A MOTHER NEVER FORGETS.

Wanganui Herald, Volume LI, Issue 15193, 13 April 1917, Page 6

A MOTHER NEVER FORGETS.

HARRY LAUDER TELLS HOW A BRAVE WOMAN REMEMBERS HER SOLC-lER T7ADDIE. Sitting in my little parlour—Mrs Lauder one side of the tire, and me the other side of the fire—we came to the conclusion that I might say a few words to the mothers of Britain. I may mention here that Mrs Lauder is a great woman, and far cleverer than me. And it was natural when I thought of writing such a thing as this present article that I should ask her advice. So you'll understand that the following words come equally from Mrs Lauder arart m'vaedf. Nobody but a mother can understand what she gives up when she gives up her son. There's a tie between father and son which can never be broken, and the loss of my boy leaves me with a sink : ng, broken, lonely feeling round my heart. For we were pals, my boy and I But the mother's loss ! My dear wife bear* it very quietly, and very quietly at such moments as these she tells me a little of what she feels. From birth up the child is so near to h er —from the time when somebody tells her "It's a boy !" to the time when she tells her husband with glad and fearful wonder: "He's a man, now, John," or "Harry" as the case may be. At first he's just a wee bundle in her arms. And how she has to care for him then. Every moment of the day and night her thoughts are with him. Such a to-do with feeding and minding and soothing. Such a dressing and undressing. Such a making and making fin? of baby clothes. Such a ceaseless watch and guard to keep away the thousand little ills thai baby flesh is heir to. The wee bairn is still part of her. and his faintest cry goes through her heart. Oh. be sure that the mother of a dead soldier sees her son as he was in those old days. Be sure that in the lonely night watches, in fancy she still holds him against her breast, rocking him gently to sleep, and crooning over him the old world songs her mother sang to her. He was a. great strapping fellow when he went out to the war—six feet, maybe, with broad slioulders and fierce moustache. But to his mother he is always, first and foremost, that wee bundle in her arms.

TOE WEE BUNDLE IN HER ARM SHE REMEMBERS NOW. And then he learnt to toddle. That's a grand day when first he toddlee from his mammy to his daddy and back again. And ho learns to talk. Was ever poetry as wonderful ne those nonsense baby words? And now he's hanging at her skirta all day, peering from behind them at the great world and tho postman. And now he's breeched. His daddy's a proud man, and maybe his mother is proud, too. Yet she sighs as she folds up the baby petticoats and puts them in the press with a sprig of lavender and a tear. Care for him ! How a mother has to oaro! All the childish mishaps, ay! and all Ihe childish naughtinesses, fall upon her. Tis she must send him out to school with shining morning face, and welcome him back to dinner—black from head to foot from a roll in the mnd with lang Sandy Tamson's Sandy. Oh, he'l vox her often enough (what lad that is worth his salt doesn't?'); but she's proud of him, he's the apple of her eye, and even the severest reproofs are caresses.

All this tho mother remembers now, as she sits with her man, or maybe by herself, at the fireside. Those childish hands .still pull at, her skirts, that childish, treble still echoes round the house. A heavy-footed young ra6cal comes clattering down the stairs, and a beloved little voice seems to ask "Mither, should I buy some sweeties wi' ma penny?" More, much more, she remembers. She remembers the boy growing up into the man: she remembers the jealous pang sha had when first his eyes were cast upon the lassies. She remembers him passing from school to work, or to college. Perhaps he still comes to his mammy when he's hurt. And what a pride she has in his achievements. How her heart exults (though only the flash in her eyes betrays her pride) when she hears one neighbour say to another: ''Rah Anderson's Wully is a clever boy !'' SHE THINKS OY HIM NIGHT AND DAY. Care for him? Does she not care for him night and day? Has she not planned and prepared for him since his birth? Does she not still plan and prepare for him? Is she not always dreaming of what her boy will become? Does not all that has been, and all that might have been.flash before her eyes. as she sits lonely before the lire, and knows that it is all over and knows she will never see her son again? Never again? Blot out those words! She knows she will see him again. She knows it as surely as that the fire burns before her and the wind whist lea in the street. Not on this earth, not with these poor eyes that have looked upon him so often and with such fond love. No here, oh, not here, dear brave mothers, but somewhere else, where love is never more parted from true love, and mothers and fathers are never more parted from their sons. -' This is her consolation; this is her strength. This gives her courage to face the world and her daily round of duties; though her heart seems empty and the purpose of life seems gone. God for His own good purpose has taken this boy. Well, she will just bow her head and endure—and wait. After all, it is only a. few yeaw* of waiting. Then she will hold him by his strong shoulders and look into his face again. Without that conviction the agony would l>e too much to be borne.

God knows it is hard enough for a man to l>ear the loss. Yet the man goes out into the world: he takes up his work, and in the sights and sounds of everyday life he will not be constantly reminded of his loss. EVERY MOMENT REMINDS HER. Th? mother stays at home--in the home where once he was. And every moment she i* reminded of her bov. Every room is full of his presence. In this chair he sat; here he played; at i ■ ■ ' ' i

this table he did his lessons. That iron-mould in the table-cover was an inkstain once. This is hi 6 bedroom. Seated beside him here she ofttimes crooned a low song until the little sleeper stirred no more, and the room grew so quiet that., you could hear the night air nudging at the window pane. Supposing all that, supposing all those memories were really buried out in France! Why should'the mother so bereft live on? But just here, in the old house, belief comes to her. These are not dead memories. She does really feel her boy beside her. feel his arm around her neck, hear his voice, feel his cheek against her cheek. The poor, heroic flesh of her boy is out in France, but he himself is here, here now, nearer to her than he has ever been. So the brave woman tells herself over and over again, yet cannot stifle the dull aching of her heart. Since I have learnt what sorrow means I have thought much of you, mothers of our dead soldiers, and wondered at your splendid courage and resolute faith. The times are hard, and some of vou do not lead easy lives. Yet you never falter. We .could well have forgiven you had you cursed the country which demanded of you this stupendous sacrifice. Your patriotism puts us men to shame. And in the hearts of many of you there is no thought of mere revenge. Just now I said to Mrs Laudor, ''lf only 1 could go out as a sniper, and get two for my one!" And" she said to me "Harry !" Harry ! Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." Oh, women, women ! we are dirt compared with you." Yet to Mrs Lauder John was more than most sons are to their mothers. For I was often away from home, and they were always togther. When at last 1 had more time to be with him I found him a man and my equal. That was great, too, but his mother had walked with him up the years. GOD'S JUSTCR BE BONE! All the same, my wife ha.s no patience with the sentimental cowards who would let murderers escape without punishment. Let God's justice 1m? done, she says. And so she hopes that if the Kaiser is taken it will not be by the British. She knows our softness when our blood is not up. But if the French take him they will give him his deserts. J And what would you think of its, mothers, if we men failed in our great purpose, and were false to you and your sons? You would esteem us little better than those unmentionable things, fit for service in every way except the way of courage, who let brave men go out to die for them. You accept your loss because of the greatness of our cause. What, then, if we betray that cause? Your sons went forth to battle with no mean purpose in their hearts. A'dear friend of my boy has written to us: "He has died for the cause he believed to be the best and greatest that had ever been at stake in the world—the fieedom of his country. Ho gave his life—not impulsively, nor in adventurous recklessness— but with a settled cnthuiasm belonging to the depth, and not the tumult of the soul."

In that spirit our sons went out to fight, in that spirit they died. And in that'spirit, bv God's help, we will endure, oh, mothers of Britain ! till the cause they fought for is triumphant.