New-York tribune., 1919-04-19
The Coming 7owe1
MEN, AND THE MATERNAL INSTINCT

They have become Of late.
And killing people whether by mistake
Or for worthy cause was not much done;
AT any rate, there was man in those days
and this man
Was a hunter.
He always seemed to have gun about nim
He came for meals into tie dining OF that
old Inn
Where Flo and
Spent many happy days. the widest kids and
ireest,
Thanks to blessed mothers.
That ever squandered gloriously together
golden childhood.
Flo was the daughter Of the dear and fussy old
proprietor
And was just the youngest and most trouble
MEMBER Of one of many families
That used to weekend there
All through the season for the winter sports.
Somehow or other
! used to manage to stay overtime
And spend whole happy weeks in that wild place.
With Flo, exploring all the countryside
In winter, summer, spring, and golden fall
I don't remember when we went to school. but
| suppose we did.
At any rate this man, think his name was Tom,
Was often there when other guests had gone;
And he seemed always sad and always solemn,
While Flo and I Just cifervesccd with fun. and
foolishness.
And couldn't understand this quiet, lonely man.
It's said a always loves the most
That which she does understand
This may be true not. but one thing is
We
his tale
Though not from him--(he scarcely spoke
word to any one)
Why then we loved him more
Once when he hiding in the woods,
Watching a nearby clump of scrubby trees
For young deer long coveted by him,
A bush by moved with cracking sound.
And he fired
Then, in the stiffness following. he found there
what had been
A little white-haired woman
Who. perhaps, had lost her way while trud9ing
her home
Among the hills and rested there awhile.
When Flo and I heard this about friend
We loved him moro than ever and grew
A little more unselhsh day by day.
We had to find way to show the alteration
that felt,
And gave up for time
Our daily thrilling sports of digging worms.
CFlo always had to put them the hook y
Catching and cleaning sunfsh even cooking
them:
Making real pipes of and dried straw
And smoking them with cornsilk stuffed inside:
Imperilling the woods for miles around, by max
ing bontres
On which to roast stolen potatoes or perhaps,
If rich. marshmallows purchased at tho
village store
Four miles away
These thrills and moro scrny put aside and
bent our thoughts
And most tremendous energies entirely
To the work-n-hand of finding ways
To comfort that sad heart and to o.prcss
The surring mother love within our own
For had outgrown dolls
About that time
I don't supposc that Tom
Knew or much cared just how he came to have
Each night for supper in that lonely room
Full OF deserted tables and the moving shadows
Made by a wood fire on the hearth
A plate piled high with pipne, hu'tcrcd toast
Done to golden turn.
When he to eat we'd scampcr From, tho
nccnc
So quickly that we'd often leave
Our toasior, there hcsdc the open dlc;
nu, he aas would 81, oblivious
And notice nothing.
Sometimes would steal radishc, from tho
garden
And cut them fancywisc for hs enjoyment;
Often would so long way TO find flowers
for his table
And with Sumach. Goldenrod and Autumn leaves
The whole would grow bright and hnppiied;
Likewise our young hearts
That was at least n dozen years ago.
Flo has her husband and two other babics, but
We're the geese always were (sce
Barrie
The ways we've tried to hrd
For cheering soldiers up when they come back
With sadness in their eyes
Are just about strange and numerous
And ineffective they used u, be
And the dear boys look kindly tolerant
And think within themselves these foolish
danes
Mean well, no doubt, but gosh wish they'd just
Let us alone"
Is that the way men always feel
And do they al'rdys dislike
Motherng S7lvANrA