o'er How oft her patient hand its knob hath turned — How vast a debt from me that hand hath earned. I listen for her foot-step in the hall ; Once more I wait her voice my name to call; A moment more, it seems, her face must bring To give me as of old my welcoming! • •••••• The tears fall thick and fast, I scarce can see. What kindly memory would do for me — Ah! Through the mist there smiles a hallowed face, Illumined by all that makes a mother's grace. Go with me, picture, through the changing years! Bright be thou kept by ever-falling tears! I kiss thee, press thee to my heart, and pray Thy guardianship through life's forbidding fray. — Fred Clare Baldwin. 202 HOME IS HOME WE may rove the wide world o'er, But we ne'er shall find a trace Of the home we loved of yore, Of the old familiar place; Other scenes may be as bright, But we miss, 'neath alien skies, Both the welcome and the light Of the old, kind, loving eyes. Home is home, of this bereft, Memory loves again to trace All the forms of those we left In the old familiar place. We may sail o'er every sea, But we still shall fail to find Any spot so dear to be As the one we left behind ; Words of comfort we may hear But they cannot touch the heart, Like the tones, to memory dear, Of the friends from whom we part. Home is home, the wanderer longs All the scenes of youth to trace. And to hear the old home songs In the dear familiar place. — Charles IV. Glover. 203 OH, TO BE HOME AGAIN! "TTOME, to the gray house the pine trees ■*- -*■ guard sighing ; Home, to the low door that laughs to my touch. How should I know till my wings failed me, flying, Home-nest — my heart's nest — I loved you so much?" — Fannie Stearns Davis. /^H, to be home again, home again, home again! ^^ Under the apple boughs down by the mill ; Mother is calling me, father is calling me, Calling me, calling me, calling me still. Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering. Through the green meadows and over the hill; Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me, Calling me, calling me, calling me still. Oh, once more to be home again, home again. Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill — Do you not hear how the voices are calling me, Calling me, calling me, calling me still! — James Thomas Fields. 204 HOME SONGS OH, sing once more those joy-provoking strains, Which, half forgotten, in my memory dwell! They send the life-blood bounding through my veins And circle round me like an airy spell. The songs of home are to the human heart Far dearer than the notes the song-birds pour And of our inner nature seem a part; Then sing those dear, familiar lays once more — Those cheerful lays of other days — Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more! — Anon. 4 4y^^O, sing the songs you cherish well, ^-J Each ode and simple lay; Go, chord the notes till bosoms swell. With strains that deftly play. All, all are yours to sacred keep. Your choicest treasures 'mong; But give to me till memory sleeps, The songs that mother sung." — Epworth Herald. 205 THE INFLUENCE OF HOME TF ever I make anything of myself in this world or •*■ another, I shall owe it to the blessed influences of home. It was my mother who brought out the best that was in me. — Daniel Coit Gilman. 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. TTXID ever a soul in its immediate distress or deso- ■'^■^ lation find the form of petition learnt in child- hood lifeless on the lips of age? — John Ruskin. 206 AT EVEN-TIDE THE mother-heart doth yearn at even-tide, And, wheresoe'er the straying ones may roam, When even cometh on they all fare home. 'Neath feathered sheltering the brood doth hide, In eager flight the birds wing to their nest. While happy lambs and children miss the sun, And to the folds do hustle one by one, As night doth gather slowly in the west. All ye who hurry through life's busy day, Hark to the greeting that the Ages tell: " The sun doth rise and set, hail and farewell," But comfort ye your heart where'er you stray. For those who through this little day do roam. When even cometh on, all shall fare home. — Lucy Evangeline Ttlley. H A OMES are for mothers as nests are for birds. — Arthur B. Laughlin. MOTHER'S arms are made of tenderness and children sleep soundly in them. — Victor Hugo. 207 A MOTHER'S GOOD-BY A WAVE of the hand from the cottage door -*• ^ As her boy turned the roadway's bend ; A wave of the hand as in days of yore — A wave of the hand, but 'twas vastly more! A mother's heart, and a mother's prayer That will follow his footsteps everywhere, Is the token her boy will read for aye In the wave of the hand she gave to-day From the old hillside cottage door. — John R. Clements. ^ I ''HE 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 song of anguish gives: " God bless thee, boy ! — good-by ! " — Eliza Cook. 208 GOOD-BY — GOD BLESS YOU! T LOVE the words — perhaps because *■• When I was leaving mother, Standing at last in solemn pause, We looked at one another, And I — I saw in mother's eyes The love she could not tell me, A love eternal as the skies. Whatever fate befell me. She put her arms about my neck And soothed the pain of leaving, And though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear that might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by. And asked our God to bless me. — Eugene Field. 209 TWO PICTURES A N old farm-house, with meadows wide •*- ^ And Sweet with clover on each side; A bright-eyed boy who looks from out The door, with woodbine wreathed about. And wishes his one thought all day: " Oh, if I could but fly away From this dull spot, the world to see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be ! " Amid the city's constant din, A man who round the world has been. Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng. Is thinking, thinking, all day long, " Oh, could I only tread once more The field-path to the farm-house door, The old green meadows could I see. How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be." — Marian Douglas 2IO HOME T TOME 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. H OME, that place which none falter to enter, and which all are loath to leave. — F. C. Barbour. ' I ''HE common things of life are all so dear! -■■ The waking in the warm half-gloom To find again the old familiar room, The scents and sights and sounds that never tire, The crackle of the open fire. The homely work, the lilt of baby's bliss, The waiting, then the footsteps coming near, The opening door, the handclasp and the kiss Is Heaven not, after all, the Now and Here, The common things of life are all so dear? — Anon. w E think at first that home is heaven ; We learn at last that heaven is home. — Queen Altxandra. 211 THE HOME WHERE I WAS BORN "DETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn ^^ Is the lonely home where I was born. The peach-tree leans against the wall, And the woodbine wanders over all. There is the barn, and as of yore I can smell the hay from the open door, And see the busy swallows throng, And hear the pewee's mournful song. Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, Step lightly, for I love it still. — T. Buchanan Read. A DIM veranda cool and deep, ■^ ■*■ Virginia creeper climbing o'er, Tall maples where the blue-jays sweep! And I am a lad at home once more; A sweet bird singing by the door, A dappled sward of sun and shade Which many a fragrant blossom bore: This is a picture memory made. — Oliver Marble. 212 THE AULD HOUSE OH, the auld house, the auld house, — What though the rooms were wee, Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, And bairnies fu' o' glee; The wild rose and the jessamine Still hang upon the wa' : How many cherished memories Do they sweet flowers reca'! Still flourishing the auld pear tree The bairnies like to see; And oh, how often did they speir When ripe they a' wad be! The voices sweet, the wee bit feet Aye rinnin' here and there. The merry shout — oh! whiles we greet To think we'll hear nae main For they are a' wide scattered now, Some to the Indies gane, And ane, alas! to her lang hame Not here we'll meet again. The kirkyard, the kirkyard! Wi' flowers o' every hue, Sheltered by the holly shade And the dark, sombre yew. — Lady Caroline Nairne. 213 HOME TO MOTHER "VTO matter how far our feet may rove, •^ ^ When weary and worn in constant strife, Mother and home are the best of life. Blessed is he who may smilingly say, " I'm going home to mother to-day." God's mercy hallows that home so dear, Where mother our footsteps waits to hear. Bless the busy hand and the cheery smile That brighten and comfort all the while; Nothing on earth can with home compare When a loving mother waits us there. — Anon. OOME precious words are born of earth; ^^ Some others by the angels given ; But sweetest of celestial birth, Are these: "My mother," "Home," an( "Heaven." — Anon. T O Adam, Paradise was home, To the good among his descendants. Home is Paradise. — Henry Ware. 214 MOTHER'S EMPIRE ^ I ^HE Queen that sits upon the throne of home, "*■ crowned and sceptered as none other ever can be, is — mother. Her enthronement is complete, her reign is unrivalled, and the moral issues of her empire are eternal. " Her children rise up and call her blessed." She so presents and exemplifies divine truth, that it reproduces itself in the happiest de\'elopment of childhood — character and life. Her memory' is sacred, while she lives, and be- comes a perpetual inspiration, even when the bright flowers bloom above her sleeping dust. She is an incarnation of goodness to her child, and hence her immense power. Scotland, with her well-known reverence for motherhood, insists that, " An ounce of Mother is worth more than a pound of clergy." The ancient orator bestowed a flattering compli- ment upon the hom.es of Roman mothers, when he said, " The empire is at the fireside." MTio can think of the influence that a mother wields in the home and not be impressed with the far-reaching results ! — //. H. B irk ins. 215 REVERIES OF THE OLD KITCHEN TT^AR back in my musings my thoughts have been -■- cast To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed ; I loved all its rooms to the pantry and hall, But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. To the nail in the ceiling, the latch on the door And I love every crack on the old kitchen floor. I remember the fire-place with mouth high and wide ; The old-fashioned oven that stood by its side — Out of which, each Thanksgiving, came puddings and pies; That fairly bewildered and dazzled my eyes. But the dearest of memories I've laid up in store. Is the mother that trod on the old kitchen floor. I remember with pleasure what joy filled our eyes, When she told us the stories that children so prize; They were new every night, though we'd heard them before From her lips, at the wheel, on the old kitchen floor. — Anon. 2l6 SHE MADE HOME HAPPY "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 soldiers, to my mind. — Henry Coyle. /^H, the love of a true, noble mother! it is ^^ strange that we. never half prize Or realize her lifelong devotion till the grave hides the fair from our eyes. — C. E. Randall. Ti^RlENDS come to men, and loves, but never -■- such sweet friendship, such true love, as mothers know. — Wallace Rice. T HE many make the household, but only one makes the home. — James Russell Lowell. 217 MY MOTHER'S HANDS OUCH beautiful, beautiful hands — ^ Though the heart was weary and sad, These patient hands kept toiling on, That the children might be glad. I almost weep, as I look back To childhood's distant day, I know how those hands rested not While mine were at their play. Such beautiful, beautiful hands, They're growing feeble now; For time and pain have left their mark On hand and heart and brow. • •••••* But oh, beyond this shadow-lamp, Where all is bright and fair, I know full well these dear old hands Will palms of victory bear. Wliere crystal streams, through endless years. Flow over golden sands. And where the old grow young again, I'll clasp my mother's hands. — Ellen H. M. Gates. 2i8 REST f~\ PATIENT face, that has grown thin and ^^ wrinkled Moving along in home-life's busy way, Wearing a crown of hair all thickly sprinkled With silken threads of shining gray, Soon shall the faded face and silverj' hair Eternal youth's bright glory wear, O toiling hands, that have received so gladly Task after task for others to be done, And tired feet that went their rounds so bravely, And faltered not, e'en at the set of sun. Soon shall they rest, as twilight shadows glide Over the land, the garish day to hide. O loyal soul, that is so true to duty And faithful to the happiness of home, Soon thou shalt wear a crown of saintly beauty, And dwell within the sunlight of the Throne. O faithful woman, sweet will be thy rest When thou hast passed the gateway of life's west! — M. A. Holt. 219 GONE HOME QHE has gone home, to that glad land which lies, ^ Not far away, yet veiled from mortal sight, Lest the clear shining of its cloudless skies Dim all the radiance of our earthly light. " The Lord had need of her," for some high task Of noblest service that his angels know. And yet to-day, with faltering lips we ask, " Can there be need in heaven like ours below? " Sweet, wondrous voice, whose clear entrancing note Could touch the listening heart with hallov/ed thrill, Will not thy music through the silence float, And lift our souls to heavenly rapture still ? Not far away in the sweet hour of prayer, But living, loving, joining in our praise. Our faith can see thee, grown more heavenly fair, With the old smile, and dear familiar ways. — Emily Huntington Miller. 220 MAMMY'S GWINE HOME • ROSSED the last dim river — ended now the way ; Faithful in life's winter, and singing in its May ; Love that still was loyal — love that nothing craves — Hands that rocked Life's cradle and wreathed with flowers its graves. Stormy days or sunny, knowing not to roam Till that — " Good-by, honey — Mammy's gwine Home!" Toiling, ever faithful: By those hands caressed, Childhood left its playthings — climbing to her breast ; And the old, sweet songs she sang in t\\alight shadows deep, "Sing us all to sleep, Mammy — sing us all to sleep!" In Life's storm or splendor, knowing not to roam Till that farewell tender — " Mammy's gwine Home!" — Anon. 221 MOTHER, HOME, AND HEAVEN ' I ^HERE are three words that sweetly blend, that •^ on the heart are graven ; A precious, soothing balm they lend — they're Mother, Home, and Heaven. They form a chain whose every link is free from base alloy; A stream where whosoever drinks will find refresh- ing joy! They build an altar where each day love's offering is renewed ; And peace illumes with genial ray life's darkened solitude! — Mary J. Muckle. \ MONG the names to mortals given •^ ^ There's none like mother, home, and heaven; For home's no home without her care; And heaven, we know she will be there; Then let us, while we love each other, Remember and be kind to mother. — E. L. Cassauria. THE END 222 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below -iwy la SEP i 19S( iTD» MAY 3 1955 URL mynm^ MAY -^ Q ]Q7^ LD UN 5 l9Bt ^5\9«B RECEIVED a i^fl^t:jn 7-^\ Form L-0 2fim-l2/39(3:i>>0) 4.-^ ■:/i AA 000 416 232 I 9S O S' a S PLEA<=5: DO NOT REMOVE THIS BOOK CARD ^(^OJIIVDJO^^ University Research Lib rary -J i < "0 2 Qi O >l