Somebody’s Mother
The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter’s day;
The street was wet with the winter’s snow,
And the woman’s feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared-for amid the throng
Of human beings who 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,
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow, piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way,
Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,
Lest the carriage wheels or horses’ feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddie of all the group.
He paused beside her and whispered low:
“I’ll help you across if you wish to go.”
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and without hurt or harm
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm 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 gray,
When her own dear boy is far away.”
And “somebody’s mother” bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was: “God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody’s son and pride and joy.”
—Mary D. Brine
Making The Most Of One’s Life
Let every man be occupied, and occupied in the highest employment of which his nature is capable, and die with the consciousness that he has done his best.
—Sidney Smith.
Alternate Reading: John 4: 7-21.