Part 103

I don't like her to punish me-- That don't hurt--but it hurts to see Her cryin'.--Nen I cry; an' nen We both cry an' be good again.

She loves me when she cuts an' sews My little cloak an' Sund'y clothes; An' when my Pa comes home to tea, She loves him 'most as much as me.

She laughs an' tells him all I said, An' grabs me up an' pats my head; An' I hug her, an' hug my Pa, An' love him purt' nigh much as Ma.

From "Rhymes of Childhood," by James Whitcomb Riley. Used by special permission of the publishers. The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

MOTHER

BY ROSE FYLEMAN

When mother comes each morning She wears her oldest things, She doesn't make a rustle, She hasn't any rings; She says, "Good-morning, chickies, It's such a lovely day, Let's go into the garden And have a game of play!"

When mother comes at tea-time Her dress goes shoo-shoo-shoo, She always has a little bag, Sometimes a sunshade too; She says, "I am so hoping There's something left for me; Please hurry up, dear Nanna, I'm dying for my tea."

When mother comes at bed-time Her evening dress she wears, She tells us each a story When we have said our prayers; And if there is a party She looks so shiny bright It's like a lovely fairy Dropped in to say good-night.

THE GOODEST MOTHER

Evening was falling, cold and dark, And people hurried along the way As if they were longing soon to mark Their own home candle's cheering ray.

Before me toiled in the whirling wind A woman with bundles great and small, And after her tugged, a step behind, The Bundle she loved the best of all.

A dear little roly-poly boy With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue, Laughing and chattering full of joy, And here's what he said--I tell you true:

"You're the goodest mother that ever was." A voice as clear as a forest bird's; And I'm sure the glad young heart had cause To utter the sweet of the lovely words.

Perhaps the woman had worked all day Washing or scrubbing; perhaps she sewed; I knew, by her weary footfall's way That life for her was an uphill road.

But here was a comfort. Children dear, Think what a comfort you might give To the very best friend you can have here, The lady fair in whose house you live,

If once in a while you'd stop and say,-- In task or play for a moment pause, And tell her in sweet and winning way, "You're the GOODEST mother that ever was."

MOTHER'S WAY

BY CARRIE WILLIAMS

Nowadays girls go to cooking-school And learn to cook just so by rule; But all I know, I'm glad to say, My mother taught me day by day.

She did not need a great cook-book; She knew how much and what it took To make things good and sweet and light. What Mother does is always right.

WHO IS IT?

BY ETHEL M. KELLEY

Whose hair is all curly, an' eyes "baby-blue"? Who wakes up too early 'fore night-time is fru? Who dresses her pillow all up in the clo'es, An' counts all her piggies when nobody knows? An' who's des' as quiet as quiet can be? Muvver says--me.

Who w'ites wif a pencil all over a book? An' who gets the ink when nobody does look? An' who gets her fingies all blacker than black? An' who gets 'em spatted when Muvver comes back? An' who's des' as sorry as sorry can be? Muvver says--me.

Who goes down to dinner on Sundays at two, All dressed in w'ite frillies, an' tied up in blue? An' who waits for Father to cut up her meat, When she is so hungry an' nuffin' to eat? An' who's des' as "patient" as "patient" can be? Muvver says--me.

Who gets on her nightie an' says all her prayers? An' then comes a-stealin' an' creepin' down-stairs? Who cuddles up comfy an' teases to stay? An' who is so spoiled 'at she won't go away, Even when she's as sleepy as sleepy can be? Muvver says--me.

MY DEAREST IS A LADY