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Mother

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Aug 31, 1916

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 93, No. 43.

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Mother

By Virginia Woodward Cloud

There came a day when cattle died, And every crop had failed beside, And not a dollar left to show. Then Father said the place must go, And all of us, we hated so To go tell Mother.
Behind the barn, there we three stood And wondered which one of us could Spare her the most—'tis easily said, But we just looked and looked in dread At one another.
I spoke: “I’ll trust to Brother’s tongue.” But Father said, “No, he’s too young; I reckon I—” He gave a groan: “To know we’ve not a stick nor stone Will just kill Mother!
“Maybe a mortgage can be raised. Here all her father’s cattle grazed; She loves each flower and leaf and bird— I’ll mortgage ere I’ll say a word To Mother!”
Upon his hands he bowed his head. And then a voice behind us said: “Mortgage? And always have to pay? Now, Father, I’ve a better way!”— And there, between the ricks of hay, Stood Mother.
“I have been thinking, ’most a year, We’d sell this place, and somewhere near Just rent a cottage, small and neat, And raise enough for us to eat,” Said Mother.
“There’s trouble worse than loss of lands. We’ve honest hearts and willing hands, And not till earth and roof and door Can rob of peace, shall I be poor!” She smiled. “And, it seems to me, You all had better come to tea,” Said Mother.
As through the sunset field astir We three went following after her, The thrushes, they sang everywhere; Something had banished all our care, And we felt strong enough to bear All things—with Mother.
And listen: Once there came a day When troops returned from far away, And every one went up to meet His own, within the village street. But ere he reached our old milestone, I knew that Father came alone— And not with Brother.
Then through the twilight, dense and gray, All that our choking sobs could say Was—“Who’ll tell Mother?”
But waiting for us, by the wood, Pale in the dusk, again she stood. And then her arms round Father prest And drew his head upon her breast: “The worst that comes is never death, For honor lived while he drew breath!” Said Mother.
Often, when some great deed is cried Of one, by flood or flame, who died, Of men who sought and won their fame, While all the land rings with some name Or other,
I think me of one warfare long, Of Marah’s water, bitter, strong, Of sword and fire that pierced the heart, Of all the dumb, unuttered part, And say, with eyes grown misty, wet (Love’s vision, that cannot forget), “All heroes are not counted yet— There’s Mother.”
— Virginia Woodward Cloud.