And on the laundry's last atrocities?
She knows her cookery book,
And how a joint of English meat should
look.
But all such things as these
Make up her life. She dwells in tents,
but I
In a vast temple open to the sky."

Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped
to learn
The language written in your infant face.
For years she walked your pace,
And none but she interpreted your chatter.
Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter?
Or, weary, joined in all your games with
zest,
And managed with a minimum of rest?
Now, is it not your turn
To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be-
tween you?
To-day, before Death's angel over-lean
you,
Before your chance is gone?
This is worth thinking on.

"Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay,
dearie, nay.
Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may
Come some grey dawning in the by
and by,
When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong,
you'll cry
Aloud to God, for that despised thing,
The old dear comfort--Mother's apron
string.

For Mothering!

Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear
her satin gown,
For little Miss and Master'll be coming
down from town.
Oh ay, the childern's coming! The
CHILDERN did I say?
Of course, they're man and woman grown,
this many and many a day.
But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and
squire looks fit to sing,
As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming
Mothering.

Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's
doings fine and grand,
Because young Jake is coming home from
sea, you understand.
Put into port but yesternight, and when
he steps ashore,
'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer-
set once more.
And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stir-
ring raisins in,
To welcome of her only chick, who's
coming Mothering.

And what of we? And ain't we got no
childern for to come?
Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery,
and they'll be coming home.
And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe is
six foot three!
But childern still to my good man, and
childern still to me!
And all the vi'lets seem to know