34-9
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES' 
 
 
 _
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S 
 APRON STRINGS 
 
 Sentimental, Satirical, Sensible, 
 and Spicy 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN HOGARTH LOZIER, A.M. 
 
 (OF NORTHWEST IOWA CONFERENCE) 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 LEWIS H. LOZIER AND WALTER J. ENRIGHT 
 
 OF CHICAGO 
 
 CINCINNATI: JENNINGS AND PYE 
 NEW YORK: EATON AND MAINS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1898 
 
 BY JOHN HOGARTH LOZIER 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 fS 
 
 
 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 " WHAT SHALL THIS FROST-CROWNED VETERAN PAGE. 
 
 SAY ?" ENRIGHT, . 8 
 
 "OK ALL THE HARBORS 'ROUND LIFE'S SEA," . . n 
 
 " THE WOMAN, GOD'S LAST HANDIWORK AND 
 
 BEST," ENRIGHT, . 17 
 
 " CAN WASTEFUL WOMAN TRAIL THE STREET 
 
 WHILE HER STARVED SISTER DIES?". . . LOZIER, . . 21 
 " DID You WIND THE CLOCK AND LOCK THE 
 
 KITCHEN DOOR ?" LOZIER, . - 29 
 
 " DON'T START A HOODLUM HATCHERY," .... ENRIGHT, . 35 
 " MANY A LIGHT, FANTASTIC TOE TRIPS IN 
 
 THE DANCE OF DEATH, ENRIGHT, . 39 
 
 "A CHESTERFIELD IN OTHER HOMES," ENRIGHT, . 52 
 
 "AND IN His OWN A DEVIL," ENRIGHT, . 53 
 
 "A GOOD GRANDMOTHER, TOO," LOZIER, . - 57 
 
 " YOUR MOTHER," ENRIGHT, . 63 
 
 " SOME TOUGH MIGHT HU-RL A FLING," .... LOZIER, . . 67 
 
 " BUT SEEING How THE DREGS COME Now," . ENRIGHT, . 71 
 " THAT YOUNG MAN WHOSE CONFIDANTE AND 
 
 SWEETHEART is His MOTHER," ENRIGHT, . 75 
 
 " BY CLOUDING THEIR DECLINING DAYS WITH 
 
 SHADOWS OF DESPAIR," ENRIGHT, . 79 
 
 MARGINAL, AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS, B\ LOZIER. 
 3
 
 PREFACE 
 
 RFTER more than twenty-five years' active min 
 istry in the Methodist Episcopal Church, (in 
 addition to over five years' active service as 
 chaplain and major during the war of the Rebellion,) 
 I suffered an apoplectic stroke. 
 
 An entire change of work conditioned my recov 
 ery, and made imperative my retirement from the 
 active ministry. 
 
 With returning health, I prayed that the Lord 
 would still give me something to do. The answer 
 came ; and for the past ten years this poem has been 
 my ministry, having delivered it from platform and 
 pulpit in nearly every State in the Union, and in 
 Canada. 
 
 At the earnest solicitation of many who have 
 heard " Your Mother's Apron Strings," I have con 
 cluded to publish it, for the first time, in this form. 
 
 It is the author's prayer that this little volume 
 may prove a World-pulpit. 
 
 JOHN HOGARTH LOZIER. 
 MOUNT VERNON, IOWA. 
 
 5
 
 " What shall this frost-crooned 'veteran say?'
 
 HAT shall this frost-crowned veteran say, 
 Standing in Life's calm twilight gray, 
 Whose lengthening shadows stretch away 
 
 Over the dreamy past? 
 The veteran comes, young friend, and sings 
 About your Mother's Apron Strings ; 
 And plucks from ridicule the stings 
 Of flings that fools have cast. 
 
 He comes to say: the handiest tool 
 
 In Satan's kit is ridicule ; 
 
 And, when you trouble him, then you '11 
 
 Be sure to feel its point. 
 For, be you young, or be you old, 
 Shepherd, or member of the fold, 
 And know not ridicule, be told 
 
 Your creed is out of joint. 
 
 The saddest line that pen can trace 
 In proof that we're a fallen race 
 Is that revealing man's distaste 
 
 For purest, holiest things ; 
 His greed for Passion's deadly charms; 
 His heedlessness of Love's alarms; 
 His eager grasp, with welcome arms 
 
 Of Vice, with all its stings. 
 9
 
 10 
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 He comes to beg you: Never dream 
 That Passion's fruits are what they seem; 
 
 For, many a gilded, ghastly 
 scheme 
 
 Have Satan's counsels 
 wrought ; 
 
 And none conceals a dead 
 lier dart 
 
 Than that which comes to 
 youth's warm heart 
 
 And niches thence, with 
 fiendish art, 
 
 The lessons mother taught. 
 
 This is my message, youth, to thee : 
 Of all the harbors 'round Life's sea, 
 The sunniest is your Mother's knee, 
 
 And safest whence to sail ; 
 
 For, having voyaged Life's course quite through, 
 And found your Mother's Bible true, 
 I shout the message back to you: 
 
 God's promises ne'er fail! 
 
 For, I am come where sprays arise 
 
 From the broad sea, which 'round me lies, 
 
 That chill the blood and dim the eyes. 
 
 And change the locks to gray. 
 And oft my listening soul doth hear 
 Voices of those my heart holds dear 
 Come floating in, with cadence clear, 
 
 Out of the mists and spray.
 
 "Of alt the harbors 'round life's sea..
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 13 
 
 While through those mists my dimmed eyes see 
 
 Cleaving Eternity's wide sea, 
 
 Barks that once cleft the tide with me 
 
 At morning of Life's day ; 
 And well my spirit understands 
 Those voices faint, those waving hands, 
 Slow drifting from these shifting sands, 
 
 Are calling me away. 
 
 And I await the welcome word 
 
 Of that sweet voice I erstwhile heard 
 
 When at life's morn my heart was stirred 
 
 As then He bade me, %l Come." 
 I chose Him in youth's distant day, 
 And though my feet went oft astray, 
 He led me back to Wisdom's way, 
 
 And He shall lead me Home. 
 
 And All who throng Life's 
 crumbling shore 
 
 Must have His hand to guide 
 them o'er, 
 
 Else, tempest-tossed forever- 
 more, 
 Drift on a shoreless sea. 
 
 This pilot spurned, you pay 
 the cost 
 
 Mid endless darkness, tem 
 pest-tossed, 
 
 While heaving billows echo, " Lost 
 To all eternity !"
 
 14 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Fain would I write in lines of flame, 
 Above the track o'er which I came: 
 "Jesus," alone. "None other name " 
 
 Can guide to Heaven, save He 
 Who still my soul is piloting ; 
 While, joyfully, my song I sing 
 To Judah's Shepherd, Heaven's King, 
 
 'The Man of Galilee.'* 
 
 * See note on page
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 HATEVER else my critics say 
 
 About my theme, or me, 
 They must admit, not I, but it 
 
 May claim antiquity; 
 Older than Egypt's sphinxes dumb, 
 
 Or Cheops' sepulchers ; 
 Older than Hercu- 
 
 laneum, 
 
 Or anything of 
 "hers." 
 
 As old, in fact, as 
 Mother Eve 
 
 Or even Father Adam ; 
 For all the orthodox believe 
 
 Those ancient worthies had 'em. 
 For, certainly those aprons rude 
 
 Required some fastenings, 
 And, logically, we conclude 
 
 'T was done with Apron Strings. 
 
 >5
 
 16 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 And, curious as the fact appears, 
 
 'T was, somehow, so arranged 
 That, for about six thousand years, 
 
 That fashion has n't changed. 
 That Apron Strings are fastenings 
 
 For aprons still is true ; 
 But mine, to-day, I 'm frank to say, 
 
 Are meant to fasten you 
 To Mother's teachings ; and to be 
 
 A knot which shall defy 
 The skill of men, and all the den 
 
 Of devils to untie. 
 
 And, while I try to make this tie 
 
 More lasting and secure, 
 I '11 fire a lot of solid shot 
 
 At things I 'd kill or cure. 
 And, chief of these, those heresies 
 
 Invented to degrade 
 The Woman God's last handiwork, 
 
 And grandest ever made ! 
 
 And, should you chance, as I advance, 
 
 To catch some flash of wit, 
 With vision keen, it may be seen, 
 
 Some foolishness is hit. 
 Or, should I climb some height sublime, 
 
 'T will be, that I may thence 
 Unfold to you a broader view 
 
 Of woman's excellence.
 
 The C 0)oma.n, God's last ha.ndi<work.
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 19 
 
 I hold this view : that 't is not true 
 
 That we " inherit " all 
 Our foolishness, and meanness, too, 
 
 From that ancestral fall. 
 Some seed of that forbidden fruit 
 
 No doubt, in each did drop ; 
 But our own will has helped to till 
 
 And multiply the crop. 
 
 And, too, dear ladies, even you 
 
 Can't make us men believe 
 That your ' appalling crimes ' were all 
 
 Inherited from Eve. 
 Eve ate from that forbidden tree, 
 
 By Satan's wiles o'ercome ; 
 But, Girls, do you pretend that she 
 
 Was "stuck" on chewing gum? 
 
 I question if primeval man 
 
 Ever so much as thought 
 Of "Pepsin Gum" or "Yucatan," 
 
 Or "Penny in the Slot." 
 Nor did it ever come to pass 
 
 In Adam's first estate, 
 That Eve consumed the midnight gas, 
 
 Over a "Fashion Plate." 
 With all her foibles, I believe, 
 
 Her critics will confess, 
 Few have attributed to Eve 
 
 Extravagance in dress. 
 From Paris, and not Paradise, 
 
 Comes Fashion's foolish art ; 
 And these two places, I surmise, 
 
 Are several miles apart.
 
 20 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Paris, so far from Paradise, 
 
 Few ever cross the space ; 
 And yet this Babylon of vice 
 
 Sets "high-toned" Fashion's pace! 
 We seize the most outlandish style, 
 
 With crazed avidity, 
 
 While " Puck " or Shakespeare shout the 
 while : 
 
 "What fools we mortals be ! " 
 Eve never wore a dress that bore 
 
 A train which mopped the ground, 
 Else Adam would have known before 
 
 That Satan was around. 
 
 And even now it brings to mind 
 
 That same old Serpent's tail 
 When woman drags upon the street 
 
 A microbe-gathering train, 
 Be sure she's either "long" on feet 
 
 Or sadly "short " on brain ! 
 Of all the silly fads, men put 
 
 Those trains among the worst ; 
 It may be said we 've had our foot 
 
 Upon them from the first. 
 And we will hold a jubilee 
 
 When woman's heart and brain 
 Permit bewildered man to see 
 
 The passing of the Train ; 
 For, if I be allowed the plain 
 
 Unwelcome truth to tell,
 
 'Can -wasteful woman trail the street while her starved sister dies}"
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Men have accounted every train 
 
 As ticketed for well ! 
 
 Can wasteful woman trail the street 
 
 When her starved sister dies, 
 And yet imagine that her feet 
 
 Shall enter Paradise. 
 Now, I 'm no Debs or Coxeyite ; 
 
 But, where 's a truth more plain 
 Than that our deadliest dynamite 
 
 Comes in on Fashion's train ? 
 This brainless, heartless wastefulness 
 
 Which Want's wan millions see, 
 Engenders communistic hate 
 
 And fosters Anarchy ! 
 So, let us ponder well these facts, 
 
 While each his influence spreads, 
 To spend less money on our backs 
 
 And more inside our heads. 
 
 But you, my lady friends, are not 
 Subject to 'train 1 at 
 tacks ; 
 You 're not responsible 
 
 for what 
 Happen s behind 
 
 your backs. 
 Nor would I criticise 
 
 your late, 
 P u ff e d up' bal-lu- 
 
 nacy.' 
 
 Though 'on your shoulders' rests this vast 
 Responsibility.
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 For, I declare I should not dare 
 
 Attack those pretty things ! 
 Lest, possibly, the dears might be 
 
 Sprouting their angel-wings. 
 But fashions change so fast, 't is strange 
 
 How we keep up the gait ; 
 Once fairly in, some trifling change 
 
 Makes it quite out of date. 
 We all perceive that monstrous sleeve 
 
 Grows beautifully less ; 
 Nor can we doubt, some have cut out 
 
 Enough to make a dress. 
 Puffs from the Press, I must confess 
 Are grateful to our eyes ; 
 
 From pipes, cigars, and ciga 
 rettes 
 
 They 're somewhat otherwise. 
 But women's puffs no being 
 
 harms 
 
 By sight or touch or smell, 
 And, when she takes us to her arms, 
 
 We 're certain, then, " 't is (s) well." 
 Let men puff less and women more, 
 
 Yet I arise to say 
 
 I 'm glad I "sparked" my girl before 
 Such things were in my way ! 
 
 But there is many another crime 
 That Eve did not commit 
 
 Though in this rhyme, I Ve only time, 
 To name a few to wit :
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Eve never gadded 
 through the 
 town 
 
 To gossip or com 
 plain ; 
 
 Nor gained phenom 
 enal renown 
 For skill in 'rais 
 ing Cain.' 
 
 Yes, Cain was bad ; 
 
 for, you must know 
 
 His parents never had 
 Dozens of neighbors 'round to show 
 
 Them how to train the lad ! 
 And not an antiquated Aunt 
 
 Or Uncle ever did, 
 With mingled sense and slang, suggest 
 
 " You 'd better spank that kid !" 
 I doubt, to-day, if you 'd display 
 
 More luminous success 
 Had you begun to train a son 
 
 When a year old or less. 
 
 Cain was a tramp a walking Cain, 
 
 And tramped away his life. 
 Nor is it odd he went to Nod 
 
 Before he knew a wife. 
 Cain was the first to start that fad, 
 Though not a Duke or Prince,
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 And foreign vagabonds have had 
 
 Their inning ever 
 
 since. 
 And, counting Counts and 
 
 ' no-accounts ' 
 Who come our wealth 
 
 to wed, 
 For average virtues, I 
 
 suspect 
 
 Cain might come out 
 ahead ! 
 
 So let no one project a stone 
 
 Nor thrust a scornful tongue 
 At Mother Eve, whom you 
 perceive, 
 
 Married so very young, 
 A fashion I could not com 
 mend 
 
 Though set by Eve and 
 
 Adam; 
 Though I concede 't is well, my friend, 
 
 For you and me she had 'im. 
 Eve married the first man she met, 
 
 A practice which, pursued 
 By silly girls to-day, would catch 
 
 Some poodle-headed dude; 
 Some dude, whose genius mounts aloftj 
 
 To waxed and curled mustache, 
 And ogling for some female 
 
 Soft enough for him to mash :
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Of whom, when wed, 't were 
 
 safely said 
 The chief conundrum's 
 
 been 
 Which now can boast, "I'm 
 
 fooled the most," 
 The dude or the du- 
 dene? 
 
 Eve never screamed or climbed a chair 
 
 At mention of a mouse, 
 Nor drove her husband to despair 
 
 By always cleaning house. 
 Eve never, with a sudden shock, 
 
 Snapped off her husband's snore, 
 By asking : " Did you wind the clock 
 
 And bolt the kitchen door ?" 
 Nor did Eve shake her spouse awake 
 
 While, breathlessly, she said 
 'T was her belief there was a thief 
 
 Hid underneath the bed. 
 
 Eve never, on a Sunday morn, 
 
 Breathed an * inver 
 ted ' prayer 
 Because the curler got 
 
 too hot 
 And burned her bangs 
 
 off square. 
 
 Nor did she ever enter church 
 A half an hour too late.
 
 28 
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 From standing at the looking-glass 
 Fixing her hat on straight. 
 
 Eve never trimmed that 
 
 brand-new hat 
 With murdered bird or 
 
 bug, 
 Nor wasted Adam's 
 
 kisses on 
 
 A black-nosed, brindled 
 pug. 
 
 So, let Eve's critics say 
 
 their worst, 
 For her, I boldly 
 
 stand ; 
 
 For I regard her as ' the first 
 Young lady in the land.' 
 
 Now, casting flings at ancient things 
 
 Is far from my intent, or 
 My song to sing of Apron Strings 
 
 Ignoring the inventor : 
 For this inventor bore one trait 
 
 Worthy of special mention: 
 She did n't run, soon as 't was done, 
 
 And patent her invention. 
 
 And Adam's weakness here appears ; 
 
 For, had he thought a minute, 
 He must have seen, in coming years, 
 
 That there 'd be ' millions in it.'
 
 ' iC Dtd yoa -wind the dock and lock the kitchen door}'
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 3* 
 
 But not so deeply sunk was he 
 
 In ' filthy lucre ' lust 
 That he would aid monopoly, 
 
 Or start an 'Apron Trust.' 
 
 And don't you think it fortunate 
 
 We never came to know 
 The pattern used when Eve produced 
 
 Her ' limited trousseau ?' 
 For even to-day, I 'm forced to say, 
 
 In candor, far from nattering, 
 Some of her sex would risk their necks 
 
 To find that ' antique ' pattern. 
 They know that it was ' gathered ;' 
 
 And Irish wits, I ween, 
 Declare this pair commenced right there 
 
 "The Wearin' o' the Green." 
 We all have spoken sadder words 
 
 Than these : "It might have been." 
 Now, I conclude what Adam sewed 
 
 Seamed ' fig'ratively ' done ; 
 A crude "worm-fence " similitude 
 
 Of " crookedness " begun. 
 Eve's was the nimble finger, 
 
 And so 't is clearly seen 
 That she was Adam's ' Singer ;' 
 
 But he ran the machine. 
 If Adam had not run it, 
 
 We know his pretty mate 
 Would first have trimmed her bonnet, 
 
 And let the aprons wait !
 
 32 
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Then they 'd have not had need to hide 
 Themselves among the trees, 
 
 Provided Eve could then 
 
 provide 
 
 A hat like some of these. 
 they might both have 
 hid them there, 
 Behind that ' stun 
 
 ning ' hat, 
 And you who sit behind 
 
 can swear 
 They'd never see 
 through that ! 
 
 And, was that apron pocket on 
 
 The front, or 'round behind it, 
 Where it would take a Pinkerton 
 
 A half an hour to find it? 
 
 Such is the rage, in this, our age, 
 
 For fashions most outlandish, 
 Our babes are dressed like those who blessed 
 
 The days of good Miles Standish. 
 We might suspect some women, 
 
 En decollet for a ball, 
 Of passion for the fashion 
 
 In vogue before the Fall. 
 
 Speaking of dress; I must confess 
 
 That I have oft opined 
 We 'd all show less of foolishness 
 
 If t 'other sex were blind.
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 33 
 
 But, let that go, this much we know : 
 
 The Bible record brings 
 An ancient, honored pedigree 
 
 To Mother's Apron Strings. 
 
 " But," some will say, "Why do you lay 
 Such stress on Mother Eve?" 
 
 Because I try to spoil that lie 
 Which all those men believe 
 
 Who think that Eve is the abbrev 
 iated name for Evil ; 
 
 Apologize for Adam, and 
 Forget there was a devil. 
 
 Here, let me say, God's Holy Book 
 
 My reverence commands ; 
 I hold it to a trusting heart 
 
 With loyal, willing hands. 
 But they mistake this Book who hold 
 
 Adam and Eve as ' saints :' 
 " Of the earth, earthy," is the cold 
 
 True picture which it paints. 
 
 It augurs neither sense nor grace 
 
 To hold in sacred awe 
 That pair whose sinning wrecked the race 
 
 By breaking Heaven's Law. 
 Sprung from that root has grown that craze 
 
 Which taints these modern times, 
 When silly women send bouquets 
 
 To jail-birds red with crimes.
 
 34 
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 She who would 
 deck with flow 
 ers a Holmes, 
 Or Jackson, or 
 their sort, 
 
 Would deck and 
 dub Beelze 
 bub, 
 
 And call him 
 "Bub" for 
 short. 
 
 We, in the " Second Adam," find 
 
 Our model for to-day, 
 Commanding Satan, " Get behind !" 
 
 And Saint, "watch, fight, and pray!" 
 And " Look not on forbidden things." 
 
 Sin's portal is the eye, 
 And Lust conceals a thousand stings ; 
 
 We look we taste we die. 
 
 But while these words such sins condemn, 
 
 They caution you and me. 
 They tempted Satan to tempt them 
 
 By hanging round the tree ! 
 Plenty of peerless sights they'd see 
 
 In many a safe retreat. 
 And " Of the fruit of every tree 
 
 Thou mayest freely eat " 
 Had said Jehovah, "all save one." 
 
 Yet, marvelous to tell,
 
 ~] 
 
 c Don't start a. hoodlum hatchery."
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 37 
 
 They hastened then to look upon 
 That tree they ate they fell ! 
 
 Just as, to-day, some parent-fools 
 Help Satan snare their boys 
 
 By dignifying gamblers' tools 
 As " harmless, household toys !" 
 
 With billards, cards, the dance, the beers, 
 
 They pave their hellward way ; 
 Then agonize, with bitter tears, 
 
 Because they go astray ! 
 Do n't start a ' Hoodlum Hatchery,' 
 
 To keep your sons at home 
 Do n't " sow the wind," then wail to see 
 
 The wrecking " whirlwind " come ! 
 
 Do n't say " such games can do no harm," 
 
 But heed my warning well : 
 You 're building bridges 'twixt the home 
 
 And many a Gambling Hell ! 
 Dancing and cards and wines in homes 
 
 Where altar prayers are not, 
 Are devil's bait for traps where wait 
 
 The harlot, gambler, sot ! 
 
 And Satan holds the winning chance 
 
 In Life's imperiled race, 
 When Virtue condescends to dance 
 
 In Passion's warm embrace !
 
 38 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Wails from a million ruined girls 
 
 Their woeful warning tell ; 
 The dance of modern passion whirls 
 
 Too close the edge of hell ! 
 
 While social " hops " and hoppers are 
 
 1 Hoppers ' for Satan's pit, 
 And our dear girls may well beware 
 
 Lest they slip into it. 
 Though Passion veils his lecherous ' phiz,' 
 
 " Ruin " is still his quest ; 
 And 'hugging, set to music,' is 
 
 The prelude to the rest. 
 
 How blind are they who will not see 
 
 The perils of the dance, 
 Nor the red streams of misery 
 
 That flow from games of chance ; 
 Quenching the Spirit's kindling flame 
 
 That through the Church once sped, 
 Leaving a ' Sardis ' with a name 
 
 To live, but O ! how dead ! 
 
 Who ever knew a Christian's soul 
 
 To thrive on games of chance? 
 Or knew a dancing saint, unless 
 
 He had Saint Vitus' dance ? 
 What Church, what Pastor ever yet 
 
 Prospered in saving souls, 
 Where a card-playing, dancing set, 
 
 Pulpit or pew controls ?
 
 "cMany a. light, fa.nia.stic toe trips in the da.nce of death. '
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 4- 
 
 Whether for pleasure or for pay, 
 
 God's Church is compromised, 
 There infidelity gains sway; 
 
 There Christians are despised ! 
 These are " hot words " from a hot heart, 
 
 Burning with strong desire 
 To save my hearers from a part 
 
 In an intenser fire. 
 
 For many a ' light, fantastic toe ' 
 
 Trips in the " dance of death," 
 And billows of remorse and woe 
 
 Await the parting breath. 
 While jeweled hands, now deft to play 
 
 Games that our youth ensnare, 
 Will, on some swiftly coming day, 
 
 Be wrung in black despair. 
 
 You say God's ancient people danced, 
 
 And point to David's case, 
 When the long-missing Ark advanced 
 
 Toward the Holy Place. 
 Yes, David danced before the Ark. 
 
 The Sacred Records say 
 "His wife despised him," please remark, 
 
 For that uncouth display. 
 Religious fervor made him dance, 
 
 And if 't is ever true 
 Of our religious zeal, perchance 
 
 We 'd stand a jig or two.
 
 42 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 But if Christ thought his Church would grow 
 
 On pastimes of that sort, 
 Why did not his example show 
 
 Some samples of the sport ? 
 Does the New Testament account, 
 
 An intimation drop 
 That, when the Sermon on the Mount, 
 
 Was through, they had a ' hop ?' 
 
 Or when He fed the multitude, 
 
 Did He improve his chance 
 To have that festive scene conclude 
 With a grand ' Bowery Dance ?' 
 Or far as your research has gone 
 
 Say which evangelist 
 Matthew or Mark or Luke or John 
 Was most renowned for whist ? 
 
 Who of the twelve apostles taught 
 
 To press towards the ' prize ' 
 " Progressive Euchre " offers, fraught 
 
 With sensuous sacrifice? 
 Name the epistle which exhorts 
 
 Christ's followers to " strive 
 For masteries " in such rare sports 
 
 As Pedro or High Five ? 
 
 Ah soul ! if you will sin, do n't lay 
 
 Your sins on Holy Writ ! 
 Of all the games mankind can play, 
 
 Do n't play the hypocrite !
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 A harlot's daughter, by her dance 
 
 Won John the Baptist's head. 
 And heathen won, by games of chance 
 
 Christ's clothes, ere he was dead. 
 But Christ and Belial never dwell 
 
 Together in the heart. 
 And, mark you, he can always tell 
 
 The " sheep " and " goats " apart ! 
 You lightly heed this warning now, 
 
 And blunt its point with doubt ; 
 But ah ! the dawn comes swiftly on 
 
 When we shall find it out ! 
 
 You Ve heard that fable, I suppose, 
 By wise old JEsop told, 
 
 43 
 
 About an animal whose nose 
 Was sensitive to cold. 
 
 Likewise, an Arab, who, intent 
 On shelter and repose,
 
 44 YOUR MOTHER 'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Was startled when within his tent 
 
 Said camel thrust his nose. 
 He seized his spear in wrath, to thrust 
 
 That rude proboscis through, 
 Whereat the camel begged him, "Just 
 
 Take a more ' liberal ' view." 
 He took that view, the outcome you 
 
 Anticipate, no doubt. 
 That camel 'got his back up,' too, 
 
 And kicked the Arab out. 
 
 Dancing, and games with gamblers' tools, 
 
 (By members of the Church, 
 Who boldly disregard her rules, 
 
 And her good name besmirch ; 
 And who, if pastors dare be true 
 
 And " discipline " apply,
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 45 
 
 Get their disgruntled backs up too, 
 
 While cloven hoofs do fly.) 
 These are that " camel's nose," and who 
 
 Is daft enough to doubt 
 The Church must hit that beast, or it 
 
 Will kick religion out. 
 
 So, whatsoever name we bear, 
 
 Let our ambition be 
 To show that jewel everywhere 
 
 ' Christian consistency.' 
 Then, let the pulpit lightnings play ; 
 
 We need not dodge one bit ; 
 Nor will our neighbors look our way 
 
 To see if we are ' hit.' 
 
 O ! ye who bear Christ s holy name, 
 
 Ponder this startling thought ! 
 We '11 answer for our acts, and for 
 
 Results those acts have wrought ! 
 Results, which in eternity, 
 
 Shall guilty souls transfix ; 
 Then thou shalt see " 'T is hard for thee 
 
 To kick against the pricks !" 
 
 But some believe, when Mother Eve 
 
 Partook that fruit forbid, 
 ' The woman ' then unbarred the den 
 
 Where all man's woes were hid.
 
 4 6 
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 And many men, with tongue and pen, 
 
 Discoursing on the Fall, 
 Seem to believe that only Eve 
 
 Was in it after all. 
 They never write or speak her name 
 
 Except to fault and scold her; 
 Nor hint that Adam share the blame 
 
 Who certainly was older. 
 
 These men, so glib to chide the " rib " 
 
 God did from Adam rob, 
 Would think it rough, if told the 'stuff ' 
 Perhaps, had spoiled the job. 
 
 For who can read of Eve's 
 
 misdeed 
 And not reflect upon 
 
 it, 
 Had Adam shown some 
 
 true 'backbone,' 
 His wife had never done 
 
 it? 
 More to his credit had he 
 
 stood 
 For wife, for woman's 
 
 sake, 
 Though in the conflict Eden should 
 
 Have lost that cursed snake. 
 And 't would have been more husbandlike, 
 
 I Ve often thought and said, 
 Had Adam gone upon 'a strike,' 
 And smashed that serpent's head !
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 47 
 
 Out of the dust was Adam formed, 
 
 And 't would have been so handy 
 For Adam just to prove that dust 
 
 A little trifle " sandy." 
 I doubt not he was "very good," 
 
 And, may be, very pretty ; 
 But I must say of Adam's clay 
 
 It was not very ' gritty.' 
 
 For he was " with her " when she met 
 
 That fiend through Eden stalking, 
 And, just for once, that husband let 
 
 His wife do all the talking. 
 He saw his frail companion fall 
 
 In that unequal grapple, 
 Yet opened not his mouth at all 
 
 Except to eat the apple. 
 
 In these enlightened days we hear 
 
 Much of 'heredity.' 
 (Be sure to place the accent where 
 
 'T will not read her, but he.) 
 And then be careful how you blame 
 
 The pair from whom we sprang. 
 Throw " turf," not " dornicks," lest the same 
 
 Come back a " boomerang." 
 
 Though Mother Eve is under ban, 
 
 It can not be denied 
 The most unmanly traits in man 
 
 Come down on Adam's side.
 
 48 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 If modern piggishness be due 
 
 To Adam's piggish work, 
 It solves that problem why the Jew 
 
 So soon went back on pork. 
 
 Adam obeyed his Lord's decree 
 
 To multiply his stock, 
 Yet many ' chips ' appear to be 
 
 Far worse than the ' old block.' 
 
 Your Twentieth Century Adam, 
 
 If single, is a saint ; 
 But when he gets his Madam, 
 
 As Scotchmen say, " He aint !" 
 
 Your modern Adam, single, 
 
 Had he espied that tree, 
 Would have exclaimed : "Ah ! here 's a chance 
 
 To show my gallantry." 
 And he 'd have clambered up that tree 
 
 At peril of his neck, 
 And scarcely taken breath till he 
 
 Gathered his Eve a peck. 
 But married, well, no ' modern Eve ' 
 
 Need ever fear a fall, 
 For he would munch the apple down 
 
 Pealing and core and all. 
 
 In Adam's fall, his conduct all 
 Was typically human ;
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 49 
 
 Soon as he found that they were downed 
 
 He blamed it on ' the woman.' 
 'T is not in me to hold a grudge 
 
 'Gainst any of my kin ; 
 But his excuse, I 'm forced to judge, 
 
 Was translucently thin. 
 
 And since your kinsman blamed his wife 
 
 With all man's degradation, 
 Who of you boast in public of 
 
 Your family relation? 
 
 I hold my grip on Genesis, 
 
 And own it makes me spunky 
 When these Darwinians try to trace 
 
 Our species to the monkey. 
 But while their reasonings seem flat, 
 
 As we believers view it, 
 Perhaps a few more ' breaks ' like that 
 
 Might reconcile us to it. 
 
 Adam was fallen, all can see ; 
 
 Yet he has many a son 
 Who, for downright depravity, 
 
 Beats him 16 to i ; 
 For all our lucky stars we thank 
 
 That our first sire was not 
 A shameless, Sunday baseball crank 
 
 Or foot-ball idiot. 
 
 He never swore, drank, smoked, or chewed, 
 Nor played a game of pool
 
 50 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Which means a stick chalked at one end, 
 
 And t' other end a fool. 
 Nor do we learn that Adam 
 
 Was one of those gallants 
 Who ' kicked ' because the madam 
 
 Forgot to crease his pants. 
 
 Nor do the ancient records, 
 
 At any point, disclose 
 That Adam had a crazy fad 
 
 For needle-pointed toes. 
 Good ' understandings ' whilst we prize, 
 
 I steadfastly contend 
 The fittest place for sharpness lies 
 
 Up at the other end. 
 
 Nor is there any rumor 
 
 That Adam did not like 
 The fashion of the ' bloomer ' 
 
 Eve wore upon her ' bike.' 
 Nor that he wrote or ranted, 
 
 Or scowled, with visage grim, 
 For fear The Coming Woman 
 
 Might get ahead of him.
 
 "cA Chesterfield in other homes,"
 
 
 "cAnd in his own a.
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 55 
 
 But this for Adam must be said 
 
 Not true of any other 
 There 's some allowance to be made : 
 
 He never had a mother. 
 And there 's another luxury 
 
 Which Adam never saw ; 
 Ne'er was he privileged to see 
 
 A dear old mother-in-law. 
 
 Now please do n't misinterpret me ! 
 
 I speak not in derision. 
 That might befit some heartless wit 
 
 Of shallow brain and vision; 
 Befit that man who erstwhile swore 
 
 He 'd never cease adoring 
 That wife who builds the fires before 
 
 She dares disturb his snoring; 
 That man whose children cringe in fear 
 
 Soon as they see him enter ; 
 Who makes his household atmosphere 
 
 A doubly charged ' storm center ;' 
 Befit that man who quits his wife 
 
 To join in bawdy revel ; 
 A Chesterfield in other homes, 
 
 And in his own a devil. 
 
 This hoofless, bifurcated mule, 
 
 This ' wart ' on social life, 
 This is the man to ridicule 
 
 The mother of his wife ;
 
 56 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 She who from toil and pain evolved 
 
 That jewel called your wife, 
 And in your cup of bliss dissolved 
 
 The pearl of her own life. 
 True, she is ageing now ; but think 
 
 From that old heart of love 
 Was forged the strongest earthly link 
 
 That lifts your soul above. 
 
 And here 's a thought, perhaps 't were best 
 
 Some men reflect upon 
 Some day, the birdlings of your nest 
 
 May " mate," as you have done. 
 And so, there comes a day, you see, 
 
 When that dear household elf 
 You proudly call your wife, may be 
 
 A mother-in-law herself. 
 
 Wherefore we all may well recall 
 That a,dage trite, but true, 
 
 "Your chickens might 
 come home some 
 night 
 And roost a while 
 
 with you." 
 'T were better, then, all 
 
 married men 
 Do as their children 
 
 do, 
 
 And find in every mother-in-law 
 A good grandmother too.
 
 "cA good grandmother, too. "
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 59 
 
 But if to feeble womankind 
 
 Our first mishaps were due, 
 The seed, the grace, that saves our race, 
 
 Has come through woman too. 
 And all that 's good in Adam's race, 
 
 All the divine in human 
 The love, the tenderness, the grace 
 
 Has filtered down through woman. 
 
 The drops from erring Adam wrung 
 
 Were sweat-drops from his brow ; 
 But Eve's were scalding tear-drops, sprung 
 
 From depths we know not now. 
 And, thence, adown the lengthening years 
 
 We trace with dimming eyes, 
 Man's pathway jeweled with the tears 
 
 Of woman's sacrifice. 
 
 And, in these tears, the symboling 
 
 To generations past, 
 Of Heaven's priceless offering 
 
 To save our race at last ; 
 The shadow of the coming Christ 
 
 In motherhood we see, 
 Stretching from Eve's dead sacrifice 
 
 To bloody Calvary. 
 
 The tears which flowed where Abel's blood 
 
 Called vengeful mutterings, 
 Mirrored a distant crimson flood 
 
 Which "speaketh better things;"
 
 60 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 While, through that sprinkling blood and tears 
 
 A bow of hope we see 
 From Eden, spanning all the years 
 
 Down to Gethsemane. 
 
 And not a richer tint or shade 
 
 In all that bow we trace, 
 Than glows from out the promise made 
 
 The Mother of our race. 
 When Law's swift-turning, fiery sword 
 
 From Eden piercing far, 
 Should sheathe its point in softer light 
 
 Of Bethlehem's rising star ! 
 
 The image of the Heavenly 
 
 In womanhood we trace, 
 In self-forgetful ministry 
 
 Upward to lift the race. 
 This spirit of unselfishness 
 
 In motherhood replete, 
 Reflects the crimson nail-prints of 
 
 Her Master's hands and feet. 
 
 While, through her offspring, God hath given 
 
 The world's supremest good, 
 Linking humanity to Heaven 
 
 Through human motherhood. 
 Not to the Virgin's Son alone 
 
 The promise is confined, 
 For everywhere the curse hath gone, 
 
 Hath followed womankind.
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 6 1 
 
 God, the Eternal, hath decreed 
 
 Undying enmity 
 Between the serpent and his seed 
 
 And thee, yes, woman, thee. 
 
 See women in life's battlefields; 
 
 How tirelessly they strive ! 
 As, by the sword which woman wields, 
 
 God kills and makes alive ! 
 And let no Church nor mortal bind 
 
 The hands which God hath sped, 
 For woman's seed in womankind 
 
 Is bruising Satan's head ; 
 And though some wise men doubt, we know 
 
 That Heaven hath ever smiled 
 On every faithful woman's blow 
 
 For country, home or child. 
 
 Vain Heaven's smile if men the while 
 
 Sit drowsily and wait 
 While Rum's vile ring is scuttling 
 
 Our grand old Ship of State. 
 Nor shall we thwart the pirate horde 
 
 And keep this craft afloat 
 Unless, to hurl them overboard, 
 
 We welcome woman's vote. 
 Together man and woman sinned, 
 
 And they together fell ; 
 >T is God's own plan that she and man 
 
 Together rise as well.
 
 62 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 The God we trust is all too just 
 
 To look, save with a frown, 
 On any plan that lifts the man 
 
 And leaves the woman down ; 
 And when she votes 't will grow so hot 
 
 Those imps and pimps of hell 
 Will want to ' git ' down in the pit, 
 
 Just to cool off a spell. 
 
 Hail ! Heroines, who toil and pray 
 
 In Right's undying cause ! 
 Striving to pluck our sons away 
 
 From Rum's red, reeking jaws ! 
 Toil on ! for Right is Victory ; 
 
 It falls, but can not fail 
 Long as no woman bends the knee 
 
 To " Boodle's " brazen Baal ! 
 
 Better be " jostled at the polls " 
 
 Than in some vulgar dance ; 
 Better be skilled at winning souls 
 
 Than winning games of chance ! 
 And better bear the world's rude jeer 
 
 And ridicule, my brothers, 
 So you and I help hush the cry 
 
 Of earth for help from mothers. 
 
 Your mother ! Ah, the hopelessness 
 Of the sweet task before me ! 
 
 Can words express the sacredness 
 Of her dear name who bore thee?
 
 
 Your mother."
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Can words add luster to that name ? 
 
 Shall human genius try, 
 With richer hues than angels use, 
 
 To paint the sunset sky ? 
 Can mortals purify the light 
 
 That floods the gates of day ; 
 Accelerate the lightning's flight 
 
 Or gild sun's golden ray ? 
 Or tint the lilies as they grow 
 
 With richer, brighter hue ? 
 Or sweeter tune the song-bird's note? 
 
 Or clarify the dew ? 
 
 Can human skill or alchemy 
 
 Some condiment disclose 
 To sweeten honey from the 
 
 bee 
 
 Or fragrance from the rose ? 
 Till this they do, 't will still 
 
 be true 
 
 In this world and the other, 
 Of human kind ne'er shall 
 
 we find 
 A name so sweet as 
 
 'Mother.' 
 
 The finest fiber of her life 
 Into your own she wove ; 
 Your golden memories are set 
 With jewels of her love. 
 
 Life's " alabaster box " she breaks 
 And pours it on yoiir heads ;
 
 66 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 The perfume of her sacrifice 
 
 Through all your being spreads ; 
 And though you wander far in sin, 
 
 Still true her heart shall beat, 
 And even there your mother's prayer 
 
 Shall tangle 'round your feet ; 
 While, 'round the throne in yonder skies 
 
 The golden odored air 
 Is rich with perfumes which arise 
 
 From saintly mother's prayer. 
 
 This is the mother, precious child, 
 
 From whom, in life's fresh day, 
 Hath vile companionship beguiled 
 
 Many a one away ; 
 Fear that some upstart might deride, 
 
 Some "tough" might hurl a fling ; 
 Might laugh at you and say, " You 're tied 
 
 To mother's Apron String !" 
 
 Alas ! how many a shallow fool 
 
 Now wails in hopeless night 
 Because, for fear of ridicule, 
 
 He dared not do the right ! 
 Thousands of boys dread to be seen 
 
 With mother on the street, 
 And tens of thousands blush to sit 
 
 In church in mother's seat. 
 And all for fear some tough might sneer, 
 
 Some back-seat dudeling frown,
 
 t " Some tough might hart a fling.
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 69 
 
 Who 's always in a front seat when 
 The black-leg show 's in town ! 
 
 My child, do n't heed a hoodlum's fling ; 
 
 But let your answer be, 
 " My blessed mother's apron string 
 
 Is good enough for me." 
 Tell them no Church, no Sunday-school 
 
 E'er made a drunken sot ; 
 Tell them no mother's apron string 
 
 Ends in a hangman's knot. 
 
 A taunt was Satan's first device 
 
 To lead our race astray, 
 And Satan still displays his skill 
 
 With that same tool to-day. 
 That taunt, " It 's Puritanical," 
 
 Gives some men such a shock 
 They 're loath to eat of chicken-meat 
 
 If 't is a ' Plymouth Rock ;' 
 And, only for the fluids used, 
 
 They 'd spurn an eggnog, when 
 Told it was made from eggs 't were laid 
 
 By an old Plymouth hen. 
 
 Ah me ! Those " horrid " Puritans 
 Who dared withstand Queen Bess, 
 
 The lechery and treachery 
 And all the rottenness
 
 70 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 That served to smirch old Europe's Church 
 
 And leaves a stench to-day, 
 The steady breeze of centuries 
 
 Has failed to drive away ! 
 
 Those Puritans, who gave our land 
 
 Its first free government 
 And its first public schools, that stand 
 
 Our proudest ornament ; 
 Who gave us Franklin, Webster, all 
 
 Those men whose hearts and brains 
 Kindled those fires in Faneuil Hall 
 
 Which melted Slavery's chains. 
 
 Those Puritans, men true to God, 
 
 His Sabbath, and his Word ; 
 What wonder that by names like these 
 
 The depths of hell are stirred ! 
 What wonder that, when Law's keen blade 
 
 Deals blows that cleave and tell, 
 The beast does growl, while whelplings howl 
 
 "That's Puritanical!" 
 
 Judged by their early fruits, 't would seem 
 
 That, in those days of yore, 
 The mother countries poured their cream 
 
 On fair New England's shore. 
 But, seeing how the dregs come now, 
 
 For one, I 'm bold to say, 
 " Europe, I wish you 'd give your dish 
 
 A tip the other way."
 
 seeing hcrw the dregs come now.
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 73 
 
 I wish that tipping had been done 
 
 A score of years ago, 
 Ere this fair land was overrun 
 
 By her^most deadly foe 
 Men not at heart Americans ; 
 
 But vampires, many a one ; 
 And filthy dregs of all the lands 
 
 Beneath the encircling sun. 
 
 Now, mark ! I welcome every man 
 
 Who comes as came our sires, 
 To be a true American 
 
 And guard our altar fires ! 
 But, loyalty to Freedom's Flag 
 
 Yields corresponding hate 
 To every anarchistic rag 
 
 Or rival potentate. 
 
 For 't is these dregs thrown on our shore 
 
 From lands beyond the seas, 
 That cover this fair country o'er 
 
 With hell's foul hatcheries 
 Whence drunkards, thieves and harlots hurl 
 
 Their ribald ridicule 
 At ' goody-goody ' folks who stand 
 
 For Sabbath, Church, and school. 
 
 I spurn those hell-begotten flings 
 
 From lips polluted hurled 
 Against the purest, grandest things 
 
 God ever gave the world.
 
 74 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 I scorn the man who aims a blow 
 
 At Bible, Church, or school ; 
 I brand him as my country's foe 
 
 And as the devil's tool. 
 I loathe the viper-venomed thing 
 
 Who seeks, with fiendish zest, 
 To lure, from 'neath its mother-wing, 
 
 The birdling of your nest. 
 
 Hell ne'er devised a blacker art 
 
 Than that which seeks to smother 
 The fires of love in youth's warm heart 
 
 For country, home, and mother. 
 And Heaven no brighter ornament 
 
 Hath given our race, my brother ; 
 Than that young man whose confidante 
 
 And sweetheart is his mother. 
 That son who never grows too old 
 
 Nor yet too ' dignified ' 
 His mother to his heart to fold 
 
 With loving, manly pride ; 
 Proud to be classed with Washington 
 
 And Lincoln, as another 
 Who loves those things called Apron Strings 
 
 That bind him to his mother. 
 
 Nor painter's skill, nor poet's pen, 
 
 Can fittingly portray 
 That matchless deed of Garfield's, when, 
 
 On his inaugural day
 
 " That young man whose confidante and sweetheart is his mother.
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 77 
 
 Kissing the Holy Book, he took 
 
 His Presidential vow ; 
 Then turned aside, with manly pride, 
 
 To kiss his mother's brow. 
 I know no other mother hath 
 
 Such rare domestic bliss ; 
 But, would you gild your mother's path 
 
 With joys akin to this ? 
 Then, hear me, busy wives and men, 
 
 And loving lads and misses : 
 Just grab your mother now and then, 
 
 And smother her with kisses ! 
 
 Ah child ! none other ever knew 
 
 The gnawing-hunger pain 
 Of those who miss a child's warm kiss 
 
 That cometh not again. 
 Some tearful day, my message may 
 
 Come home again to thee ; 
 Thy parent heart may find its part 
 
 In this Gethsemane. 
 So, if thy mother lingers near, 
 
 Stint not love's fond caress. 
 Grief plows its deepest furrows where 
 
 The lips of love ne'er press. 
 If distant, let love's missives fly 
 
 To cheer her day and night ; 
 Ne'er let her sigh, " I wonder why 
 My darling does n't write ?"
 
 78 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Such words recall that dark day when 
 
 The weeping King of kings 
 Alluding to the mother hen, 
 
 With tender, brooding wings 
 Spake of his yearning wings of love 
 
 Ungratefully forgot, 
 Thence, nevermore to hover o'er 
 
 That people who "would not." 
 
 Yet, sad to say, the world to-day 
 
 Hath many an Olivet, 
 Where hearts are bled, and tears are shed 
 
 O'er children who forget ; 
 Forget that mother-heart of love, 
 
 Which thoughtlessness in thee 
 May furrow with the plowshare of 
 
 A nameless agony. 
 
 That heart aflame like Horeb's bush, 
 
 Burning, yet unconsumed, 
 The holiest ground thy feet e 'er found, 
 
 Thy mother's love illumed. 
 For mother's love was hallowed by 
 
 The God-man's earliest breath ; 
 And, " Son, behold thy mother," was 
 
 His last command in death. 
 
 And yet, and yet, how we forget 
 
 To show the love we feel ! 
 The ashes of corroding care 
 
 Love's altar fires conceal.
 
 By clouding their declining days with shadows of despair."
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 81 
 
 I speak not for myself nor mine ; 
 
 Would that all parents knew 
 Such clusters of unfading love 
 
 As our bright paths bestrew. 
 
 But, when our best encomiums 
 
 On filial love are said, 
 What child is there who can declare 
 
 That debt was ever paid ? 
 Alas ! too many a child repays 
 
 All this parental care 
 By clouding their declining days 
 
 With shadows of despair. 
 
 'T is poor return for all those years 
 
 Of care thy life hath cost, 
 To burden those old hearts with fears 
 
 That you may yet be lost. 
 Would God that I might write some line 
 
 'T would prompt you now to say : 
 " Mother of mine, those prayers of thine 
 
 Are answered from to-day." 
 
 Hence, in these measures, I would hide 
 
 So much of love's rich leaven, 
 That when I 'm gone, they shall sing on 
 
 For Mother, Home, and Heaven ; 
 Sing on, until, more thickly still 
 
 The flowers of love are strewn 
 For her whose brow hath caught e'en now 
 
 The radiance of the throne.
 
 82 
 
 YOUR MOTHER'S APRON STRINGS. 
 
 Better love's spoken word to-day, 
 Than cut in marble cold ; 
 
 Better strew flowers along 
 
 her way 
 Than on her sleeping 
 
 mold. 
 Let love like hers for thee, 
 
 dear child, 
 Illume her shortening 
 
 stay 
 
 This side her " mansion, undefiled, 
 That fadeth not away." 
 
 Yet I do not forget that here 
 
 Reads many a stricken one, 
 Whose eloquent though voiceless tear 
 
 Tells of a mother gone. 
 Would I might strike this harp, yet spare 
 
 Those tear-wet, trembling strings, 
 Whose tender, sad responses are 
 
 Death's muffled whisperings. 
 
 For I can mourn with her who mourns 
 
 And weep with him who weeps. 
 'T is scores of years since first my tears 
 
 Fell where my mother sleeps. 
 And thus I read, through streaming eyes, 
 
 God's providence, at last, 
 When cords that draw me to the skies 
 
 Through coffin-handles passed.
 
 YOUR MOTHER 'S APRON STRINGS. 83 
 
 But though 't was in life's far-off spring 
 
 When mother went away, 
 Thank God ! her precious Apron Strings 
 
 Draw heavenward to-day ! 
 Thus may it be with thine to thee ; 
 
 Let death not loose thine hold, 
 But change them by its alchemy, 
 
 To jeweled chains of gold. 
 And thus, till to his heavenly fold 
 
 Our wayward feet he brings, 
 God help us all to keep our hold 
 
 On Mother's Apron Strings !
 
 NOTE. 
 
 In delivering this poem as a platform 
 entertainment, Chaplain Lozier has sung, at 
 the end of the Prologue, his song entitled 
 " The Man of Galilee," and, at the close of 
 the entertainment, his song entitled " Your 
 Mother's Apron String." Both are pub 
 lished in sheet music form, regular price, 
 60 cents. But to purchasers of this book 
 both songs will be mailed, post-paid, upon 
 receipt of 30 cents. Address, 
 
 LOZIER BROS., 
 Mount Vernon, Iowa. 
 84
 
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