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Mother s Day, Sunday, May 1 2th
A THOUGHT FOR MOTHER S DAY. She'll never forsake you. whatever you do. Were you down in ihe gutter she'd kneel beside you. Were you covered with shame she would stand at your side, And the hurt in her heart, for your sake, she would hide She will stick to you. lad. though you lose every test. So the least you can do, is to give her your best. All others may quit you and mock at your full. But your mother, undaunted, will come at your call. She will follow you down to the deep depths of sin And love you and nurse you. through thick and through thin. And though she ma\* suffer through what you have done. She will never forget or desert you, my son. And though you should rise to the top rung of fame And honors and titles should win for your name. Though you should bring her new joys every day And keep every sorrow and burden away. Though never one moment you caused her to fret. To the mother who bore you you'll still be in debt So long as she lives you are sure of a friend On whom, at all times, you may safely depend. You may wound her by sinning and hurt her with shame Should you fail to be true, but she'll love you the same. So remember, my lad, as you stand in life's test That you owe to your mother your finest and best. ? Kdgar A. Uueet. WORKING PLANS FOR MOTHER'S DAY. "No mutter how elaborate u program we plan lor Mother's Day it will fail of its purpose if the majority of the members of the school are merely onlookers or if they do nothing more than to learn the parts assigned," stated the superintendent as lie glanced about the assem bled circle of officers and teachers. "Who has a working plan to suggest which will help some member of the school to feel a deeper reverence for motherhood in general and a keener appreciation of his own mother in par ticular?" "We have a great many young people who are away from their own homes," suggested the first speaker. " Why not ask them to write, 'Mv tenderest memory of my mother' and have a few of the paragraphs read ? unsigned of course." "We could present a Mother's Day button to each member of the school who brought his own mother to the session," mused a second. "That would mean work for individuals." "Appoint the most artistic member of each class on a decoration committee," mentioned a third. "Let them include a collection of beau tiful x>ietures of mothers in the scheme of dec oration. There would be a few Madonnas of course, copies of famous paintings, and several charts filled with magazine pictures of the mothers of well-known people and of well known mothers with their children." "The most literary member of each class might be asked to write a paper on 'The Moth ers of History' was the next idea submitted. There is Cromwell of whom the historian says: 'N'o other member of the family influenced him as did his mother. He followed her advice when young, he established her in the royal palace when he came to greatness and when she died he buried her in Westminster Abbey.' 1 am sure that plenty of material can bo found. ' * "Kadi class has at least one member who is fond of poetry." stated another speaker. "They might bo included in a 'quotation com mittee ' to cull beautiful bits from the golden books, quotations to be combined for a program feature.'' "Don't forget the businesslike members," reminded a teacher. "Let them plan a way for financing tin* distribution of carnations and of Mother's Magazines." "The musical members can hunt for suitable songs and those who are left ? if there are any ? can search catalogues, etc., to furnish a class feature." "And each class can plan a way for honor ing its own mothers," was the tinal sugges tion. ? (The S. S Executive, Elgin, 111.) MARY. 1 think so often of Mary ? Mary the mother glad. Who lived in the Nazareth cottage When Christ was a little lad. I think of her in the morning As she put on his little frock. And brushed the curls from his forehead Smoothing each shining lock. And heard him speak with reverence A little sunrise prayer. With a look of child-like wonder Upon his face so fair. When Joseph had gone to the workshop. The cottage made trim and neat. And Jesus played with the children Who lived across the street. I think like the sound of music Was the echo of his voice. Which sent her pulses thrilling And made her heart rejoice. And when he brought his bruises For her to touch and kiss. And she smiled away his troubles With all a mother's bliss. I think that over her spirit Stole a promise of endless rest, As she "magnified the Father" Who had given her His best. Then, when the shadows deepened And the Child, now tired of play, Hested his head on her bosom At the close of a weary day. As Bhe taught him a psalm of praises. And mused on prophecies dear, I think that the song of angels Fell on her listening ear. So I often think of Mary, Mary the mother glad, Who lived in the Nazareth cottage. When Christ was a little lad. - ? The Christian Herald. THE MOTHER OF A SOLDIER. The mother of a soldier ? hats off to her, I say The mother of a soldier who has gone to face the fray; She gave him to her country with a blessing on his head ? She found his name this morning in the long list of the dead: "Killed ? Sergeant Thomas Watkins, while lead ing on the rest, A Bible in his pocket and a portrait on his breast ! " The mother of a soldier ? she gave him to her land; She saw him on the transport as he waved his sun browned hand; She kissed him through the teardrops and she told him to be brave; Her prayers went night and morning with her boy upon the wave. The mother of a soldier ? her comfort and her joy. She gave her dearest treasure when she gave her only boy; She saw the banners waving, she heard the people cheer; She clasped her hands and bravely looked away to hide a tear. The mother of a soldier ? ah! cheer the hero deed, And cheer the brave who battle 'neath the banner of their creed; Hut don't forget the mothers, through all the lone ly years That fight the bravest battles on the sunless Held of tears. Nay, don't forget the mothers ? the mothers of our men. Who see them go and never know that they'll come back again; That give them to their country, to battle and to die, Recause the bugles call them and the starry ban ners fly. i The mother of a soldier ? hats off to her, I say! Whose head is bowed in sorrow with its tender locks of gray. She gave without regretting, though her old heart sorely bled When she found his name this morning in the long list of the dead; "Killed ? Sergeant Thomas Watkins, while leading on the rest. His dear old mother's portrait olasped upon his hero breast!" ? Folger McKlriney. JIM S SWEETHEART. Mother put on her Sunday best, Her lilac wedding gown, And white straw bonnet neatly tied With strings of faded brown; We woke before the roosters crowed, And started in the dew. To see the boat race ? for our Jim Was captain of the crew. You see, six olive branches came To bless our honest love ? Five slumber in the churchyard green With little stones above; Hut one was left in mother's arms ? Stern death was kind to him. The youngest of our tiny flock, The sturdy baby, Jim. He took it in his curly head To want a college course; I parted with the pasture lot, And sold the sorrel horse; We sent him every dollar saved, And made a seedy pair In garments that had long outlived Their days of useful wear. We did not want to shame our boy, And so kept out of sight, Hehind a row of waving flags And fluttering 'kerchiefs white; Hut when the slender sculls swept by The rival crews abreast, We both forgot our shabby clothes And shouted like the rest. The surging throng olosed up in front? We could not see our son, Hut soon a mighty cheer went up. And told us Jim had won. The crowd took up the college yell And sent it to the skies, And college colors everywhere Shook out their brilliant dyes. He stepped ashore, looked up and saw His mother's wrinkled face, And hurried to her through the rauks Of broadcloth, silk and lace. He never gave a single glance Toward the pretty girls, But kissed her on the withered Hps, And kissed her silver curls.