The Holly chieftain., 1913-07-25
MOTHER.
IL. Junts Tribuae. }


Neglected, forlorn: Sbokinl At the world
through troubled eyes, settial win hands
folded, knittinf upon her lsp, lonfinl for
the prattIe OF babies now trown up. wait.
ins patiently day by day for one who does
not come, alone, uncsred for-for what
is worldly foods to aaectionr-but still
patient, the Grandest figure in the world,
Q mother, is uncomplaininfly awaitinS the
dawn.
The theme of poets, the subject Of Is.
sayists, q port in trouble, and 9 relic in
prosperity, she lives but to serve, and she
serves for love.
Unsslfish, forbearinl. and self-sacrific-
inf, she hides her food works behind her
children and pushes them into the sun
shine while she lurks in the shadows.
Queen of the home, il has been truly
written that when Christ left the earth He
left in His place His noblest work.
mother.
Sin1 Of her, ye poets! Write Of her, Ys
scribes! Cover her silvered hair with gar
lands and her plain old finghsm with Glory,
but don't love her
Treat her as q servant, q receptacle for
'troubls, nurse during sickness, and
handy person to have around, but love
kiss in the morning, little remember
ance on her birthday, kindly word when
she is tired, don't give them to her. She
don't expect it. She's only work horse.
Eulotize her when she zone, but forfeit
her while she's alive.
Ah, yes. II is her lot. Worn by the
tress oflife devotion, bowed by the storms
Of maternal cares, tossed by the winds Of
unseeink youth, she is making her last
journey-smilinG. inventins excuses for
those who do not come, forsivine, though
she cannot FORGET.
Life is strife. The song Of the ase is
hustle; the king of the hour is gold, but
the need of the hour is love.
Nature has painted masterpiece. On
her palette are the most beautiful pig.
ments. With the eye Of an artist and the
hand of master she has painted the
world.csnvas with pastorisi poem.
From base Of scintillstint, dew.kissed,
emerald sward rises q rufEed mountain
sheer, massive, endurine-it stamps
itself upon the retina as an uncompromis-
ing force.
Down its side a bubblinf stream, an opal.
escent serpent in the morning sunshine,
Hows to the valley, sinkin9 on its way.
BY its side, at the base ofthe peak 4 flock
of sheep are browsing. You can almost
hear the bells Of the leaders.
Standing knee-deep in its cooling frakN
rance q herd Of kline are lazily aickint
! away the buzzint insects.
Al the extreme right Of the scene q
tiny whisp Of smoke, curling in the crisp
air. rises from cottafe. The fields sur.
rounding the cottate are covered with
aowers-not hot house plants, but field
daisies, wood violets, and wild peoples.
The whole scene is capped and pervaded
by an essence Of peace.
Looking out Of your window this morn.
inl and you will see this scene, or one of
its series, and you will exclsim. "How
beautifuli'' 1t is, but pause q moment,
there 10 a more superb picture to come.
The masterpeice of the One Artist.
With deft hand and master touch, He
has painted woman. Her face 10 wrinkied
and scanned. Her hands are calloused
and worn. Her body 10 slender and bent.
Her once fair hair is-lray. But her eyes
dimmed by ale, are hallowed by divine
look. From their limpid depths emanates
the divine spark, love. With simple uu.
dsrstandins, the painter has endowed her
with the lift Of motherhood and she stands
forth upon the canvas the one supreme
subject.
Oh, boy. Oh. sirl. Oh. man. Oh,
womsni Here is a picture that hang. in
your own home!
1t 10 old, it is dusty, it 10 unframed.
But it 10 the choicest work OF the freat.
est artist. Cherish IL. Handle il fentiy.
1t needs SO SO little and it 10 worth so
much. 1t hes not been ret0uched to meet
the demands of modern critics, but il 10
priceless.
Soon it will disinte Erate, because Of aee
and then you will try to piece ii together,
but it will be too late. So surround il
with the gariands Of affection, hang it in q
frame of love. and, when il hss become
but dust, the memory Of its beauty will
envelope your life aud the harshness of
hard existence will be mellowed nv the