The Mankato free press. [volume] (Mankato, Blue Earth County, Minn.) 1879-1924, 1921-05-13
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A MEDITATION
ON MOTHER
REV. w. p. CLARK


I don't remember the first time l
ever saw her. When I found my
self in a humble little home in little
village in Eastern Iowa she was there
and seemed wonderfully at home.
She leaned over me and spoke mar
Vicious words to me. Those words
are not in my books now, out would
like to hear them again! During my
infancy my high chair was always
within the length OF her cable tow
and when l got big enough to play on
the grassy carpet in our front yard
she sat on the front porch and watch
ed me most lovingly. Long before
the public school laid its hand upon
me and drew me into its realms of
unfolding mystery she had slipped my
hand into a loop OF her apron string
and it held me fast. That apron
string stretched and gave ample lee
way for my goings and comings in
my early school and play life without
hint at breaking until one day
heard of n wonderful land of NO
restraint" where gold was plenty and
each one did as he pleased, when l
slipped my hand out of that loop and
pushed by bark out Of home waters
and set sail upon Lies seas master
or my own rigging. | found the sea
uncharted and full of dangers un-
counter winds frightened me and l
turned my craft homeward resolved
that, if she would permit me, l should
slip my hand back into that loop new
er, never to take it out again, please
Cod She welcomed me and, instead
OF administering words of stern re-
Duke she offered prayer of graft
tude that my little ship had not been
hopelessly, crushed by the boisterous
waves.
One day, while was still in child
hood, the Great Destroyer Knocked
suddenly and violently at the door of
our little abode and, though we for
babe him entrance, he forced our sac
red precinct and took from us our
bread winner Three days later when
our funeral cortege had returned from
the silent city, with heart crushed
and eyes tear dimmed, yet looking
upward, she entered the portals of
her widowhood sad yet unafraid. I
must have dragged heavily from that
apron string during the pinched DAYS
OF want that followed, yet it gave no
sign of strain. l learned a trade
In my young manhood and as my arm
grew to strength my hand grew big
and, thank God, it never slipped from
that loop.
When the burden of her years
bowed her back and enfeebled her
limbs she leaned on My arm and
found it strong. AS the evening of
her day drew near she sat in my
foyer and "let the rest of the world
go by" She became acquainted with
the authors on my book shelves, loi-
tering sometimes with historian
sometimes with poet, sometimes with
philosopher and again with the writ
ers OF Sacred Story. She was called
away suddenly one day to the home
or another whose baby head had been
pillowed on her breast to teach her
how to tread the rugged pathway of
widowhood whose stone bruises she
knew so well. She never returned to
my hearth stone. Not many months
since the sad news was flashed to my
den on ether wings: "The soul we
loved has tken it's flight" l fastened
TO her bier sad yet grateful to the
KIND God who had given her length
or days. We caressed her silyered
tresses, kissed her peaceful brow and
carried her tenderly back to the SPOT
where she had laid her comrade a
quarter century agone. Eight other
hands had found loops in that apron :
string and as we laid her to rest in
her bed of clods it did not break and
now from that country from whose
bourne no traveller returns" | can
still feel its tug drawing me upward
and onward.