The Washington times., 1922-09-24
WHEN THERE REALLY
WE'RE MOTHERS
I'm AMERICA
By KATHLlIN NORRIS

NS~~T
picked up the baby now end was
soins into the house. =.
UNDERSTANDING MIRACLE.
Lunch was In boxes or baskets
In those days. packed by Mother.
Back across moro than thirty years
comes rushing to pe- IN I write
the memory of the first lunch my
sister and / ever carried to a
strange school.
We were sisht and ten. and we
felt shy and strange among all the
brisk. noisy. girls who we're open.
ing basi<ets--and cycling ours. The
school was our world, after all:
we couldn't have borne the agony
Of opening up an inferior lunch,
carelessly packed and uninviting.
The sandwiches. the cookies. the
cold chicken. the neat little frihsed
napkins--I see them moro clearly
at this minute than my blurred
eyes can sec the typewriter ksys.
Oh, miracle Of . pothsr's under
standingi What told her that this
was a crucial day for her little
wayfarers in q big. strange world?
And what a smile. love to think.
was on that thin, kind face of hers
ss she cut and buttsrsd and packed
that wonderful lunch.
Then she was at home when
one reached the Paradise after
school. the old-fashioned mother.
I wonder II Just getting home
means to any little girl or boy to.
day what II meant thenf
TO sling down the books and
lunch box do you remember how
ones lunch box smelled at half
past three7f to assure oneself with
a glance that all vas well in the
dornain--the dog eager. the swing
dangling. the hay door open and
inviting: to find Mother sewing.
and talking to Mrs. Black about
the johnson baby's convulsions.
and ready to turn a kindly cheek
to ones silent kiss tchildren were
polite In those days., and to say
ahsentiy. Yes. but put the top
back on the jsr. And take off
that apron"-ah. how sweet that
wasi
Mother was home. and the
afternoon was young. and the sun
was shining. Or perhaps. II It
was wet. she was making cake.
Are there children in the world
today, wonder, so poor that they
don't know what "one-two-three-
four" batter tastes like off a big
spoon? Can there be children
who never climbed two flights
Of stairs to help mother put the
attic in order on a snowy after
noon?
MOTHER MADE CAKE.
These were mere daily rputiae;
not to be compared with
Christmas and Thanksgiving and
the Fourth OF July. nor with birth
days, nor with vacation times,
when Of all the mothers at the
picnic or the beach, ones own
mother was the sweetest In every
little emergency or opportunity.
Her boys and girls could ride
back on the lumber wagon. Of
course, and she wasn't afraid to
let them swim-not Q bit! And
it was she who said. at 1 o'clock,
1T isn't worth taking home.
Here. children. finish up this
cake"
Nor was even this the hour OF
need. Any picnic. any feast. is a
success, however ill-managed.
But what Of the awful day when
everything went wrong at school,
and when public modification and
private shame united to ones un-
doing!
The hot, dragging afternoon in
the warm school room; the stupid
feeling in ones head a. Miss
Wylie explained and explained,
and the litter Of cruel Laughter
behind one when, to her persua-
sive; you know what the Dark
Ages we're? We've had that over
and over7" one had faltered du-
biousiy In reply. ,.'The Civil WAR;"
And then $ o'clock and dismissal
and the ignominy of tears, blub-
bering, hot dissraceful tears, be-
fore the whole class, with ones
champion brother apparently un-
feeling IS he went Off with his
chum. and ones sister tidily and
sweetly kept for her music les
son, and oneself, heaving with
rage and despair, stumbling fypm
the hateful scene, and--breaking
the treasured phrasoi that Aunt
Margaret had given one, and that
had come to school today only to