THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3335, 13 February 1918, Page 47

THE GARLAND.

FOR THE QUIET HOUR. No. 233. Br Duncan Weight, Dunedin. WHAT ABOUT MOTHER? The woman was old, and ragged, and grey, And bent with the chill of the winter day; The ..street was wet with a recent snow, And the woman's steps were aged and slow. She stooa. crossing and waited long, Unaided, uncared for, amid the throng Of human beings that passed her by, Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. Down the street, with laughter and shout, Glad) in the freedom, of school let out, Game the noisy boys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled high and deep; Past the woman so old and grey, Hastened the children on their way, Not offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels and the horses' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop, The brightest scholar in all the group; He stood beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you across if you wish to go." Her aged hand on his strong arm She placed, and so without hurt or harm He guided her trembling feet along, Proud that his own were stout .and strong. Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well-content; "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's old, and poor, and slow; And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If ever she's old, and poor, and grey, When her own dear bay is far away." And somebody's mother bowed her head That night in her home, and the prayer she said "W'us, "God be kind to the ncble boy, Who's somebody's pride, and hope, and joy." NO PLACE LIKE HOME. There is no over-estimating the importance of our early childhood home—the centre of the purest and most) tender affection—where every good and holy principle has been cultivated by a mother's plastic hand, and where so many of the good and great in all ages have come to bless the world. Oh! how does the memory of our early home, its dear inmates, its fireside surroundings, and, above all, the picture of one who, with a patient devotion and meek endurance, ever watched and guarded our steps, and dismissed us at twilight's evening hour with a prayer and a blessing. Oh 1 how, I say, does the memory of such scenes loom up in the past like a bright star in the horizon, beckoning us along life's weary, - toilsome pathway. Ah ! there is wonderful truth and force in those beautiful lines by Fanny Crosby : 'Tis whispered in the ear of God, 'Tis murmured through our tears; 'Tis linked with happy childhood's days And) blessed in riper years. That hallowed spot is ne'er forgot, No matter where we roam; The purest feelings of the heart Still cluster round our home. And what is homo without a mother? MOTHER ! One of the sweetest names on earth. The Saviour Himself used it to produce filial love and care in the heart of a disciple. Solomon gives it as the characteristic of a fool that he despises his mother. Few agencies (if any) have accomplished so much for the cause of Christ and Christian civilisation as godly mothers. It is easy to make impressions on soft clay, but very difficult to leave an impression on hard brick. So it is with man's nature for the first eight or ten years. It is easy to mould the nature of a child; evil habits have not yet been formed, and the affections have not been rendered callous; and this is the period in "which they are specially under a mother's care, and, if a godly mother, her possibilities for forming the character of her children are very great.

It is said that • John Randolph, of Roanoke, claimed that he would have been a French atheist, only that, in his childhood days, his mother used to take his hand in hers, and have him kneel and repeat with her, "Our Father which art in heaven." And how many missionaries have declared, "My mother's words, or my mothers tears, or my mother's prayers made me a missionary." Ministers of tho Gospel have often found it tho only way to_ obtain the ear of a criminal, in their visits to gaols and peneientiaries, to ask them about their mothers. A young man convicted of sin in a revival meeting broke forth in the midst of his prayer for pardon, "O God, bless my mother. I thank Thee that Thoi: hast heard her prayers on mv behalf." The name of Monica, the mother of the celebrated Augustine, has come down through fifteen centuries, with the story

of her prayers and her tears for that ungodly son: but she finally triumphed, and tho Bishop of Hippo still preaches by his famous writings. Yes, Christian mother, pray on, as in the past, and great results may flow from your prayers. We all know that when Napoleon was asked what was the great need of tho French, nation, ho answered, "Mothers." Yes, and Christian mothers are tho need of every nation, for with them it would matter little, comparatively, who aro the rulers; Christian sons, Christian soldiers, and Christian patriots would soon arise to make the land blessed. Cecil, the celebrated English preacher, once an infidel, and skilled in the defence of his theories, -was man enough to confess that there was one argument to which he never could reply—"the influence and life of a holy mother"—and so it brought him back to God. It was the same feeling of heart which prompted John Newton's prayer in the midst of his wickedness "My mother's God, the God of mercy, have mercy on me." John Newton was an only son. Until seven years of age he had the wise counsel and fervent prayers of a devoted mother. At that period she died. He grew up a reckless and profane youth, and was engaged in the African slave trade. He could not, however, forget his mother's prayers. He finally yielded to God, and became an eminent minister of the Gospel.

MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. Her years steal by like birds thro' cloudless skies Soft singing as they go; She views their flight with sunshine in her eyes, She heaTs their music low, And on her forehead, beautiful and wise, "* Shines Lore's most holy glow. There is no pain for her in Time's soft flight, Her spirit is so fair; Her days shine as they pass her, in the light Her gentle doings wear; On her fair brow I never saw the night, But Hope's glad star shone there. It is a blessing just to see her face Pass like an angel by— Her soft, brown hair, sweet eyes, and lips that grace The smiles that round them lie; The brightest sunbeam in its heavenly place Might joy to catch her eye. Dear life, that groweth sweeter, growing old I I bring this verse to thee. A tiny flower, but in its heart the gold Of lasting Jove from me: While in my souL that' deeper love I hola Too groat for man to see. CEETAINLY! "Of course" (I don't know the writer's name), "the mother speaks the first word and has the first influence." Many melting stories are told on earth, and doubtless many more in heaven, about the wonders almighty grace has wrought through her voice in sacred moments of early, prayer and teaching. Whatever methods may be adopted, the most influential of all, teaching at home, whether by father or mother, is that which answers to the description, "Thou shalt teach these words diligently to thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest thine house, and when thou walk est by the way, and when thou liest' down, and Avhen thou riseth up." (See Deut. vi, 1.) This is not so easy as it seems. British Solomon though you may be., the small Queen of Sheba who trips down to you with dolls and hard questions—forced to hold your hand all the while lest her feet should dance away with her from off the earth —will now and then ask a question that might have posed one of John Milton's evil angels; and you may depend upon . this —if there should , be a flaw in your argument, pr a disingenious evasion in your tactics, 'that sly slip of womanhood will be sure to detect it, even though she may say nothing. "Did God make heaven?" "Then He did not always live in heaven." "Where did he live while heaven was being made?" "Does God live everywhere?" And so on. Blessings on the little fluttering heart! As the years fly,, and the boys and girls grow; you must look alive to be ready with tlie solution of difficulties suggested by these serials that, lie on your table, charming all readers by a style of graceful and bewitching delight; or difficulties started by talks with companions who can find nothing in all the mysteries of being' created or uncreated, which they cannot describe, pronounce upon, and laugh at; or with those who think that there is nothing of the least importance in all mortal or immortal things but "good form," or of those who scorn all articles of faith that you feel to be most sacredly true and beautiful, as the • mere pass-words of puritanic "narrowness." Personally, I love to hear the innocent prattle and" questions of guileless children, but shudder at the foolish and utterly misleading replies of older people.—never in any case say what is palpably untrue. A sweet wee girl told mo one day in great confidence that when she grew big she was to be my mother ! A MOTHER'S HEART. A littlo dreaming, such as _ mothers know; A little lingering over dainty things; A happy heart, where in hope all aglow Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings— And that is all. A liitlc clasping to her yearning breast; A little musing over future years; A heart that prays, "Dear Lord, Thou knowest best," But spare my flower, life's bitterest rain of tears — And that is all. A little spirit speeding through the night; A Utile home grown lonely, dark and chill; A sad heart groping blindly for the light; A littlo- snow-clad grave beneath the hill— And that i 3 all. A little gathering of life's broken thread; A littlo patience keeping back the tears; A heart that sings. "Thy darling -is not dead, God keeps her thrc-ugh His eternal years"— An d\ that is- all.