auty of his adoring love are a gift to her, unwilling too often,
perhaps, but a gift nevertheless, from his mother.

Long years of life have taught the mother what it may mean and what,
alas, it does too often mean. Memories only are her portion; she need
expect nothing now. He may not come to see his mother for an old
familiar talk, because his wife either comes with him, or expects
him to be at home. He has no time for his mother's interests or his
mother's friends; there is scant welcome in his home for her, because
between them has come an alien presence which never yields or softens.

Strangely, and without any definite idea of the change, he comes to
see his mother as she is. Once, she was the most beautiful woman in
the world, and her roughened hands were lovely because they had
toiled for him. Once, her counsel was wise, her judgment good, and the
gift of feeling which her motherhood brought her was seen as generous
sympathy.

Now, by comparison with a bright, well-dressed wife, he sees what an
"old frump" his mother is. She is shabby and old-fashioned, clinging
to obsolete forms of speech, hysterical and emotional. When the mists
of love have cleared from her boy's eyes, she may just as well give
up, because there is no return, save in that other mist which comes
too late, when mother is at rest.

The wife who tries to keep alive her husband's love for his family,
not only in his heart, but in outward observance as well, serves her
own interests even better than theirs. The love of the many comes with
the love of the one, and just as truly as he loves his sweetheart
better because of his mother and sisters, he may love them better
because of her.

The poor heart-hungry mother, who stands by with brimming eyes,
fearful that the joy of her life may be taken from her, will be
content with but little if she may but keep it for her own. It is only
a little while at the longest, for the end of the journey is soon, but
sunset and afterglow would have some of the rapture of dawn, if her
son's wife opened the door of her young heart and said with true
sincerity and wells of tenderness: "Mother--Come!"

A Lullaby

Sleep, baby, sleep,
The twilight breezes blow,
The flower bells are ringing,
The birds are twittering low,
Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,
The whippoorwill is calling,
The stars are twinkling faintly,
The dew is softly