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POEMS BY 
 HARRY L. CULLER 
 
TO THE PUBLIC 
 
 The author hopes in the near 
 future to present other vol- 
 umes of poems to the public, 
 copy for which is now ready 
 for the press. These include 
 the patriotic, the sentimental, 
 the humorous, poems of youth, 
 of maturer years, of old age, 
 and, in fact, a wide range of 
 subjects. And may the public 
 be not too severe in its criti- 
 cism of the author's humble 
 efforts, who has had only his 
 spare moments in which to 
 write, a large portion having 
 been written in the very early 
 hours of the morning, many 
 before the break of dawn. 
 
u 
 
 Poems of 
 
 Parrg JL Culler 
 
 Jittj .Slllusiraittms 
 
 ssflx^&g: 
 
 Press of The Lakeland Evening Telegram 
 Lakeland, Florida 
 

 \^~ 
 
 - 
 
 ■;- 
 
 Copyright, 1916, 
 
 by 
 
 Harrison Lewis Culler 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 DEC St6 1916 
 
 •CI.A453286 
 
 
'llMl'U'M'lllM'll'llitl'll'll'lJMCllhl'llttfllllll'llllPllMl'M'll'lI'lHlHtKl 
 
 Dedicated to MOTHER, that Dear, 
 Loving Soul: your mother and mine. 
 In memory of mother, Mrs. Ella Scott 
 {twice widowed), who passed on 
 November 26, 1915. 
 
 M.ii.n.M^iifi.n.H.n.M.rMiiM^iiMi'i.n.M.PiiiuMi'ii'u'iihiMiMi'iiid' 
 
A mother's love is constant; 
 
 A mother's love is true, 
 And everything a mother can 
 
 She will for her child do ; 
 That child may be a wayward one 
 
 And steeped in sin may be, 
 Yet she would clasp that one to her 
 
 And say: "Come home with me." 
 
INDEX TO 
 THE TITLES OF THE POEMS 
 
 A Dream 125 
 
 A Flower for the Master 53 
 
 A Little Lock of Hair 136 
 
 A Little Orphan's Cry 113 
 
 A Magical Word 114 
 
 A Monument 122 
 
 A Pillow Mother Made 138 
 
 Appreciate Your Mother .99 
 
 Asleep 142 
 
 At Rest 134 
 
 Christmas 139 
 
 Doubly Blest 30 
 
 Dreams of a Mother 95 
 
 Flowers and Birds 51 
 
 Grandma's Visit 44 
 
 Humoring the Grandchild 106 
 
 "I Want to Go to Gamma's House" . ... 117 
 
 "Let Me to Thy Bosom Fly" 130 
 
 Listen to Your Mother, Boy 97 
 
 Lost in the Snow 67 
 
 Love Them Now 116 
 
 Make Mother Bosom Friend 94 
 
 Mother's Day 58 
 
 Mother's Love 22 
 
INDEX TO TITLES OF THE POEMS — Continued 
 
 Liother's Love Cannot Be Replaced .... 29 
 
 Mother's Picture 141 
 
 Mother's Worries 37 
 
 My Mother and My Boy 105 
 
 Prelude 17 
 
 Rest on Your Mother's Breast 85 
 
 That Mother of Mine 21 
 
 That Old Cradle Song 81 
 
 That Old-Time Church 70 
 
 The Dream Come True . 12& 
 
 The Little Mother 110 
 
 The Old Familiar Scenes 121 
 
 The Old-Fashioned Housewife 39 
 
 The Songs That Mother Loved 76 
 
 The Traveler's Return 98 
 
 Those Heads of Gray 32 
 
 This Earth Would Be a Heaven 147 
 
 Sacred Love 27 
 
 What Mother Has Done 35 
 
 What the Baby May Be 87 
 
 When Baby Starts to School 90 
 
 When Baby Was Sick 92 
 
 When I Come Home Again 54 
 
 When Wife Was on a Visit 41 
 
 "Where Are You Going, Little Miss?" . . .100 
 
 Woman's Love 28 
 
 Wyndham Tennant 63 
 
 ^, 
 
INDEX TO 
 THE FIRST LINES OF THE POEMS 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet" 142 
 
 Blest is that mother, doubly blest 30 
 
 Dear girl, your mother always make .... 94 
 
 Did you ever see a grandm ., 105 
 
 Fighting for the French 63 
 
 "Go, bring me a flower," said the Master . . 53 
 
 Here is a little lock of hair 136 
 
 Here is a pillow mother made 138 
 
 How carefully she tucks in bed 110 
 
 How carefully the mother clothes 90 
 
 How pleasant to the traveler when .... 98 
 
 I am but an humble workman 17 
 
 I do not say to you, dear girls . . . . . . 139 
 
 I dreamed that I came home last night . . . 125 
 
 If the dreams of a mother all came true ... 95 
 
 I long to build a monument 122 
 
 In a go-cart wheeling slowly 87 
 
 I never see a head of gray 32 
 
 In shroud of white, in casket gray 134 
 
 It was not a pretty structure 70 
 
 I've just been down to grandma's house . . . 106 
 
 "Jesus, lover of my soul" . 130 
 
 Lay your head on my breast, my baby, and sleep 85 
 
 Listen to your mother, boy 97 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES OF POEMS— Continued 
 
 Love them now, yea, love them ever .... 116 
 
 My soul is now cast down within 128 
 
 My wife had gone on a visit . ■ 41 
 
 Oh, I will sing of that mother of mine ... 21 
 
 Rest content within your nest 22 
 
 She rises early of a morn 39 
 
 Some time ago 117 
 
 Speak not lightly of the Indians 67 
 
 Tears fall from saddened eyes 121 
 
 The love of a mother 29 
 
 The songs that mother loved 76 
 
 There hangs my mother's picture on the wall . 141 
 
 There is a story old 27 
 
 There is a word comes to all of us mortals . . 114 
 
 There's none in this world to love me now . . 113 
 
 Think of your mother today, today .... 58 
 
 This earth would be a heaven, indeed . . . 147 
 
 Tonight a little cradle song — a lullaby — I heard . 81 
 
 We could have lived without the flowers . . 51 
 
 What is it that lives forever? 28 
 
 When baby took sick 92 
 
 When will mother's worries cease? .... 37 
 
 When my gran'ma came to see us .... 44 
 
 When I come home again, dear girls .... 54 
 
 "Where are you going, little miss?" .... 100 
 
 Who went down to the brink of death ... 35 
 
 Your mother, boy 99 
 
INDEX TO 
 THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Mother With Us Frontispiece 
 
 A Little Waterfall 79 
 
 A Mother and Babe 83 
 
 Grandma and Grandson 107 
 
 "I'm Goin' to My Gamma's House 101 
 
 Pleasant Are Smiles on Her Pace Which I See . 25 
 
 Scenes Along Deer Creek 119 
 
 That Old-Time Church 73 
 
 The Old Covered Bridge 79 
 
 The Old Home Place and Its Garden of Flowers 55 
 
 The Hillside Steps 79 
 
 The Little Mother 110 
 
 The Three Sisters 33 
 
 Watching for Papa 21 
 
 When my Gran-ma Came to See Us .... 45 
 
Mother, mother, loving mother; 
 
 Friends we may have tried and true, 
 Never, never will another 
 
 Ever take the place of you. 
 
PRELUDE 
 
 I am but an humble workman ; 
 
 To the higher I aspire, 
 For in every normal bosom 
 
 Burns ambition's quenchless fire. 
 
 I would write you — write you often- - 
 
 A rhymetic, tender verse; 
 Only simple little sonnets; 
 
 If not better, nothing worse. 
 
 But, I tell you, my ambition 
 Is to find a quick response 
 
 In the hearts of those who read me 
 That they understand at once. 
 
 Not some masterful endeavor 
 That takes hours to understand, 
 
 But a simple talk between us, 
 Face to face, clasp hand in hand. 
 
 17 
 
PRELUDE 
 
 Sincere sympathy will vibrate 
 On heart chords of f ellowmen ; 
 
 None will value my endeavor 
 Till my lines do — not till then. 
 
 I would have atuned my heart chords 
 With the heart chords of your own 
 
 That one's vibrate with the other's 
 In a sympathetic tone. 
 
 If you smile, I would smile with you ; 
 
 If you weep, I would weep, too; 
 May the bond of love between us 
 
 Be consistent, constant, true. 
 
 For there is a bond between us — 
 The great brotherhood of man. 
 
 And it is my humble longing 
 To give solace, if I can. 
 
 So I beg that you will read me 
 As a friend who to you came 
 
 With a heart a-throb as yours is, 
 For that truly is my aim. 
 
 18 
 
MOTHER AND MOTHER LOVE 
 
 There is a flower of human kind, 
 A flower sent from above; 
 
 'Tis pure untarnished motherhood; 
 Tts fragrance mother love. 
 
Mother's love always endures; 
 Mortals know no holier thing 
 Than that love of which we sing. 
 
THAT MOTHER OF MINE 
 
 Oh, I will sing of that mother of mine, 
 In whom it would seem that the angels com- 
 bine 
 The divine and the human in precious alloy, 
 Graced with heavenly gems that bring peace 
 
 and give joy. 
 Her dear form is stooped and her precious 
 head gray 
 
 21 
 
MOTHER'S LOVE 
 
 With the cares of the days that have now 
 
 passed away. 
 And her eyes have been dimmed with the 
 
 freshets of tears 
 And sorrows she knew in the now by-gone 
 
 years. 
 And markings of trouble remain on her brow, 
 God grant that no more may be penciled there 
 
 now; 
 But pleasant are smiles on her face which I 
 
 see. 
 No riches of earth can she shower upon me, 
 But that which for me her bosom doth hold 
 Is worth more by far than mountains of gold — 
 A love, although human, more like the divine; 
 Oh, grateful am I for that mother of mine. 
 
 MOTHER'S LOVE 
 
 Rest content within your nest, 
 
 Little dove, 
 Mother knoweth what is best; 
 
 Mother's love 
 
 22 
 
MOTHER'S LOVE 
 
 Will your every need supply 
 
 In her power; 
 Rest content; why fret or cry? 
 
 Every hour 
 Is a balm beneath her smile ; 
 
 Laugh and coo : 
 Happy in the thought the while 
 
 She loves you, 
 And her love always endures ; 
 
 So may yours. 
 
 Rest content within your nest, 
 
 Little dove; 
 Petted, humored and caressed 
 
 By that love ; 
 Shielded, guarded, guided, led, 
 
 Taught to pray, 
 And with heavenly manna fed 
 
 Every day 
 By that love that cannot fail, 
 
 Always pure ; 
 'Gainst which hosts cannot prevail, 
 
 Safe, secure. 
 Mother's love always endures ; 
 
 So may yours. 
 
 2 3 
 
MOTHER'S LOVE 
 
 Rest content ! You will be grown 
 
 All too soon, 
 And from mother's nest have flown ; 
 
 Hum and croon 
 In a nest that holds your own 
 
 A cradle tune 
 When no more to you are known 
 
 May and June; 
 Then that love within your breast, 
 
 Which shall swell 
 For the dovelets in your nest 
 
 Where you dwell, 
 Shall sooth them — your young — 
 to rest : 
 
 Loved so well. 
 
 Sacred then your love for yours ; 
 Mother's love always endures; 
 Mortals know no holier thing 
 Than that love of which we sing. 
 
 24 
 
SACRED LOVE 
 
 There is a story old, 
 Long, long ago told, 
 That God could not be everywhere 
 And so he made a mother. 
 
 More like to that above, 
 Indeed, is mother's love 
 In ever constant, shielding care, 
 Than is that of another. 
 
 Dear friends we may have who 
 Have love tender and true; 
 Affections bonds unbroken 
 Of sister or a brother. 
 
 And love dear lips profess 
 May crown our lives to bless ; 
 But sacred, though unspoken 
 Is that love of a mother. 
 27 
 
WOMAN'S LOVE 
 
 What is it that lives forever? 
 
 Woman's love. 
 What is it that grows cold never?' 
 
 Woman's love. 
 Though by him she loves forsaken 
 Still her love remains unshaken, 
 Constant as the stars above. 
 
 And the clouds can never dim it ; 
 
 Woman's love 
 Knows no ending and no limit ; 
 
 Woman's love 
 From a breast full of emotions 
 Reaches deeper than the oceans, 
 Higher than the skies above. 
 
 Oh, to what shall we compare it — 
 
 Woman's love? 
 Fortunate are we who share it — 
 
 Woman's love ! 
 28 
 
MOTHER'S LOVE CANNOT BE REPLACED 
 
 Here on earth it has no equal, 
 Heaven, heaven is its sequel 
 'Midst the saints white-robed 
 above. 
 
 MOTHER'S LOVE CANNOT 
 BE REPLACED 
 
 The love of a mother 
 
 Cannot be replaced by that of another. 
 
 Though deep into vice, degradation and sin 
 
 Her child may be, or may have been, 
 
 Her love is unchanging, still the same, 
 
 Somebody else was more to blame; 
 
 In her heart for her child is a tender place, 
 
 And her prayers arise to the throne of grace; 
 
 When the world lends no hand to help or 
 
 uplift, 
 Still she seeks to rescue her child from the 
 
 drift ; 
 And many a child is restored again 
 To a womanly woman or manly man 
 Because of a mother. 
 
 29 
 
DOUBLY BLEST 
 
 The love of a mother 
 
 Cannot he replaced by that of another. 
 
 I have heard, you have heard of one who to- 
 day 
 
 We esteem, who, in youth, was, at school and 
 play, 
 
 Apparently dull and odd and queer; 
 
 Mother alone gave a word of cheer, 
 
 Mother alone gave a helping hand, 
 
 Mother alone could understand; 
 
 The world looked on with its taunt and scorn 
 
 On that child who, in fact, was a genius born. 
 
 Discouraged, dejected by unkind remarks, 
 
 What would he have been, had mother — his 
 mother — not kindled the sparks? 
 
 The love of a mother 
 
 Cannot be replaced by that of another. 
 
 DOUBLY BLEST 
 
 Blest is that mother, doubly blest, 
 Who of her children thus can say: 
 
 "I raised them all," and, truthfully, 
 "None better can you find than they." 
 
 How proud her heart, how restfully 
 
 30 
 
DOUBLY BLEST 
 
 Can she spend her remaining years; 
 No need of worry or of care, 
 
 Nor of anxiety or tears; 
 She can look back and truly feel 
 
 None of her labors were in vain, 
 And thankful be that she for them 
 
 Endured hardships, suffering and pain ; 
 No hero ever more achieved, 
 
 And for it all she feels repaid. 
 How differently, what great heartaches, 
 
 If one from her sheepfold had strayed. 
 
 Blest are those children, doubly blest, 
 
 Of whom we speak in lines above, 
 Who never strayed, but all their lives 
 
 Were guided by their mother's love, 
 And never caused that one to grieve. 
 
 If they had caused their mother tears. 
 
 And feel their loving mother's years 
 Were shortened by their wayward feet, 
 
 How great would then be their remorse 
 When she is gone ! 
 
 But this shall be unfailing source 
 Of constant consolation sweet : 
 
 Their feet did not love's way forsake ; 
 
 They never caused her one heartache. 
 
 31 
 
THOSE HEADS OF GRAY 
 
 I never see a head of gray 
 But what I wonder if, today, 
 There is some one who understands — 
 Some faithful child with gentle hands 
 To lovingly smooth back those hairs, 
 And brush away also the cares 
 That left their traces on that brow — 
 Some one to cheer that gray head now. 
 
 I never see the aged put 
 Forward a faltering, tottering foot 
 But what I wonder if, today, 
 There are kind children who in love 
 And thonghtfulness now pave the way 
 That still remains for those tired feet 
 Before they press the gold paved street ; 
 Those feet which have been bruised and torn 
 With many a jagged rock, and thorn. 
 
 I never see an aged form 
 
 Bent with its load and weight of years, 
 
 32 
 
WHAT MOTHER HAS DONE 
 
 Which it so patiently has born, 
 But what the question comes to mind : 
 Are there dear children, who are kind, 
 To lift the load ; or, must it wait 
 Till ushered through the golden gate 
 To have some one wipe 'way the tears? 
 
 Can there be those who to the end 
 Must plod while children stretch no hand 
 To aid and comfort, or befriend? 
 Oh, why is it that there are some 
 Must suffer till death angels come? 
 Oh, why not here ere they go hence 
 Have heaven on earth for them commence? 
 
 WHAT MOTHER HAS DONE 
 
 Who went down to the brink of death 
 That she might give me birth; 
 
 Who cared for me in helpless years 
 As none else could on earth? 
 My mother. 
 
 35 
 
WHAT MOTHER HAS DONE 
 
 Who was it conscientiously, 
 
 Amid her toils and cares, 
 Taught nie the way that I should go ; 
 
 Cheered with her songs and prayers ? 
 My mother. 
 
 Who watched o'er me with loving care 
 
 When I, a child, was ill, 
 And now would do the same for me 
 
 If she were living still? 
 My mother. 
 
 Yea!— 
 A mother's love is constant, 
 
 A mother's love is true, 
 And everything a mother can 
 
 She will for her child do ; 
 That child may be a wayward one, 
 
 And steeped in sin may be, 
 Yet she would clasp that one to her 
 
 And say : "Come home with me." 
 
 36 
 
MOTHER'S WORRIES. 
 
 When will mother's worries cease? 
 
 Never ! Never ! 
 
 Not on earth ! 
 Not while mother is still mortal 
 
 Ever, ever 
 
 From the birth 
 Of her first, on through the years, 
 With misgivings and with fears ; 
 Mind and heart upon each one — 
 Whether daughter or a son, 
 Whether home or whether gone — 
 M,other worries for each child; 
 Nor to losses reconciled 
 What if one should pass away? 
 What if one should go astray? 
 Oh, the heartaches of a mother ! 
 First one worry, then another, 
 Till she has passed through the portal 
 To the life that is beyond- 
 Even then, methinks, that mother — 
 
 37 
 
MOTHER'S WORRIES 
 
 Angel spirit of that mother — 
 Would come back and would assist us 
 
 If she could ; 
 Just as truly as she did 
 Ere the grave her features hid, 
 Ere her form was laid to rest, 
 If she could but see and hear 
 Just as when in early childhood 
 We poured troubles in her ear, 
 And she took us up and kissed us : 
 Surely, methinks, mother would — 
 Even when passed through the portal 
 To that life that is immortal — 
 Would come back and would assist us 
 If she could. 
 
 Save your mother from all worry 
 That you can, 
 Whether child beneath her shelter 
 Or a woman or a man. 
 
 38 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED HOUSEWIFE 
 
 She rises early of a morn 
 
 And sets about her work ; 
 She does not envy others' toil 
 
 In factory or as clerk. 
 
 She is contented with her lot ; 
 
 She is no social elf; 
 She thinks much of her family 
 
 And little of herself. 
 
 She loves her husband and her babes, 
 
 And gladly does for them ; 
 The good old-fashioned housewife is, 
 
 Indeed, a precious gem. 
 
 Her husband is a prosperous man 
 For she has skimped and saved; 
 
 Her children are kept clean and neat 
 And all are well behaved. 
 
 Day in, day out, about the house 
 Industriously, she toils ; 
 
 39 
 
THE OLD-FASHIONED HOUSEWIFE 
 
 With her the kettle gaily sings 
 When in it water boils. 
 
 Her husband loves his family. 
 
 And he finds it well worth 
 His while to spend his evenings home- 
 
 The dearest place on earth. 
 
 Of her own household proud is she, 
 
 And always tries to please; 
 She soothes her children's childish care; 
 
 With them upon her knees. 
 
 Her girls to saintly women grow. 
 
 And womanhood adorn, 
 As pure in mind and clean in heart 
 
 As babies newly born. 
 
 And when her sons to manhood grow, 
 They make their marks in life, 
 
 Because their good, old mother was 
 Such a whole-souled housewife. 
 
 Blessed are they — the good housewives,- 
 Who shed forth love and light; 
 
 They are the ever-luminous stars 
 In earth's dark, moonless night. 
 
 40 
 
WHEN WIFE WAS ON A VISIT 
 
 My wife had gone on a visit. 
 
 And with her our baby boy, 
 So the house was very lonesome 
 
 As was every baby toy. 
 
 And while they were gone I concluded 
 
 I would also take a trip, 
 So, accordingly, made arrangements, 
 
 And hastily packed my giip. 
 
 I took the train in the morning 
 Although my wife did not know, 
 
 For what can hold a lonesome man 
 When he decides to go. 
 
 I stopped by a gay flower garden 
 In a long June day twilight; 
 
 I was entranced with its beauty - 
 It was a lovely sight. 
 
 41 
 
WHEN WIFE WAS ON A VISIT 
 
 Fine dahlias and chrysanthemums 
 In all colors were in bloom. 
 
 And other flowers I did not see 
 Sent out a rich perfume. 
 
 But more than the flowers made m. 
 linger, 
 
 And, tell you?— that I will: 
 There was some one in that garden 
 
 Who was more attractive still. 
 
 There she was gathering flowers, 
 Far more lovelier than they ; 
 
 I caught but glimpses of her face 
 As she bent her head of gray. 
 
 My heart was right in that garden 
 Where she and the flowers were, 
 
 And the impulse I could no longer 
 Resist to go to her. 
 
 At first she did not see me, 
 But finally raised her head, 
 
 And, then, expressing glad surprise, 
 "Well, for pity sakes," she said. 
 
 42 
 
WHEN WIFE WAS ON A VISIT 
 
 I walked right up and kissed her, 
 Not a soul will dare blame me, 
 
 And never thought for a moment 
 That perhaps my wife would see. 
 
 My wife ! She came rushing at me ! 
 
 Had I done aught amiss? 
 No, it was to give me greeting 
 
 With a loving wifely kiss. 
 
 And,, the boy ! he came toddling after, 
 And I tossed him in the air; 
 
 It was a gladsome meeting; 
 It was happy to be there 
 
 With mother, my wife and baby, 
 And out among the flowers ; 
 
 At mother's home — all together; — 
 Were there ever happier hours? 
 
 43 
 
GRANDMA'S VISIT 
 
 When my gran'ma came to see us 
 We had the goodest time; 
 
 .She came to spend the winter 
 From a cold northern clime. 
 
 But 'fore she came, pa cut the grass 
 And straightened up the yard, 
 
 And ma, she done housecleanin' 
 And worked most awful hard. 
 
 She opened the spare bedroom up 
 That had been locked a year, 
 
 And fixed it up with nicest things 
 For gran'ma's use while here. 
 
 And I — I kept a-lookin' 
 
 And a-waitin' for the day 
 When she would come, and thought of 
 her 
 
 When not sleep or at play. 
 
 44 
 
GRANDMA'S VISIT 
 
 We met the train to meet her, 
 And found her jes' the same 
 
 Dear old gran'ma we left up north ; 
 I was so glad she came. 
 
 We tried to make her visit jes' 
 
 As pleasant as we could, 
 For we love to have her with us, 
 
 And I was extra good. 
 
 And ma brought out the silver spoons 
 
 That aren't offen used, 
 And the china she keeps stored away 
 
 So it won't get abused. 
 
 She fetched out the white table cloth, 
 And towels with ends crocheted, 
 
 And napkins with some stitches drawn, 
 And lots more gran'ma made, 
 
 Who wondered how things kept so nice 
 She made and sent herself; 
 
 But, when she's gone, ma keeps 'em on 
 The linen closet shelf. 
 
 And ma, she called pa to one side 
 And say's : "It ain't enough 
 
 47 
 
GRANDMA'S VISIT 
 
 When gran'ma's here from 'way up 
 north 
 To have jes' common stuff. 
 
 So pa, he hustles down to town, 
 And — tell you what ! — he gits 
 
 A lots besides fat bacon 
 And sweetpota's and grits. 
 
 Well, ma, she sets the table 
 We keep for company use ; 
 
 We had a lot o' dainty things, 
 
 And — -orange and grapefruit juice. 
 
 And onct I got a stomach ache 
 Jes' 'cause I ate too much 
 
 O' pies and cakes and company things, 
 For I ain't used to such. 
 
 But then I wouldn't care for that 
 If gran'ma could jes' stay; 
 
 But now it's spring and she went 
 home — 
 She left jes' yesterday. 
 
 She thought I was the goodest boy, 
 But, sometimes — why, you know, — 
 
 48 
 
GRANDMA'S VISIT 
 
 When she's not here, I's awful bad; 
 You mustn't tell her, though. 
 
 She told how good pa used to be 
 
 When he was jes' a kid, 
 And said I much reminded her 
 
 Of him in things I did. 
 
 1 reckon he was good — and is, 
 But it don't seem that way 
 
 Sometimes when he gits cross with me 
 Because I disobey. 
 
 Then onct I heard a neighbor say 
 That, though a boy is wild, 
 
 A ma can't see as others do 
 The faults in her own child. 
 
 But gran'ma think's I's jes' the boy; 
 
 Well, — y'-e-s, — my ma does, too ; — 
 She thinks the other boy's to blame 
 
 No matter what I do. 
 
 You've offen heard pa talk o' things 
 "Like mother used to make," 
 
 And so I thought that probably 
 Gran'ma would cook and bake. 
 
 49 
 
GRANDMA'S VISIT 
 
 But I's awful glad she didn't, 
 And why? Why jes' because 
 
 I'd've eat so much Fd've busted 
 If things were better'n ma's. 
 
 I think a lot o' gran'ma; 
 
 She's jes' as good as pie; 
 It made me feel jes' awful bad 
 
 To have to say good-bye. 
 
 She gives me lots o' presents, 
 And onct a hobby horse, 
 
 But what I like the most o' all 
 Is jes' gran'ma, o' course. 
 
 And when she left she said that she 
 Would sometime come again; 
 
 And I's offen goin' to see her 
 And — stay when I's a man. 
 
 I told her that I'd always be 
 
 Obedient and good; 
 That some day I was goin' to be 
 
 The gov'ner if I could; 
 And she jes' hugged and kissed me 
 
 And said she knowed I would. 
 
 50 
 
FLOWERS AND BIRDS 
 
 We could have lived without the 
 flowers, 
 A muse wrote long ago — 
 The pretty flowers, the fragrant 
 flowers, 
 Which all of us love so. 
 
 But dreary, then, were vales and hills, 
 And all the woodlands, too, 
 
 With never flower to greet the eye 
 Or catch the falling dew. 
 
 There is a flower of human kind ; 
 
 A flower sent from above ; 
 'Tis pure untarnished motherhood ; 
 
 Its fragrance mother love. 
 
 What were this earth without that 
 flower; 
 
 Or what were mortal years 
 Without a mother's love to soothe 
 
 And dry our childish tears? 
 
 51 
 
FLOWERS AND BIRDS 
 
 We could have lived without the birds, 
 Their chirp and carolled notes, 
 
 But woodlands would less cheerful be 
 Without their warbling- throats. 
 
 But sweeter far than carolled songs 
 
 In vale or woodland wild 
 Are lullabies from mother's lips 
 
 Sung to her little child. 
 
 Sometimes we pass unnoticing 
 The flowers about our feet; 
 
 Sometimes we do not seem to hear 
 The carolled songs so sweet. 
 
 But when the flowers have faded, 
 And when the birds have flown, 
 
 We yearn to have them back with us — 
 To claim them for our own. 
 
 Sometimes, alas, a child may not 
 
 Fully appreciate 
 The mother God has spared to it 
 
 Until it is too late. 
 
 52 
 
A FLOWER FOR THE MASTER 
 
 "Go, bring me a flower," said the 
 Master, 
 
 And the angel sped away 
 Down to this world of shadows 
 
 From realms of endless day. 
 
 He came to a pretty garden, 
 Which passers stopped to see ; 
 
 But he said: "None of those flowers 
 Will I take back with me." 
 
 But he saw an aged mother, 
 And took her by the hand, 
 
 And together they departed 
 Unto that spirit land. 
 
 Of all flowers under heaven 
 None are more fair, nor could 
 
 More fitly adorn Christ's kingdom 
 Than blessed motherhood. 
 
 53 
 
WHEN I COME HOME AGAIN 
 
 When I come home again, dear girls, 
 
 I'll find no mother there; 
 I'll see the flowers that mother loved, 
 
 I'll see the vacant chair. 
 
 No kiss of hers upon my lips; 
 
 No voice of hers I'll hear — 
 That voice which since my early life 
 
 Could always sooth and cheer. 
 
 The dear old home will still be there 
 
 With tender memories 
 Of all our mother did for us — 
 
 Her love and sympathies. 
 
 The apple trees will still be there. 
 
 And robins in them sing 
 Each year just as they sang of yore 
 
 When nature wakes in spring. 
 
 54 
 
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WHEN I COME HOME AGAIN 
 
 The swing will be upon the lawn; 
 
 The grass be fresh and green ; 
 But home will never be the same 
 
 With her absent, unseen. 
 
 I hope that I may see you all 
 
 With each returning trip, 
 When memories from our hearts of her 
 
 Will pour from lip to lip. 
 
 And I shall hear you sing again 
 The songs she loved so much, 
 
 Just as you used to sing- for her 
 But with a sadder touch. 
 
 For mother, she will not be there ; 
 
 Oh, girls, how I shall miss 
 Her face, her smile, her loving voice, 
 
 Hier warm handclasp and kiss, 
 
 I'll find a grassy mound not far, 
 Where you have all shed tears, 
 
 Where I shall weep, for eyes cannot 
 Be dried with passing years. 
 
 57 
 
MOTHER'S DAY 
 
 Think of your mother today, today. 
 
 Wherever you may be, 
 Though from her home you are far 
 away, 
 
 Even beyond the sea. 
 
 Send her a letter and token of love ; 
 
 Such privilege don't defer 
 Till her spirit takes the wings of a 
 dove ; 
 
 Let her know that you think of her. 
 
 The days will come — you know not 
 when — ■ 
 That mother's voice is stilled 
 To never speak on earth again, 
 
 When death her form hath chilled. 
 58 
 
MOTHER'S DAY 
 
 Show that you love her now — before 
 Her soul has passed away ; 
 
 Ere those eyes close to ope' no more; 
 Think of her, child, today. 
 
 The voice that once sang lullabies 
 
 To you, you love to hear, 
 May, ere you know, bid last goodbyes, 
 
 And flowers adorn her bier. 
 
 The eyes that watched so tenderly 
 O'er you in helpless years, 
 
 Some day, and soon, you may not see; 
 And yours will flood with tears. 
 
 The hands that took such care of you 
 And clasped you to her breast, 
 
 Which did for you all they could do, 
 Will some day lie at rest. 
 
 Let mother know that in your heart 
 Love's flame for her still burns 
 
 Ere she shall for those realms depart 
 From whence none e'er returns. 
 
 59 
 
MOTHER'S DAY 
 
 Go to her while you can and may, 
 While she can see and speak; 
 
 Place flowers upon her lap today, 
 And kisses on her cheek. 
 
 And ever may your life be such 
 That brings not sobs and sighs; 
 
 And never, never, bring a touch 
 Of sadness to her eyes. 
 
 For none could ever wish to rob 
 
 A mother of one joy, 
 Far less to cause her one heart throb — 
 
 Not her own girl or boy. 
 
 The confidence she has in you, 
 Would you, would you betray; 
 
 Or bow, in shame for what you do, 
 That precious head of gray? 
 
 Bring not in sorrow to the grave 
 Your own dear, loving mother; 
 
 Her place, when grasses o'er her wave, 
 Can be filled by no other. 
 60 
 
MOTHER'S DAY 
 
 May righteously your days be spent 
 With all due self-respect — ■ 
 
 A far more fitting monument 
 To her than hands erect. 
 
 If you are far away from her, 
 
 Send frequently a letter; 
 They are dear to her as they ever 
 were; 
 
 Oh, yes, and you had better 
 
 Go to her while you can and may, 
 While she can see and speak; 
 
 Place flowers upon her lap today 
 And kisses on her cheek. 
 
 61 
 
[During the month of November (1916') 
 the following article appeared in various 
 newspapers, and the author has drawn a 
 poem from it: "Some weeks ago a boy ot 
 19 fell in battle in France. * * * The boy's 
 name was Wyndham Tennant. They found 
 in the pocket of his jacket a short note, 
 scratched on a scrap of paper. On the outer 
 side of the folded slip was the one word: 
 'Mother.' The note read: 'This is written 
 in case anything happens to me, for 1 
 should like you to have just a little mes- 
 sage from my own hand. Your love for me 
 and my love for you have made my whole 
 life one of the happiest there has ever 
 been. * * * God bless you, and give you 
 peace.' Not even the turmoil and the travail 
 of the trenches can wipe out a real man's 
 veneration for his mother. Wyndham Ten- 
 nant, you could have given your mother no 
 finer gift than the little scrap of soiled paper 
 found in your blood-stained jacket. In hon- 
 oring your mother you honored yourself."] 
 
WYNDHAM TENNANT 
 
 Fighting for the French 
 
 In a foremost trench, 
 Young Wyndham Tennant fell; 
 
 He was brave and true 
 
 As one ever knew, 
 And he loved his mother well. 
 
 May his grave be green; 
 
 He was just nineteen; 
 He was scarcely more than child. 
 
 As he marched away 
 
 From his home one day, 
 Sweetly on him mother smiled. 
 
 But her dear heart throbbed, 
 For cruel war hath robbed 
 
 Many homes of the brave and best ; 
 And our mothers weep 
 While the warriors sleep 
 
 On the battlefields at rest. 
 
 63 
 
WYNDHAM TENNANT 
 
 Fear her dear heart filled 
 
 Lest he, too, be killed, 
 But she knew he would perform 
 
 Qiuite commendably, 
 
 And was proud to see 
 Her son wear the uniform. 
 
 They honored her son 
 
 For he honors won 
 In the fiercest of the fight; 
 
 How nobly he fought 
 
 As a warrior ought ! 
 But he fell asleep one night. 
 
 When nobly engaged 
 While the battle raged, 
 
 Beside him there burst a shell. 
 Though great be one's deeds, 
 None greater praise needs 
 
 Than that he loved mother well. 
 
 During all of those months 
 At the various fronts, 
 In the hottest of the fight, 
 
 64 
 
WYNDHAM TBNNANT 
 
 He never forgot 
 Whatever his lot 
 That mother of his to write. 
 
 Great the love he bore 
 
 For her, who no more 
 He should see this side of death. 
 
 They who saw him fall 
 
 Heard one word, that was all — 
 Her name, in his dying breath. 
 
 And his comrades around 
 
 In his pockets they found 
 Her picture, and also there were 
 
 Her letters well worn ; 
 
 Some by the shell town; 
 And a note directed to her. 
 
 On the outside was "mother," 
 
 That word and no other ; 
 But he spoke of her love, within ; 
 
 That her love for her son 
 
 Had made his life one 
 Of the happiest there ever had been. 
 
 65 
 
WYNDHAM TENNANT 
 
 "I have written this note, 
 
 Dear mother," he wrote, 
 "In case something happens to me, 
 
 That my comrades might send 
 
 Word from my own hand; 
 God bless and give peace unto thee." 
 
 'Twas as the dead spoke ; 
 
 We will draw a cloak 
 'Round sorrows of sorrowing ones; 
 
 But mothers, sad-hearted, 
 
 Who mourn their departed, 
 Still glory in deeds of their sons. 
 
 66 
 
LOST IN THE SNOW 
 
 [The following poem had as its foundation 
 one of the stories appearing in news- 
 papers during the winter of 1912-13 re- 
 garding the suffering and death caused 
 by Montana blizzards.] 
 
 Speak not lightly of the Indians 
 For within the "savage breast" 
 
 Heroism is not lacking 
 
 When it is put to the test. 
 
 Mother's love is ever radiant, 
 Matters not the tribe or race; 
 
 This was plainly demonstrated 
 In a desolated place. 
 
 Travelling in the far Montana 
 
 Through a country rough and wild 
 
 Were two braves, their squaws behind 
 them, 
 Each upon her back her child. 
 
 67 
 
LOST IN THE SNOW 
 
 It was in the mid of winter, 
 And the cold had been severe ; 
 
 They must go to town or perish — 
 There was lack of game — or deer. 
 
 They had started one fine morning, 
 And they were in sight of town 
 
 When the sky above them darkened 
 And a blinding snow swooped down. 
 
 'Twas a fierce Montana blizzard, 
 And the snowdrifts piled up high, 
 
 And it seemed that they were fated — 
 Everyone of them — to die. 
 
 For the squaws became exhausted 
 And no longer could proceed; 
 
 For some help and a deliverance 
 There was a most urgent need. 
 
 And the squaws wisely suggested 
 That the braves get help from town. 
 
 While to shield themselves a little 
 In the snowdrifts they sat down. 
 
 68 
 
LOST IN THE SNOW 
 
 Into their warm outer garments 
 They their wee papooses rolled, 
 
 Leaving themselves unprotected 
 In the blizzard and the cold. 
 
 And they prayed to the Great Spirit : 
 "Pardon every sin and wrong; 
 
 If Thou will it, let us perish, 
 
 But, we beg Thee, spare our young." 
 
 There a rescue party found them 
 Almost buried in the snow ; 
 
 The wee babes were soundly sleeping, 
 But the mothers did not know. 
 
 They had pressed them to their 
 bosoms, 
 
 Watched for coming of their braves ; 
 But, because of lack of clothing, 
 
 Snowdrifts proved to be their graves. 
 
 Still in attitude of watching 
 They sat with wide open eyes. 
 
 Bless the soul of every mortal 
 Who in heroism dies. 
 
 69 
 
THAT OLD-TIME CHURCH 
 
 It was not a pretty structure 
 As is that which takes its place, 
 
 But memories of that old-time church 
 Years never can efface. 
 
 It stood upon the corner 
 
 Of what then were unpaved streets; 
 It had just a common organ 
 
 And the commonest kind of seats : 
 
 It had just a common belfry, 
 
 And just common window panes; 
 
 But sweet as any ever sung 
 Are to me those old refrains. 
 
 All its members were just common, 
 And attended as they should, 
 
 Zealous in their Christian labors, 
 Also for their common good. 
 70 
 
THAT OLD-TIME CHURCH 
 
 Many t mes that church resounded 
 With their songs and praise and 
 prayers ; 
 
 There they found a source of solace 
 For their grief and tears and cares. 
 
 There the happy pairs in marriage 
 Have before the altar vowed' 
 
 The bereaved in sorrow, anguish, 
 Have above a casket bowed. 
 
 And just like a guardian angel 
 Was that church to many lives 
 
 In their joys and in their sorrows, 
 And its work and theirs survives. 
 
 Back in early day's 'twas builded — 
 
 Back in 1849; 
 There my father was a member; 
 
 'Twas my mother's church and 
 mine. 
 
 There they sang their glad hosannas — 
 Often — on the Sabbath days ; 
 
 Often at the midweek service 
 
 Joined with others in God's praise. 
 
 71 
 
THAT OLD-TIME CHURCH 
 
 There they v. heeled me when a baby, 
 
 Ever anxious that I grow- 
 In the shadow of God's temple 
 
 And the way to heaven know. 
 
 There my mother kept my footsteps 
 In her years of widowhood, 
 
 While she prayed and ever guided 
 As no one but mother could. 
 
 I loved well that place of worship, 
 And its meetings found me there — 
 
 Sunday school and preaching service 
 And its midweek hour of prayer. 
 
 While the ivy of remembrance 
 
 Clings about those old brick walls, 
 
 There have passed old charter mem- 
 bers, 
 Gently, as a leaflet falls. 
 
 So has mother ; many others 
 Now are scattered, or passed on, 
 
 Since I worshipped in its shelter, 
 And the old church, too, is gone. 
 
 72 
 
THAT OLD-TIME CHURCH 
 
 Can you wonder there come visions 
 Of that church, so clear to me, 
 
 When 'tis linked with sacred mem'ries 
 Of those who were dear to me? 
 
 And I sit and muse and wonder 
 If, when I pass over yonder 
 From this life of toil and care, 
 
 I shall find that church transplanted ; 
 Hear its old bell ringing there; 
 
 Hlear and see those children singing, 
 And the loved of childhood days, 
 
 Singing "Glory, halleluiah;" 
 
 I shall join them in God's praise 
 
 Happy then and there forever, 
 Reunited with those gone, 
 
 For my Lord will bid me welcome 
 If my work is here well done. 
 
 A k 
 
THE SONGS THAT MOTHER 
 LOVED 
 
 The songs that mother loved, 
 The song's she used to sing", 
 
 We love as she did then, 
 
 But now they sadness bring. 
 
 We love to sing them o'er and o'er, 
 
 For, to our memory's ear, 
 Her voice commingles with our own 
 
 The same as she were here. 
 
 We used to sing those dear old songs 
 When night-time shadows fell ; 
 
 When we were gathered 'round the 
 hearth — 
 The songs she loved so well. 
 
 And interwoven with them now 
 Are all our childhood years ; 
 
 Our mother's unremitting love ; 
 Her sorrows and her tears. 
 
 76 
 
THE SONGS THAT MOTHER LOVED 
 
 They bring the scenes of childhood 
 days — 
 
 The hills, the vales, the streams; 
 All the familiar scenes of youth, 
 
 As shadowed sunlight gleams. 
 
 The covered bridge, the old hill steps, 
 Which led from town up to 
 
 That dear old sacred home of youth, 
 Lume into memory's view. 
 
 That old red church which mother 
 loved, 
 
 Where we on Sundays went; 
 The old school house to memory dear, 
 
 Where our school days were spent, 
 
 We see them ; hear our schoolmates 
 play; 
 
 We hear the school bell ring; 
 The church bell, too, and then we hear 
 
 The congregation sing. 
 
 We hear the gurgling, lulling streams ; 
 We hear a waterfall, 
 
 77 
 
THE SONGS THAT MOTHER LOVED 
 
 And carolling birds ; but mother's 
 voice 
 Is sweeter far than all. 
 
 We love to sing those old songs o'er, 
 
 Often, but soft and low; 
 They take us backward to our youth — 
 
 To years of long ago. 
 
 In memory 'round that old fireside 
 Those songs take us again; 
 
 And they are sweeter to us now 
 Than they were to us then. 
 
 With mother we shall sing those 
 songs — 
 Those old songs — and the new — 
 When we have passed this vale of 
 tears, 
 So sorrow stricken, through. 
 
 78 
 
THAT OLD CRADLE SONG 
 
 Tonight a little cradle song — a lullaby— I 
 heard, 
 
 And, though I could not catch of it one soli- 
 tary word, 
 
 Yet still that song continually keeps ringing 
 in my ears, 
 
 And it brings to cloud my vision the unfor- 
 bidden tears. 
 
 It carries me in fancy back to my own infancy 
 When that same lullaby was sung so many 
 
 times to me 
 By loving lips which have been stilled and 
 
 ever silence keep, 
 Which kissed me when the cradle song had 
 
 soothed me fast to sleep. 
 
 Oh, could I roll the years backward unto my 
 
 cradle days. . 
 Back to my babyish cooing- times, back to my 
 
 babyish plays ; 
 
THAT OLD CRADLE SONG 
 
 To when if I were troubled or in any way 
 
 distressed 
 There were loving arms to take me and fold 
 
 me to her breast. 
 
 Her kiss was then a healing- balm, and I think 
 
 if, tonight, 
 From the cradle swaying shadows cast by the 
 
 flickering light, 
 Her arms could reach around me and her 
 
 lips to mine were pressed, 
 My eyes would close in slumber and as a 
 
 baby's rest. 
 
 Oh, sleep, cast down your mantle upon each 
 
 wakeful eye, 
 And tuck me in the cradle of years that have 
 
 gone by; 
 Aye, in your visions, take me back to years 
 
 ago when she, 
 My mother, rocked the cradle and sang that 
 
 song to me 
 
 82 
 
REST ON YOUR MOTHER'S BREAST 
 
 Lay your head on my breast, my baby, and 
 sleep ; 
 Go to sleep and rest ; go to sleep and rest ; 
 Nothing can harm you, nothing molest; 
 Close those big baby eyes and peacefully 
 
 sleep ; 
 The great, loving Shepherd takes care of His 
 
 sheep, 
 And a lamkin like you He folds in His arms 
 Where it is secure, where naught ever harms, 
 While the songs of its mother its heartaches 
 
 dispel — 
 Its mother, who loves it more than she 
 can tell. 
 
 Go to sleep and rest 
 
 On your mother's breast. 
 
 Sleep on, baby, sleep ! Your years which now 
 creep 
 May seem after years to have been the best, 
 
 85 
 
REST ON YOUR MOTHER'S BREAST 
 
 But there's one who will lead you and you 
 will find rest 
 By waters which flow clear and quiet and 
 
 deep — 
 The great, loving Shepherd takes care of His 
 
 sheep ; 
 Though you walk through death's valley, 
 
 there's nothing to fear; 
 Remember that always the Shepherd is near ; 
 Follow on, that is all; He safely will lead, 
 And all of His flock daily manna will feed. 
 He gives all the best, 
 And all shall find rest. 
 
 Sleep peacefully on, baby, peacefully sleep 
 While still mother's kisses on your lips are 
 
 pressed; 
 Seek only the paths which in life are the best 
 When mother no longer can watch o'er you 
 
 keep; 
 But the great, loving Shepherd takes care of 
 
 His sheep ; 
 No ill shall befall thee; He always gives 
 
 heed — 
 
WHAT THE BABY MAY BE 
 
 Though faint the cry uttered, supplies every 
 
 need; 
 Gives rest to the weary, and strength to the 
 
 weak; 
 And all who have wandered the Shepherd will 
 
 seek, 
 And by day and by night, all safely will keep ; 
 Sleep peacefully on, baby, peacefully sleep, 
 While still you may rest 
 On your mother's breast. 
 
 WHAT THE BABY MAY BE 
 
 In a go-cart wheeling slowly, 
 
 Wheeling slowly two and fro, 
 Is a baby, and its mother — 
 
 Singing to it soft and low — 
 Sits beside it, proudly watching 
 
 Every movement baby makes ; 
 Soothing all of baby's sorrows, 
 
 For as real are its heartaches 
 And as bitter are its tears 
 
 As can be those of another 
 Who has reached maturer years. ' 
 
 87 
 
WHAT THE BABY MAY BE 
 
 Soothed to sleep within its go-cart, 
 Dearest ever to the heart 
 Of the mother, is her baby ; 
 Hoping some day that he may be 
 Some great man — a king or ruler,— 
 Whose fame shall live on forever, 
 And whose name forgotten never f 
 Silent hopes keep ever welling 
 In her heart, for there's no telling 
 
 What the baby 
 
 Will some day be. 
 
 And the mother watching baby 
 
 Sees for it a winding way 
 With its share of ills and sorrows ; 
 
 But she sees for it some day 
 A career both good and useful, 
 
 And she prays it may not stray, 
 And her hopes are without limit; 
 
 Well the}^ may' be ; who can say 
 What the years will bring to baby; 
 
 Who can know of the tomorrows, 
 For a power it may be maybe. 
 
WHAT THE BABY MAY BE 
 
 Ever mother's constant care ; 
 
 All her hopes are centered there — 
 
 Hopes of mother for her baby; — 
 
 For she thinks that some day, maybe, 
 
 Some day, some day, and she see it, 
 
 It shall be a power on earth, 
 
 Though it be of humble birth. 
 
 Silent hopes keep ever welling 
 
 In her heart, for there's no telling 
 
 What the baby 
 
 Will some day be. 
 
 And, when in the dead of night-time 
 
 Mpther rests in peaceful sleep, 
 Thoughts of baby without number 
 
 Often in her dreamings creep ; 
 Hopes she harbors in the daytime 
 
 Of her tiny, cooing baby 
 Have come true to thought's concep- 
 tion — ■ 
 
 All she hopes some day may be. 
 But the least cry baby makes, 
 
 From her pleasant, dreaming slum- 
 ber 
 Quickly the fond mother wakes. 
 
 89 
 
WHEN BABY STARTS TO SCHOOL, 
 
 Oh, the baby, mother's pleasure, 
 Mother's hope and mother's treasure; 
 Myriad ways for it to choose ; 
 Purpose fixed, it need not lose ; 
 Myriad Snares laid for its feet ; 
 May its journey be replete 
 With its many conflicts won. 
 In the mother's heart keep welling 
 Silent hopes, and there's no telling 
 
 What the baby 
 
 Will some day be. 
 
 WHEN BABY STARTS 
 TO SCHOOL 
 
 rlow carefully the mother clothes 
 Her tiny boy or girl, 
 And, brushing back each little curl, 
 Sees baby start to school. 
 90 
 
WHEN BABY STARTS TO SCHOOL 
 
 With fondling kiss for boy or miss, 
 She gives a word of cheer, 
 But from her own eye wipes a tear 
 When baby starts to school. 
 
 Her smiles, her tears, her hopes, her 
 fears, 
 Are fully understood 
 When children of the neighborhood 
 Lead her wee child to school. 
 
 The mother grieves when baby leaves ; 
 For home is lonesome then ; 
 But happy is that mother when 
 Her child returns from school. 
 
 (And happy, too, as I or you 
 Would be, if we were she, 
 To have her child grow up to be 
 Something because of school.) 
 
 Then, in embrace, upon its face 
 The loving mother showers 
 Her kisses; oh, how long those 
 hours — 
 Her child's first day at school. 
 
 91 
 
WHEN BABY TOOK SICK 
 
 And, musingly, it seems to me 
 We all are children still ; 
 And it will not be long until 
 We shall go home from school. 
 
 WHEN BABY WAS SICK 
 
 AVhen baby took sick 
 
 Its mother was quick 
 To notice the very first sign ; 
 
 Even baby's unrest 
 
 Brings a fear to her breast; 
 Oh, the love of your mother and mine ! 
 
 She ate scarce a bite, 
 
 And she sat up all night, 
 Day and night for a week or two, 
 
 And she watched the wee tot 
 
 As she sat by its cot 
 As only a mother can do. 
 
 And as she sat there 
 Her lips moved in prayer 
 That help might be given divine, 
 92 
 
WHEN BABY TOOK SICK 
 
 And all was so quiet 
 As long she sat by it; 
 Oh, the love of your mother and mine ! 
 
 All that she could do 
 
 That anyone knew 
 She did; had all possible done. 
 
 She slept not one bit, 
 
 But took care of it 
 Till, glory, the victory was won. 
 
 How often since then 
 
 Time, time, and again 
 She has watched over you and me, 
 
 And if we took sick 
 
 Has always been quick 
 To care for her child, big or wee. 
 
 Oh, where can we find 
 
 One more thoughtful or kind 
 
 In whom love and such care com- 
 bine ? — 
 Who her own life would give 
 That her sick child might live. 
 
 Oh, the love of your mother and mine ! 
 
 93 
 
MAKE MOTHER BOSOM' 
 FRIEND 
 
 Dear girl, your mother always make 
 Your constant bosom friend ; 
 
 Her counsel on all questions seek; 
 Always on her depend. 
 
 True, you may wed — God grant you 
 shall — 
 
 A truly noble man. 
 But no one else can sympathize 
 
 Just as a mother can. 
 
 If you will let her lead you on 
 
 With her maturer mind, 
 More happiness and peace in life 
 
 You will more surely find. 
 
 The snares will trap unwary ones 
 
 Who faithless lovers trust, 
 For there are those who love profess 
 
 With only thought of lust. 
 
 94 
 
DREAMS OP A MOTHER 
 
 But mother love is always true — 
 There are no counterfeits. 
 
 Whoever basks in mother love 
 Reaps its full benefits. 
 
 She who makes mother bosom friend 
 
 can never be beguiled, 
 But grows to priceless womanhood 
 
 Pure as a little child. 
 
 DREAMS OF A MOTHER 
 
 If the dreams of a mother all came true, 
 What would that boy of hers become; 
 
 What would he be, what would he do — 
 Would he be a slave to smoke or rum? 
 
 Would he not rather be a man 
 
 With character both pure and strong; 
 
 And if he stumble, rise again; 
 
 Love righteous deeds; eschew the wrong; 
 
 And the daughter? — loving, dutiful; 
 A gentle, sweet and virtuous life : 
 
 95 
 
DREAMS OF A MOTHER 
 
 A character so beautiful, 
 
 Who would become a saintly wife. 
 
 If children could but realize 
 
 Their mother knows what is best for them 
 Neither wet nor wakeful would be eyes 
 
 That watch so anxiously o'er them 
 
 Mother their guardian day and night, 
 And, aiming always to please them, 
 
 She strives to lead their feet aright, 
 And in her dreaming she sees them 
 
 Towering above the motley crowd, 
 Creatures not of the "common clod," 
 
 But gems of which the earth is proud — 
 True to themselves and to their God. 
 
 96 
 
LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER, 
 BOY 
 
 Listen to your mother, boy; 
 
 Give ear to her advice ; 
 Her admonition is the best, 
 
 Not those who are steeped in vice. 
 
 Let mother be your confidant; 
 
 She has your good at heart ; 
 Bring not a cloud to her dear eyes, 
 
 Nor cause one tear to start. 
 
 The boy who loves his mother well 
 
 Will surely win success; 
 A model husband-father be — 
 
 His own home-circle bless, 
 
 For he shall wed — may fate decree — 
 A girl with heart of gold; 
 
 But he, though reveling in her love, 
 Should not forget the old — 
 
 97 
 
THE TRAVELER'S RETURN 
 
 That mother love which brought him 
 up 
 
 May he still claim as his, 
 And credit give in gratitude 
 
 To her for what he is. 
 
 THE TRAVELER'S RETURN 
 
 How pleasant to the traveler, when 
 Weary and worn, he turns his face 
 
 To his own land ; once more ascends 
 The doorsteps of the old home place. 
 
 More pleasant, yet, indeed, to him, 
 If he still finds the old folks there, 
 
 And rests, as in his childhood years, 
 Beneath his mother's love and care. 
 
 For we, though grown, are children 
 still 
 In heart, and for that old home 
 yearn ; 
 As mother, we — each time we leave — 
 Look forward to our next return. 
 
 98 
 
APPRECIATE YOUR MOTHER 
 
 Your mother, boy, 
 
 If filled with joy 
 At every kindly act 
 
 That you may do 
 
 For her; but you, 
 Sometimes, in truth and fact, 
 
 The thoughtfulness 
 
 Due in a child 
 Have very often lacked. 
 
 She is your friend; 
 
 You don't intend 
 To wound that loving heart. 
 
 Come, give her cheer 
 
 While she is here ; 
 Some day she will depart — 
 
 You know not when, — 
 
 Some day, and then 
 Remorseful tears will start 
 
 If so be now 
 
 You cause to bow 
 In grief that head of gray. 
 
 99 
 
WIHERE ARE YOU GOING, LITTLE MT3S? 
 
 If she must bear 
 
 Another care 
 Because you go astray, 
 
 Can you, her child, 
 
 Be reconciled 
 When she has passed away? 
 
 There is no love 
 
 Like mother's love ; 
 Naught earthly more endures. 
 
 Live as y'ou ought. 
 
 As she has taught, 
 Which peace of mind assures. 
 
 Pause in reflection; 
 
 Show your affection 
 While she, dear child, is yours. 
 
 WHERE ARE YOU GOING, 
 LITTLE MISS? 
 
 "Where are you going, little miss?" 
 
 I asked a little child. 
 "I'm goin' to my gamma's house," 
 
 She stopped to say, and smiled. 
 
 ioo 
 
WHERE ARE YOU GOING, LITTLE MISS* 
 
 "If I would not be naughty there, 
 My mamma said, I could ; 
 
 And gamma ought to know — she says 
 That I am always good. 
 
 "'My gamma hasn't any girls 
 
 And hasn't any boys, 
 And I run often over there 
 
 When tired of dolls and toys 
 
 "Once mamma was her little girl, 
 
 As small as I, they say; 
 But then got big, and papa came 
 
 And carried her away. 
 
 "My gamma lets me run about, 
 
 And in and out the doors, 
 And doesn't scold one bit if I 
 
 Get mud upon the floors. 
 
 "She lets me teeter on the beds 
 
 And look at all her books 
 And help her in the kitchen when 
 
 She goes out there and cooks 
 103 
 
WHERE ARE YOU GOING, LITTLE MISS? 
 
 "And she makes little pies and cakes 
 For me, and doughnut rings, 
 
 And puddings, too, ice cream and float, 
 And lots of other things. 
 
 ''Guess mamma once scraped pudding 
 pans 
 
 And ate her cake dough, too, 
 And helped herself at gamma's house 
 
 Just as I always do. 
 
 "But, I must go," she said; "goodbye," 
 
 And over vacant lots 
 She hopped and skipped through 
 leaves and grass; 
 
 God bless the little tots. 
 
 And bless their dear old grandmas, 
 too, 
 
 Who in our babes delight; 
 May me, their children, lovingly, 
 
 Make their old age more bright. 
 
 104 
 
MY MOTHER AND MY BOY 
 
 Did you ever see a grandma 
 Who couldn't something say 
 
 In the ear of her little grandson 
 
 That would drive his frowns away? 
 
 And, although he's quite mischievous, 
 And sometimes does not do right. 
 
 Yet to humor him and pet him 
 Is always her delight. 
 
 She overlooks his failures, 
 
 And magnifies his good, 
 xAnd the grandson is encouraged 
 
 To do the things he should. 
 
 He reveres her admonition 
 
 And (trying to please her, too,) 
 
 While fresh in mind, he does what's 
 right 
 As near as a boy can do. 
 
 Of course he may be noisy, 
 And his playing may be rough, 
 
 105 
 
HUMORING THE GRANDCHILD 
 
 But amusement, quiet, gentle, 
 For a boy is not enough. 
 
 No one knows this more than grandma, 
 Who his faults all minimize; 
 
 It would sometimes seem to others 
 He was perfect in her eyes. 
 
 If he has childish troubles, 
 
 She whispers to him then, 
 And he resumes his smiling 
 
 And his life is bright again. 
 
 HUMORING THE GRANDCHILD 
 
 I've just been down to grandma's 
 house; 
 
 She lives so far away ; 
 I rode for hours upon the train ; 
 
 I'm going back some day. 
 
 Oh, how my grandma humored me 
 And hugged and kissed me, too; 
 
 I'd like to always live with her; 
 That's what I'd like to do. 
 
 1 06 
 
HUMORING THE GRANDCHILD 
 
 She was so glad to have me there, 
 
 And I was glad to be; 
 She made fine cakes and puddings, too, 
 
 And apple tarts for me. 
 
 And lots of things so good to eat 
 
 To whet one's appetite; 
 I'd like to always live with her 
 
 If that would be just right. 
 
 But, then, I know mamma would cry 
 
 And so I am perplexed; 
 Of course I love my mamma best, 
 
 But love my grandma next. 
 
 But grandma always humors me, 
 
 And so I'd like to go, 
 For mamma won't do as I say, 
 
 And makes me mind, you know. 
 
 I wish grandma would move up here, 
 Or mamma move down there; 
 
 I guess it doesn't matter which 
 And really I don't care, 
 
 But I would like to live real close 
 
 So — if I didn't stay — 
 That I could run to grandma's house 
 
 When I want to have my way. 
 
 109 
 
THE LITTLE MOTHER 
 
 How carefully she tucks in bed 
 
 Her children all — 
 
 The large and small — 
 When each its little prayer has said 
 (Though none of them can talk). 
 She fondly kisses them good night, 
 And mimics blowing out the light, 
 
 no 
 
THE LITTLE MOTHER 
 
 And says tomorrow that they may 
 Go over to Jane's house to play 
 (Though none of them can walk). 
 
 In a few minutes night is past; 
 (She dresses them, 
 Caresses them) — 
 For time in children's play flies fast. 
 
 And, though not one of them can eat, 
 She feeds them oats and batter cakes 
 Which for them out of mud she makes, 
 Which doesn't make them grow. 
 Then over to Jane's house they go — 
 
 Each on its tiny feet. 
 
 And when they run 'way out of the 
 yard — 
 Of course they cannot though, 
 Just make-believe, you know, — 
 She puts them down to working hard, 
 
 As sort of punishment : 
 To washing dishes, scrubbing floors, 
 To washing woodwork and the doors.. 
 To feeding chickens and the cat — 
 To doing first this thing and that, 
 And some on errands sent. 
 
 in 
 
THE LITTLE MOTHER 
 
 When they don't come, she calls and 
 calls, 
 Though none of them can hear, 
 And all are very near. 
 She mimics elders with her dolls, 
 
 Out in the shade and cool, 
 In everything they do or say, 
 In every-day-housekeeping play; 
 She, sometimes, even has to scold 
 When they don't do what they are 
 told, 
 Or, come home late from school. 
 
 God bless the little mothers who 
 A mother's instincts show, 
 A mother's love, also, 
 In mimicing what mothers do. 
 
 Thus now their time is whiled 
 *\s mothers, caring for their dolls. 
 Of such when real care on them falls 
 Will they be wanting, need we ask. 
 Or equal to each daily task 
 
 In care of home or child? 
 
 112 
 
A LITTLE ORPHAN'S CRY 
 
 There's none in this world to love me 
 now; 
 
 I'm a little orphan child; 
 I do things wrong — I don't know how — 
 
 I'm a little orphan child. 
 
 No papa to take me on his knee, 
 To love me up and hug me tight; 
 
 No mamma to put her arms 'round me. 
 And teach me what is good and 
 
 right — 
 I'm a little orphan child. 
 
 My papa died a long time ago, 
 
 I'm a little orphan child; 
 And, mamma, the other day, you know, 
 
 I'm a little orphan child. 
 
 When mamma lived, why, you know, 
 when 
 She hugged and kissed her baby girl 
 
 "3 
 
A MAGICAL WpRD 
 
 That I'd forget my troubles then 
 As she brushed back each little curl. 
 But, now, I'm an orphan child. 
 
 Two graves are not very far away; 
 
 I'm a little orphan child. 
 I go to see them every day ; 
 
 I'm a litle orphan child. 
 
 And now I cannot help but cry 
 And think how mamma said goodbye 
 Although I know that some day I 
 Will be with her — that's when I die — 
 And not be an orphan child. 
 
 A MAGICAL WORD 
 
 There is a word comes to all of us mortals 
 Laden with fragrance of orange blossom 
 bloom ; 
 
 Cooling and calming, refreshing and soothing, 
 Bearing a sunshine which cases away gloom. 
 
 It is a word that arouses ambition ; 
 
 114 
 
A MAGICAL W,ORD 
 
 That brings the straying one back to contri- 
 tion; 
 Quickens the heart, resolutions inspiring 
 To reach for something in life worth desiring. 
 
 We feel the kisses received in our childhood, 
 And the caresses which vanished its cares ; 
 We see the eyes which so often watched 
 o'er us, 
 And hear the voice which prompted our 
 prayers. 
 
 There is a thrill that runs through us and 
 through us 
 From that magical word which often comes 
 to us; 
 Again and again repeating that dear word, 
 We turn as it were life's book's pages rear- 
 ward. 
 
 We hear the birds and the falling of waters ; 
 We see the broad meadows and woods all 
 a-bloom ; 
 We see that dear mother, our own loving 
 mother ; 
 And fortunate is he who sees not a tomb. 
 
 115 
 
LOVE THEM NOW 
 
 Love them now, yea, love them ever, 
 Ere the golden cords shall sever 
 
 And death thrust us far apart — 
 Carry us beyond the river 
 To the great all-righteous Giver; 
 Or, will take away another, 
 Some dear one — a wife or mother, 
 Father, sister, child or brother — 
 
 And leave us a broken heart. 
 What good are those flowers and tears 
 Shed upon the shadowing biers ; 
 All that mourning grief and sorrow 
 We may have, when, on the morrow, 
 
 Dear ones may be called away? 
 Kindness now! All hearts desire it; 
 Peace and happiness require it; 
 Speak it to them, write or wire it; 
 Tenderness our dear ones giving, 
 Now — right now, while they are liv- 
 ing;— 
 
 Not tomorrow, but today. 
 
 116 
 
"I WANT TO GO TO GAMMA'S 
 HOUSE" 
 
 Some time ago 
 My little girl, not then quite three, 
 Came, as it was her wont to do, 
 And climbed upon my knee. 
 
 She raised her curly little head : 
 
 "I want to go to gamma's house." 
 "All right, someday," I said. 
 
 Upon a picture on the wall 
 
 She fixed her gaze, and, solemnly. 
 "There's gamma," said; that's all. 
 
 Then quietly we sat awhile — 
 
 Baby and I — until a train, 
 Whistling, made baby smile. 
 
 Down she jumped and away she ran, 
 
 Enthusiastically, to the door, 
 As only children can. 
 
 117 
 
"I WANT TO GO TIO GAMMA'S HOUSE" 
 
 Then, looking through the driving rain 
 And brushing back her curly locks, 
 ''I'm going on the tutu train; 
 
 I'm going to grandma's house some 
 day," 
 Was what I heard as the passenger 
 Flew by a square away. 
 
 How oft' at doors or window panes 
 Has she since voiced herself that 
 way 
 As she watched passing trains; 
 
 How oft' have earnest little eyes 
 
 Looked at that picture on the wall ; 
 But she does not yet realize 
 
 That grandma, who once lived so far, 
 
 Is now entirely out of reach — 
 Where saints and angels are. 
 
 ii! 
 
THE OLD FAMILIAR SCENES 
 
 Tears fall from saddened eyes 
 Like rain from clouded skies, 
 As I view the familiar scenes of years 
 
 gone by. 
 How vain to weep and sigh, 
 How vain, indeed, to yearn 
 For years which will not any more re- 
 turn — 
 For mother who is not. 
 
 There now is no sunshine 
 
 Where mother's smiles were mine; 
 
 No sunshine of a mother's love that I 
 
 have known ; 
 No mother now my own. 
 Those scenes are dimmed with tears, 
 Because I never can recall those years 
 And mother who is not. 
 
 Though tenderest memories 
 Live in those hills and trees ; 
 Live in those springs and waterfalls 
 and living- streams — 
 
 121 
 
A MONUMENT 
 
 Mem'ries which are as dreams — 
 
 Those scenes are not to me 
 
 What in the years of youth they used 
 
 to be, 
 And that old home is not, 
 For there's a vacant chair — 
 My mother is not there. 
 
 Yet, how I love that place 
 Where once my mother's face 
 Was wont to smile on me, 
 Which earth shall no more see; 
 But on the clouds of sorrow 
 As evening - sun sinks low, 
 I see a great rainbow — 
 A promised-hope tomorrow. 
 
 A MONUMENT 
 
 I long to build a monument 
 To my dear mother who is gone : 
 Not simply one of polished stone. 
 Nor simply to her clay alone 
 Which was the temple of that soul : 
 
 122 
 
A MONUMENT <_ 
 
 But to that life that shall live on 
 And on while ages roll. 
 
 A monument — not some tall shaft 
 Of silent, cold, unchanging stone — 
 More like a fountain from which flows 
 A love and sympathy for those 
 Who are borne down with grief and 
 
 sobs; 
 Aye, more, with heart, which, as your 
 
 own, 
 Has its heart throbs. 
 
 A monument, aye, would I Luiild, 
 Set not up in some lonely place 
 In some sad city of the dead, 
 But midst of living men instead, 
 Be their lot sorrow, joy or strife; 
 Aye, with a likeness of her face, 
 And verses of her life. 
 
 A book — a monument to her 
 That speaks as could not one of stone 
 A monument with tongue untied 
 To tell of how she lived and died ; 
 To spread the circle of that sphere 
 
 123 
 
A MONUMENT 
 
 Of love surrounding her while here ; 
 Increasing- when I, too, am gone. 
 And, though my name becomes un- 
 known, 
 May hers live on and on. 
 
 And each may build a monument 
 To her — his mother — while she lives 
 (Before they clothe her in a shroud) — 
 A life — of which she will be proud ; 
 To claim him hers be her delight. 
 For nothing her more honor gives 
 That a child's life lived aright. 
 
 Aye, build a monument to her! 
 My wish is that my simple verse 
 Will check him who from bad to worse 
 Doth his God-given traits entomb ; 
 That here and there a wayward man 
 May set his feet aright again, 
 And hearing, hear, and seeing, see, 
 That his life may most truly be 
 Among the truly good on earth — 
 A monument unto her who, 
 Rejoicing, gave him birth. 
 
 124 
 
A DREAM 
 
 (Written April 27, 1900.) 
 
 I dreamed that I came home last nig'ht; 
 
 'Twas in a dream ; 
 But home it did not seem to me; 
 
 It did not seem ; 
 
 For you, dear mother, were not there; 
 
 You were not there; 
 The loving soul that brought me up 
 
 In love and care. 
 
 I walked the house as though in search, 
 
 Although they said 
 That you were gone, that you were 
 gone; 
 
 That you were dead. 
 
 Their words seemed eating up my life ; 
 
 They pierced me through; 
 But still I searched the house in vain — 
 
 I searched for you. 
 
 I2 5 
 
A DREAM 
 
 A telegram had called me home 
 
 Without delay ; 
 That you were sick and might not live 
 
 Another day. 
 
 I took the train for home at once 
 
 And sped the space, 
 Hoping to hear your voice again 
 
 And see your face. 
 
 And. as I came, I saw them all, 
 
 Though in a haze, 
 My childhood days at home with you ; 
 
 My boyhood days ; 
 
 Thought of the time I first could lisp 
 
 And mamma say, 
 And how you taught me how to live, 
 
 To love, to pray ; 
 
 And I was coming home again 
 
 To with you be 
 Ere you should leave for realms un- 
 known — 
 Eternity. 
 
 126 
 
A DREAM 
 
 But time is swift, ere I arrived 
 
 Your spirit fled ; 
 Your body laid away to rest 
 
 Among the dead. 
 
 Ah, sorrow deep, I cannot tell, 
 
 I scarce could bear, 
 With not a loving mother's heart 
 
 My burden share. 
 
 I wake! A dream! A dream! Oh, joy 
 
 I cannot tell ! 
 My mother lives (at home; She lives!) 
 
 I love so well. 
 
 And now of Thee I ask, oh, God, 
 
 To bless with years 
 Mother, a constant friend to me 
 
 In joys and tears. 
 
 127 
 
THE DREAM; COME TRUE 
 (Written Dec. 1, 1915.) 
 
 My soul is now cast down within; 
 
 The years have fled; 
 My sobbing heart in grief cries out : 
 
 "My mother's dead." 
 
 And now my eyes are wells of tears 
 
 In prayer I kneel ; 
 What once was but a horrid dream 
 
 Is all too real. 
 
 Though great her suffering- and pain 
 Yet she could smile 
 
 Upon her boy, but can no more; 
 Not for a while. 
 
 That loving soul who loved her boy 
 
 As mothers can, 
 Is gone; I cannot see her face 
 
 On earth again. 
 
 128 
 
THE DREAM COME TRUE 
 
 1 cannot hear her loving voice 
 That soothed to sleep 
 
 When I was babe, when shadows fell; 
 I can but weep. 
 
 The shadows deep have fallen now; 
 
 In grief I bow; 
 I cannot see nor hear her more ; 
 
 Not here ; not now. 
 
 And in the quiet hours of night 
 
 I wonder when 
 I shall awake to that new life 
 
 If I'll say then : 
 "It all was but a dream, oh, joy 
 
 I cannot tell ; 
 My mother lives (at home. She lives !) 
 
 I love so well." 
 At home ! A home not here, but there ; 
 
 Not made by man ; 
 Where we shall meet no more to weep 
 
 Or part again. 
 Not here, but there, when morning 
 breaks 
 
 For me, I'll see 
 And hear that loving soul through all 
 
 Eternity. 
 
 129 
 
"LET ME TO THY BOSOM ELY" 
 
 "Jesus, lover of my soul," 
 Mother sang it while she slept, 
 While her children 'round her wept. 
 Long had she been racked with pain. 
 Long upon her death-bed lain ; 
 "Let me to Thy bosom fly" 
 Was her prayerful, earnest, cry. 
 
 Sometimes in those nights of pain, 
 Sometimes when she wakened from 
 A short time of restless sleep, 
 "Will the morning never come?" 
 Was the yearning she expressed. 
 Now her nights of pain are past ; 
 She has rest' sweet, peaceful rest. 
 
 Even till the very last, 
 
 Though by pain so sore distressed, 
 
 Though in greatest misery, 
 
 She bore all so patiently, 
 
 And through all of it she smiled 
 
 On each present, sorrowing child, 
 
 130 
 
"LET MB TO THY BOSOM FLY" 
 
 Always thoughtful of each one 
 Lest they should not eat or sleep. 
 Christ hath said to her "Well done." 
 But we still remain and weep. 
 
 While we watched beside her bed, 
 How our souls cried out in prayer 
 To Him risen from the dead 
 That He would our mother spare. 
 
 But it was His will to call 
 
 Her and claim her for His own, 
 
 And our mother told us all 
 
 She would meet us at His throne. 
 
 "Baby np, I cannot reach," 
 To the youngest one she said ; 
 Messages she gave to each 
 As we circled 'round her bed. 
 
 In excruciating pain, 
 With a smile she said to me, 
 "Little dear Annetta tell 
 Her I cannot come to see; 
 
 131 
 
"LET ME TO THY BOSOM ELY" 
 
 Grandma cannot come again, 
 Never on. the tu-tu train ; 
 After many long years, then, 
 She shall finally come to me." 
 
 Mother, mother, loving soul, 
 For us, too, a funeral dirge 
 Bells our years will some day toll; 
 For us now life's billows surge. 
 
 Ready for the great beyond, 
 Ready for the Master's call, 
 Of her children she was fond, 
 It was hard to leave us all. 
 
 Would that God had spared you, 
 
 mother ; 
 Mother, mother, loving mother; 
 Friends we may have tried and true, 
 Never, never will another 
 Ever take the place of you. 
 
 On her casket couch she slept 
 As in sleep, and showed no trace 
 Of past pain, but there had crept 
 A sweet smile upon her face. 
 
 132 
 
V 'LET ME TO THY BOSOM FrLY" 
 
 There's a mound not far away 
 Which shall ever be kept green; 
 We shall go to her some day 
 Who to us is now unseen. 
 
 There's a quiet, hallowed spot, 
 MjOther ours, oh, mother ours, 
 Which can never be forgot; 
 We shall keep it fresh with flowers. 
 
 Does she see us? We don't know; 
 To her sad adieus we bid, 
 But shall ever live as though 
 She saw everything we did. 
 
 We shall meet when we have passed 
 Over life's last troubled wave; 
 We shall all unite at last 
 'Yond the shadow of the grave. 
 
 133 
 
AT REST 
 
 In shroud of white, in casket gray, 
 They laid our mother's form away ; 
 
 In the Masonic graveyard near, 
 Is sleeping now our mother dear. 
 
 Not only did pallbearers lay 
 
 Beneath that mound her form of clay, 
 
 But many cherished hopes, also, 
 Are 'neath the soil and frosts and snow. 
 
 Indeed, our very hearts are there; 
 Our grief is hard for us to bear. 
 
 We hoped that God would mother 
 
 spare 
 For many years — -that was our prayer. 
 
 He willed it not, for she is gone ; 
 We think of all that she has done 
 
 134 
 
AT REST 
 
 For us when left in widowhood; 
 How she did all a mother could; 
 
 And we were babies as it were. 
 
 She slaved to keep us home with her ; 
 
 She thought no sacrifice too great 
 To bring- us up, and educate ; 
 
 She diligently toiled and prayed 
 And trusted God alone for aid; 
 
 She loved as only mothers can. 
 We would not bring her back again 
 
 To all those darksome former years, 
 To their privations, toil and tears, 
 
 But now we all, maturer grown, 
 AVould show our love — as we have 
 shown 
 
 Since those years passed — if she lived 
 
 still. 
 Oh, help us, Lord, to say "Thy will." 
 
 Now she is gone, we weep, and pray: 
 "Lead us, oh God, as mother would, 
 alway." 
 
 135 
 
A LITTLE LOCK OF HAIR 
 
 Here is a little lock of hair 
 
 Clipped from my dear old mother's 
 
 head 
 When she was gone ; when she was 
 
 dead, 
 Before they bore her form away; 
 How greatly would I love to see 
 That head of gray bow over me 
 When I upon my pillow lay 
 My head in sleep ; yea, I would dream 
 Of that dear soul, for shadows deep 
 Are over me, and many a dream 
 Of her doth seem to me to be 
 A bright sunbeam. 
 
 Here is a piece of mother's shroud ; 
 Piece of its lace and ribbon, too, 
 Made by an elder sister's hands, 
 As mother asked that she should do ; 
 And letters late — she never read — 
 Were placed 'neath pillow for her 
 head ; 
 
 136 
 
A LITTLE LOCK OF HAIR 
 
 And mother wore her wedding ring", 
 
 A favorite breastpin was in place; 
 
 Asleep upon the casket couch, 
 
 A sweet smile resting on her face. 
 
 By loving hands of daughters dressed, 
 
 As she had of them made request, 
 
 Sweetly she rested on her aide, 
 
 Her right hand placed beneath her 
 
 head, 
 As she was wont so oft' to sleep ; 
 It did not seem that she was dead. 
 
 Thus was our mother laid away 
 In a graveyard which is in view 
 Of the old home — as was her wish; 
 As she requested we should do. 
 Viewed from the home some memory 
 
 shafts 
 Of early mornings blaze with light, 
 But they who die in Christ shall rise 
 Clothed in His glory far more bright. 
 And we the Sun of Righteousness 
 Shall also see when we are borne 
 On pinions to our mother's arms 
 In the eternal morn. 
 
 137 
 
A PILLOW MOTHER MADE 
 
 Here is a pillow mother made; 
 
 The last thing that she made for us, 
 
 And as she felt about it thus : 
 
 That she could never make another, 
 
 We laid it by so carefully — 
 
 Lest it we somehow soil or muss — 
 
 Just to remember mother. 
 
 It is, indeed, a work of art ; 
 So neatly and so carefully- 
 And, I will vouch, too, prayerfully, 
 The work was done ; I see in it 
 More than the skill which it required; 
 M,ore than its beauty so admired ; 
 Worked in it, I see, as I look 
 With each and every stitch she took, 
 A kindly wish, a loving thought, 
 Which not with earth's wealth can be 
 bought. 
 
 1.18 
 
CHRISTMAS 
 
 How many days so carefully 
 
 She worked on it, though weary, tired, 
 
 For she would work though she felt 
 
 thus, 
 For mother with her love desired 
 To finish this last gift for us. 
 And in it, too, I doubt not there 
 Is worked a mother's earnest prayer. 
 She lives no more to make another; 
 We look at it and keep with care, 
 Just to remember mother. 
 
 CHRISTMAS 
 
 (19*5) 
 
 I do not say to you, dear girls, 
 
 A merry Christmas time, 
 For it cannot be so to you 
 
 Though merrily bells chime. 
 
 They add fresh fountains to our eyes, 
 
 Doth every ringing bell, 
 For chimes are just as sad to us 
 
 As any funeral knell. 
 
 139 
 
CHRISTMAS 
 
 There was a time — a year ago — 
 They brought us Christmas cheer r 
 
 But then it was quite different, girls— 
 We had our mother dear. 
 
 For, though we were not all at home, 
 The Christmas spirit stirred 
 
 Our hearts ; we knew our mother there 
 And often from her heard. 
 
 But we shall soon be with her girls, 
 For there will come a time 
 
 When bells which toll our ended years 
 Will seem a Christmas chime 
 
 Unto our spirits which pass on 
 To man's first Christmas gift, 
 
 And mother, in a Christmas land, 
 For passing years are swift. 
 
 140 
 
MOTHER'S PICTURE 
 
 There hangs my mother's picture on the wall, 
 And everywhere I move about the room 
 
 The focus of those eyes upon me fall. 
 The thought comes as a sunbeam through 
 the gloom, 
 
 Perhaps those loving eyes of hers alway 
 
 Are watching over me both night and day. 
 
 How often I have gazed upon that face — •■ 
 That likeness on the wall so good of her ; 
 
 The longer when a trip to the home place, 
 With vain regret, I found I must defer, 
 
 Yet it was a consoling thought to know 
 
 That I would see her there if I should go. 
 
 But it is different now: I know that when 
 I travel home that she, as heretofore. 
 
 Will not be there to welcome me again ; 
 No more shall I see her at home — no more. 
 
 And, as in quiet hours I sit and gaze 
 
 On mother's picture hanging on the wall, 
 
 I see her likeness often in a haze, 
 
 For tears, unbidden, freely start and fall. 
 
 141 
 
ASLEEP s ~* 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet," 
 Rang' out a childish voice 
 With natural sweetness in the song, 
 But the words were thoughtless on her tongue. 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep ;" 
 As happy and free 
 As child life could be. 
 To sleep that sleep was not her choice. 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 
 The child had grown to maidenhood ; 
 Her spirit imbued with joy was strong, 
 But yet she sang the same, sad song, 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 So carelessly, 
 And, merrily, 
 But think of death she never could. 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how Sweet;" 
 Sang the wife and mother now ; 
 
 142 
 
ASLEEP 
 
 What thought she of that sleep ; her life was 
 
 bliss; 
 Her pathway smooth and nothing went amiss; 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 She sang it low 
 To baby so, 
 With never a shadow on her brow. 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 Sang the mourning widow now; 
 The husband now in Jesus slept; 
 His memory as fresh as his grave was kept; 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 So thoughtfully, 
 So mournfully, 
 She sang the words with meaning now. 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 
 With cares and years her hair turned gray; 
 Her song no more joyfully rang, 
 But in wistful thoughtfulness she sang 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 And oft' she wept, 
 
 143 
 
r " ASLEEP 
 
 For loved ones slept, 
 And for that sleep oft' did she pray. 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 
 Hair snowy white, form bent with years ; 
 Her husband gone and children, too ; 
 Only trials and cares of life she knew ; 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 And oft' she prayed 
 Soon to be laid 
 To sleep, free from her cares and tears, 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 
 Though cares were furrowed on her brow, 
 Her patient, sacrificing life 
 Was loving in its mortal strife; 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 ISo longingly 
 And hopefully 
 She sang "'Asleep in Jesus" now. 
 144 
 
ASLEEP :"*"*••.., 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 It was not she who sang the song— 
 The choir was singing soft and low ; 
 In mournful notes they sang it so, 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 .From which none ever wake to weep." 
 'Twas her release, 
 And now in peace 
 She slept the sleep she prayed for long. 
 
 "Asleep In Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 Asleep, asleep, yea, now she slept, 
 And now a solemn, mourning crowd 
 Pressed 'round to see her in her shroud, 
 "'Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 Peace rested now 
 Upon her brow 
 Which mourners, stooping, kissed, and 
 wept. 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 The lines of care have fled away ; 
 A look of peace her visage bears ; 
 A smile upon her lips she wears ; 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 
 145 
 
aSLEEP 
 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 'Neath casket lid 
 With flowers hid, 
 They bear away her form of clay'. 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 She 'neath the sod is laid away, 
 And overhead the rustling leaves 
 Seem to be whispering in the breeze 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet," 
 From which none ever wake to weep," 
 But wake to joy 
 Without alloy 
 At the great, eternal-judgment day. 
 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 
 Methinks the angels sing that song; 
 Methings the angels sing that hymn, 
 With joy because another sleeps in Him; 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep ;" 
 And, as they sing 
 The heavens ring 
 With voices of that happy throng. 
 
 146 
 
THIS EARTH WOULD BE A HEAVEN 
 
 ^'Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet;" 
 Asleep to all mortality; 
 Asleep to this tumultous life, 
 Where cares and tears and ills are rife; 
 "Asleep in Jesus, oh, how sweet, 
 From which none ever wake to weep ;" 
 So doth she sleep, 
 And no more weep, 
 For joy dwells in eternity. 
 
 THIS EARTH WOULD BE A HEAVEN 
 
 This earth would be a heaven, indeed, 
 
 Without the evil 'round us, 
 If there was love in everything, 
 
 And love's perfection crowned us. 
 
 If wholly to God's rule and will, 
 
 We let love consecrate us ; 
 With our departed loved returned ; 
 
 No seas to separate us; 
 
 Without the partings and the pains ; 
 
 Without the sad adieus; 
 All near to us who're dear to us, 
 
 What better would we choose. 
 147 
 
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