p. 9 | His Mother's Picture

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Jan 28, 1913

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 40, No. 4.

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His Mother's Picture

No, don't take out the lines, sir; Just leave 'em, every one; It wouldn't be my mother If all the lines were gone.

It's well enough for young folks That never knowed a care, To hev their faces white-like, And ne'er a wrinkle there.

But when there's seventy years, sir, Left clear ahind one's back, It seems to me like lying To cover up their track.

A field that's long been furrowed, And ditched on every hand, No one would think of passing For new prairie land.

And so, I think our faces Should tell out fair and true, Whatever care or tillin' Our lives has bin put through.

The heft of care that mother So long and late has borne, And sorrow's share a-plowin' Has all them furrows worn.

Why, bless you, when the fever Took all her children down, And not a friend or neighbor, In all the country roun', Would lend a hand at nursing, Or even dare come near, To pass a cup of water Or drop a word of cheer.

She tended 'em right faithful, Till six long weeks went by, And 'cept 'twas setten dozin', She never closed an eye.

And once—'twas in the springtime, When father broke his leg, And for a month and over, He couldn't stir a peg— She sowed along the furrows, And drew the harrow, too, And kept the work a-goin' As well as man could do.

And never sich a harvest Before or since has proved, As that one that came after The seed my mother sowed.

And then o' sore heart trials That all has got to bear— The partin's and eye closin's— Poor mother's hed her share.

I don't just want a pictur' To hang upon the wall, With roses roun' the border, And gildin', frame and all; But somethin' of my mother To tell me when she's dead— Jest with them very wrinkles— To bravely go ahead!

So don't take out the lines, sir, But leave 'em every one, For 'twouldn't be my mother If all the lines were gone. — Selected.