A life of self-denial and sacrifice is the grandest object the sun
shines on. There is nothing under the azure skies of heaven so worthy of
true merit as the pure, unspotted and unselfish heart of a sacrificing
mother. How my heart aches for the poor, worn and tired mother whose
whole life is confined in four walls with three or four children, laying
claim to her entire time and attention. You do not find these kind of
women saturated with society; they are not fanatics on woman suffrage
nor are they riding through the streets in a limousine with a
good-for-nothing yellow-nosed pup sitting beside them. In common decency
how can any woman with any affection or mother love center it upon such
an object as a despicable, worthless pug-nosed cur. If it was a dog like
a Shepherd, St. Bernard, Newfoundland, and many others, there would be a
little better taste shown, but when it is confined solely to the mongrel
whelps and Teddy bears I think it is high time to pick up the Bible and
read the thirty-second chapter of Isaiah from the first to the twelfth
verse inclusive. Lord, but it is pitiful to see such things committed
when there are thousands and thousands of poor little homeless girls and
boys starving to death for some one to love them, give them a home and
then see a poodle woman and her poodle dog go rushing by.
For a long number of years I have had the pleasure of being acquainted
with one of God's self-denial mothers. If this earth contains anything
sweeter and the next world anything better the mind of man so far hasn't
been able to conceive it nor the Bible to reveal it. In her early
womanhood and all through her life she has been frail, small-boned,
short of stature, delicate, and very unmuscular. Her's was not the
physique to struggle as she has against life's tremendous battles, but
she took up the burden cheerfully, looked every difficulty in the face
squarely and openly and lifted her voice to the ever-listening ear and
overcame every obstacle with gentleness and love. When heartaches, pains
and sorrows seemed so heavy that human endurance could no longer stand
the strain and tension, she would, through the channels of her wonderful
self-control, step from beneath the heavy clouds of trials and sorrows
out into the sunshine of God's holy love and stand master and conqueror
of every trial. The loyal battles she has swept with victory are worthy
of such praise and eulogy that the human mind can not find words choice
enough to meet it.
Poverty with all its worry can not engulf her, for she has that faith
that there will be a way provided and she determines, and the mountain
is seen moving in the distance. No time to partake of many pleasures is
her lot; she must study her every day cares, rear her children, school,
clothe, and provide for them. Many times a tear stands where joy should
be. It is beyond all understanding why her cross should be so heavy when
every atom of her strength has been used to make the world better, but
no matter how heavy the load is, how painful the head might ache, or how
discouraging the teacher, the present every day conditions must be met
and the sooner begun the sooner ended. Every minute is occupied or the
accumulation of wasted time makes the burden heavier.
The hands work and the mind works. Neither can rest and accomplish the
needs, and while the hands iron and bake and wash, the mind is occupied
on what the hungry mouths demand, and how an old coat or vest or an
under garment can be made into an article of service.
These are the kind of women worth while; these are the kind that more
than do their part in sustaining a great government. Her lot is not a
pleasant one, but she hands down to posterity a better and more
substantial foundation for better government than any class of women in
our nation; her life is an open book where the entries are made on each
day's pages. On page after page you can see where the tears have fallen,
where the struggle has been so keen and bitter that hope had almost
fled; but turn the page and you will find renewed hope. The
ever-listening ear has heard the words bathed in grief and the answer
came, "Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted." How a
few dollars from some good-hearted philanthropist would ease the way for
this poor little struggling woman. Why is it when she has reached the
point in life where she should expect the most the least is at hand? She
has passed the thirty-eighth mile post, with the odds strongly against
her. The system is torn down more rapidly than it can be built up.
Everything seems to combat against her and endeavor to overwhelm her,
but sorrows, discouragements, trials, hardships and heartaches with
their utmost collective strength have not been sufficient to thwart or
encompass her. Every one has been defeated, the cost has been gigantic,
it has stooped her shoulders, chiseled deep creases in her brow and cast
snow among her locks, robbed her of comforts due her and strewn old age
where youth should be. The sad face still smiles and with an
unconceivable determination she meets every foe in the great battle
field of life and crushes them.
She does it from close application of that wonderful story of love that
is found in the fifth chapter of the Gospel of St. Matthew from the
third to the twelfth verses inclusive. The greatest solace to aching
hearts the world has ever known. The struggle would have never been met
and conquered if she had depended on her own strength, she needed a
higher source to guide her and in every struggle the lowly man of
Galilee stood beside her and when the cross became so heavy that she
stumbled and was ready to fall, his loving arm was ready to shield and
sustain her.
With all her pains and trials there came into her life one night the
greatest sorrow of all, and although the load she had carried far
overtaxed her strength she had to bear another and heavier one. Her
little sweetheart boy of nearly two years old came toddling in one day
with the cruel marks of a fatal sickness on his sweet little face, and
after three days and nights of long vigil the tired mother laid down to
rest, and as she slept on a pillow bathed with tears the pure little
innocent soul was gathered into the arms of angels and carried away.
Years have passed, but the pain lingers and when the thoughts go back to
the silent form in the little white casket the tender heart of this pure
woman is so engulfed in sorrow that it seems it is entirely beyond all
human endurance and patience. It is then this still, small voice she has
known so long, again speaks and says: "Come unto me all ye that labor
and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."
* * * * *
How her dear heart did ache when the death angel trod
And took back her boy to his maker and God;
No sorrow nor pain nor heart aches nor tears
Are ever more known where he takes these small dears.
There is something so sad in the valley of death,
When the heart stops its beat and there's no longer breath!
That angels must come to ease up the pain,
And open the soul to let the tears drain.
How long are the years and how many it takes
Before there is peace from the burning heart aches!
The home is so lonely so silent and still
There is something gone out that nothing can fill.
His little things stand where he left them one day,
The little toy dog all ready for play,
The big choo choo train and the horse he called Bill,
All wait for the hand that is silent and still.