The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1890-02-20
TEMPERANCE NOTES,
ARCHES MOTHER.

Ny first kiss is waiting for him,
II For since his goodbye that sad morning.
Past the years my tears have made dim,
{ No kiss has lain over his kisses,
& No love has come into my life.
Y But ho-Who has had his caresses1
ask you this-you, his wife.
Hes not here to welcome his mother -
What's wrongs Is my dear son ILL ~~<, 81:
You camel Yes, dear, but remember
sArchie's place none other can MI & ; +
Twas business detained him, I reckon.
Well, well, won't let it annoy;
Il No doubt he is climbing tho ladder
Offame he dreamed Of as boy. <.
" He used to rehcarse his ambition
At my feet, with his hand on my kneo
Iwish-but perhaps he is keeping
A tenderer welcome for me.
Prince Of sons, he visits nv sluunbern.
And his kisses awake mo ct morn.
Forgive me, my dear do Igrieve your
Flowed him before you were born, 4
!" You arc . sweet girl. I don't blame Won .,
For taking first place in his heart.
+; IT has seemed to NEEDN'T be offended. 2
I'm his mother and know every part
OF his nature, and somehow his letters
Have been rather fowncast of late.
He Is writing so often for money,
And hints at things sad to relate.
thought you were childish and gidd-
i Extravagant, too, CONFESS;
4 But see no reason to chide YOU
81 For extravaganza in your dress.
Your pretty print frock is quite tidy.
Your collar as white as the snow
But II you don't spend them for laces,
Where is it the dollars all 20?
The carriage? Oh, well, never mind it,
Wen walk If it isn't far;
3 I'm quite numb and weary with sitting
So long in the dusty car.
Thanks, dear. Arches arm would be stronger
~ To think I shall see him to-day,
MY tall, handsome son! How Is babyl
Are his eyes blue like yours, or gray!
Mot overly strong? It's mercy
I came to you now; for know
All about the needs Of a baby,
And the food that will make him grow.
My Archie was puny and sickly
For years, the most Of the time;
kept the breath of life in him
BY doses Of brandy and wine.
Yes, brandy and wine are great blessings
To mothers, in many way;
Without them I couldn't have raised him
TO love us and bless us to-day.
And the little rogue learned to like them;
Why, he'd take the bitterest pill
With only q swallow Of porter
To wash it down-Dear, are you ill
You're not going to lose your baby;
Just give me plenty Of time,
And he shall be strong and rosy,
I'll cure him as cured mine!
u" You'd rather he'd DE-! Alice Dutton,
I'm surprised nay, shocked, 1 confess.
Are you Christian or pagan wonder,
That you dare stand here and express
Such heathenish views! Will the Father
Work miracles, think, for your son?
Will He take your sick boy and cure him,
Till your part is faithfully dones
What harm can the medicine do him!
You fear for his future? Such fears
Are food for fools and fanatics.
Those long -visaged, soothsaying seers
Who trail their prophetic horrors
Through all the bright places of life,
Who sit, like Deaths head, at the banquet,
TO herald the oncoming strife.
Tis shame on your son to suggest it!
shame on your darling and mine!
Why! six generations of buttons
Have proved themselves stronger than win,
Not once disgracing their manhood.
Don't mention it, Alice pray;
Your boy is the last of the lineage
Do you think him less noble than they?
Disgrace is unknown to Dutton
In all their ancestral line.
Do you fear that their blue blood is tarnishe
And weakened by mixture with timer
Nay, child, your grave apprehensions
Are shadowless as the wind;
Don't weep so dear, Arches mother
Never meant to be unkind,
You are like fair, gentle daughter,
Your face is so tender and sweet,
You are like-but where are we going?
Why turn down that terrible street?
This house! Why, child, it's a hovel!
See that drunken man stretched in the way
Don't show me runs wretchedness Alice,
I'm worn out with travel to-day.
You surely don't seek your companions
Among those SO wretchedly low?
You, wife of my son, and the mother
OF my sons son? Let us 60
To your home at once. Alice! Alicel
Don't touch that vile drunken man,
The loathsome being has fallen
AS low as humanity can.
His very breath is pollution
Redemption for such there is none
He!-O my God! it is Archie!
1t Is Archie, my son, my son."
Rose Hartwick Thorpe, in Demorest's MAJ
azine.