A Mother's Place

Mothers were made for the home,
no doubt,
But mothers were made for more;
Mothers were made to go out in
the world,
To teach it to climb, to soar.
And if they are bound at home for
a time
By duties they may not slight,
At least they can stir in those
small, sweet souls
The spirit that starts them
aright.
And when they have guided as far
as they can
The ones that they call their
own--
Ah, then is the time they must give
to the world
The wisdom that's theirs alone.

E.G.H.

Regrets (With apologies to Tennyson)

In the spring the writer's fancy
Lightly turns to thoughts of gold,
And she sets her brains to working
Heedless of catarrh or cold.

Visions sees of new spring dresses
And the hatter's gay display,
Wishes she had thought last autumn
Of the things she'd want in May!

E.G.H.

Look! The Christmas candles
In the window frame
Bear a Christmas message
Iin the Christ-child's name.

E.G.H.

'Tis New Year's Day, a time for all new things,
For courage, hope, and trying of our wings.
For looking forth upon the year's new days,
And turning to new ways.

E.G.H

Shine, O Christmas star--
Give to thy people
Some of the peace that thy light foretold,
Some of the frankincense, myrrh and gold,
Some of the joy of those days of old.
Shine, O star!

E.G.H.

"Peace on earth, good will to men!"
As we hear those words again,
Christmas peace and Christmas cheer
Bring the climax of the year.

E.G.H.

Christmas In Central California

Bluest skies are o'er us shining,
Not a snowdrift anywhere
Frosty nights and dazzling mornings,
Zippy sparkle in the air.

Far away the tops of mountains
Whitely gleam beneath the sun,
While below, to join their fellows,
Dancing little streamlets run.

But down here amid the valleys
Fresh-plowed fields lie rich and black,
Save where sheen of emerald glistens
Where the grain is coming back.

In the hills the toyon berries
Flash their scarlet 'mid the green,--
California's brilliant holly,
Always loved where'er 'tis seen.

In the gardens still are blossoms,
Laggard roses still are sweet;
And, as first of spring's forerunners,
Here and there a primrose neat.

Not the Christmas tradition,
Icy winds and glistening snow.
yet the soul of Christmas finds us
Here where the gentler breezes blow.

Edith Granger Hawkes