Volume I Part 70 (1/2)

”Ah,” you explain, ”she did not know-- This babe of four-- Just what it signifies to go.”

Do you know more?

Kenton Foster Murray [18--

TIRED MOTHERS

A little elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.

Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch,-- You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day,-- We are so dull and thankless; and too slow To catch the suns.h.i.+ne till it slips away.

And now it seems surpa.s.sing strange to me That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good.

And if some night when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired knee,-- This restless, curling head from off your breast-- This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; If the white feet into, their grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown.

If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,-- If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its patter in my house once more,--

If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in G.o.d's world could say She was more blissfully content than I.

But ah! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a s.h.i.+ning head; My singing birdling from its nest has flown, The little boy I used to kiss is dead.

May Riley Smith [1842-1927]

MY DAUGHTER LOUISE

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, My seat on the sand and her seat on my knees, We watch the bright billows, do I and my daughter, My sweet little daughter Louise.

We wonder what city the pathway of glory, That broadens away to the limitless west, Leads up to--she minds her of some pretty story And says: ”To the city that mortals love best.”

Then I say: ”It must lead to the far away city, The beautiful City of Rest.”

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, Stand two in the shadow of whispering trees, And one loves my daughter, my beautiful daughter, My womanly daughter Louise.

She steps to the boat with a touch of his fingers, And out on the diamonded pathway they move; The shallop is lost in the distance, it lingers, It waits, but I know that its coming will prove That it went to the walls of the wonderful city, The magical City of Love.

In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, I wait for her coming from over the seas; I wait but to welcome the dust of my daughter, To weep for my daughter Louise.

The path, as of old, reaching out in its splendor, Gleams bright, like a way that an angel has trod; I kiss the cold burden its billows surrender, Sweet clay to lie under the pitiful sod: But she rests, at the end of the path, in the city Whose ”builder and maker is G.o.d.”

Homer Greene [1853-

”I AM LONELY”

From ”The Spanish Gypsy”

The world is great: the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a tree All out of reach: my little sister went, And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa went And I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rus.h.i.+ng by.