For when I went away from home, the weekly news I heard
Was nothing to the tenderness I found in that one word—
The sacred name of mother-why, even now as then,
The thought brings back the saintly face, the gracious love again And in my bosom seems to come a peace that is divine,
As if an angel spirit communed awhile with mine;
And one man's heart is strengthened by the message from above, And earth seems nearer heaven when "mother sends her love."
My harp is on the willow-tree,
Else would I sing, O love, to thee
A song of long-ago-
Perchance the song that Miriam sung
Ere yet Judea's heart was wrung
By centuries of woe.
I ate my crust in tears to-day,
As scourged I went upon my way-
And yet my darling smiled;
Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed—
My anguish curdled not the draught—
"T was sweet with love, my child!
The shadow of the centuries lies
Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes—
But, hush! and close them now;
And in the dreams that thou shalt dream
The light of other days shall seem
To glorify thy brow!
Our harp is on the willow-tree
I have no song to sing to thee,
As shadows round us roll;
But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear
Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer
Judea's fainting soul!
COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes-
The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys
As ever worried home-folks with their everlasting noise!
Egad! and, were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show
The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago;
What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify-
Mother's whippings did n't hurt, but father's! oh, my!
The way that we played hookey those many years ago-
We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know!
The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told-
Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold!
How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his
He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz!"
It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe-
Mother's whippings did n't count-father's did, though!
We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days,
And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze;
How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,
But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand.
And, after tea, he 'd beckon us to join him in the shed
Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red;
Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert
The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt!
For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild
That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child;
And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she
Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we!
But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die-
Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made her cry!
Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid,
For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did.
In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four,
But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more!
Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone:
"I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!"
Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser buttons flewWhat florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview!
Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert,
With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt.
The little boy experiencing that tinglin' neath his vest
Is often loath to realize that all is for the best;
Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight
The buffetings of childhood-as we do here to-night.
The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways
That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymesSo, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times.
The night is come-the day is sped-
The night of woe profound, for, oh,
My little golden son is dead!
The pretty rose that bloomed anon
Upon my mother breast, they stole;
They let the dove I nursed with love
Fly far away-so sped my soul!
That falcon Death swooped down upon
My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung;
"T is hushed and dark where soared the lark,
And so, and so my heart was wrung!
Before my eyes, they sent the hail
Upon my green pomegranate-tree-
Upon the bough where only now
A rosy apple bent to me.
They shook my beauteous almond-tree,
Beating its glorious bloom to death-
They strewed it round upon the ground,
And mocked its fragrant dying breath.
I was a mother, and I weep;
I seek the rose where nestleth none-
No more is heard the singing bird-
I have no little golden son!
So fall the shadows over me,
The blighted garden, lonely nest. Reach down in love, O God above! And fold my darling to thy breast.
A MOONBEAM floateth from the skies,
Whispering: "Heigho, my dearie;
I would spin a web before your eyes—
A beautiful web of silver light
Wherein is many a wondrous sight
Of a radiant garden leagues away,
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway
And the snow-white lambkins are at play-
Heigho, my dearie!"
A brownie stealeth from the vine,
Singing: "Heigho, my dearie;
And will you hear this song of mine
of the land of murk and mist Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist? Then let the moonbeam's web of light
Be spun before thee silvery white,
And I shall sing the livelong night-
Heigho, my dearie!"
The night wind speedeth from the sea,
Murmuring: "Heigho, my dearie;
I bring a mariner's prayer for thee;
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
And the brownie sing thee lullabies-
But I shall rock thee to and fro,
Kissing the brow he loveth so.
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow-
Heigho, my dearie!"
AHA! a traitor in the camp,
A rebel strangely bold,-
A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp,
Not more than four years old!
To think that I, who 've ruled alone
So proudly in the past,
Should be ejected from my throne
By my own son at last!
He trots his treason to and fro,
As only babies can,
And says he'll be his mamma's beau
When he's a "gweat, big man"!
You stingy boy! you've always had
A share in mamma's heart.
Would you begrudge your poor old dad
The tiniest little part?
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