Mother
MOTHER
Rock Me to Sleep
By Elizabeth Akers Allen
(An old familiar poem. My mother often sang it to me when she rocked me
to sleep as a child. Taken from her scrap book.—“Editor”)
Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears—
Toil without recompense—tears all in vain—
Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!
Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shown;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul or the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
The Mother
By Marion Harland
(Well-known magazine writer. The following is from “The Independent.”)
She has never ceased out of the land. That she seems to be more in
evidence now than she was sixty years ago may be but one more expression
of Feminism....
In every well-appointed household the mother is the controlling
influence. In a large percentage of homes her acknowledged sovereignty
is a dictatorship. If she be a woman of intelligence and refinement, she
virtually supervises her girl’s education and molds her views of life,
morals and manners. The father is, at most, Prince Consort, playing an
insignificant part in the selection of associates and instructors, and no
part at all in the regulation of deportment, speech and dress. “My mother
thinks,” and “My mother says,” are cast-iron formulas that make an end of
all controversy while the girl is in short skirts and wears her unshorn
locks between her shoulders. With the lengthened skirts, and trussed
hair, comes entrance upon the school or college world, and the beginning
of individual life.
The Mother’s Influence
By “Ouida”
(Mlle. Louise de la Ramee, Author of “Under Two Flags,” “A Dog of
Flanders,” etc. Died Jan. 28, 1908. The following is from one of a series
of articles written and sold to Lippincott’s 28 years ago with the
request that they be not published until after her death. The articles
appeared in the May, June, and July, 1909, issues.)
When we reflect on the enormous weight which the woman’s influence has
on the growing child; when we consider the incurable superstitions, the
unreasonable fables, the illogical deductions, the warped and stifled
judgments, which millions of young boys learn in education and religion
at their mothers’ knees in infancy,—it is impossible to over-rate the
invaluable consequences of any introduction of _geist_ into the minds of
women. But for the backward pressure of woman—woman ever conservative,
ever _reculante_, ever wedded to form and precedent, and to tradition—the
world of men would have forsaken many a _cultus_ built on fable, many
a dominion of priestcraft, many a limbo of worn-out and oppressive
credulity. The evil mental influence of women is fully as great as can
be the good moral influence of the best of their sex. Wars hounded
on; fetters freshly riveted; the withes of dead beliefs binding down
the free action of living limbs; the pressure of narrow ties, and of
egotisms deified to virtue, forcing men aside from paths of greatness or
justice—all those, and much more, are due to the baleful intellectual
influence of women.
Fatherhood Cannot Be Motherhood
By Ada M. Kassimer
(From Introduction to “Representative Women.”)
Womanhood now as always recognizes motherhood as its highest duty, its
greatest obligation; and the present awakened womanhood sees its mission
of motherhood—not only in the narrowed home immediately about it, but in
the large human family, in the world of activity, it sees how the affairs
of men, women and children need the true mother instinct, which in every
phase of nature is one of unselfish devotion, of unlimited service, of
freedom from combat for financial, social and personal supremacy. The
inherent attributes of motherhood must combine with those of fatherhood
to square the balance of justice for childhood.
The world needs woman, her ideas, her way of reasoning, her insight, her
sense of justice, her tender hands and her loving heart. The children
of the world need her; for a long time they have been governed by the
masculine mind which has made laws for them, established educational
plans for them, opened juvenile courts for them, founded factories,
mills, mines, in which little hands have hardened, little bodies have
dwarfed, young minds and hearts grown prematurely old—and this, not
because the masculine mind and the masculine heart would intentionally
be drastic, but because men are not women, and fatherhood cannot be
motherhood.
The Price
By Winona Douglas
(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)
Sleep, little dream child, in mother’s arms;
Cuddle yet closer and take your rest,
Eyelids now hiding the blue eyes since laughing,
Laughing in glee here on mother’s breast.
Dear are the moments with you I am spending;
Toil is forgotten in comfort and calm.
Together we are, wee one, in the gloaming,
Evening blessed,—my babe’s coo is a psalm.—
You were my dream child, and I must awaken,
My arms are empty, sweet babe unborn,
For me the lone quiet, while night is fast darkening;
Darkening now, and there’s toil on the morn.
The days come and go, toil is ever supreme;
Motherhood smother, the thought is vain.
Forget it, indeed, for wheels must be turning,
Turning incessantly—more wealth to gain!
Passionate Instinct
By Emily Huntington Miller
(From “Parents and Their Problems.”)
What could atone to a multitude of children for the misfortune of having
been born, but the passionate instinct that takes no account of lack of
beauty, grace or intellectual gift, but clings to its own with deathless
devotion?
Functions Identical
By Mrs. Alice H. Putnam
(From “Parents and Their Problems.”)
In one respect, at least, the functions of mother and teacher should be
identical.... The teacher and parent must take their charge “for better,
for worse.”
The Adolescent Child
By Julia Clark Hallam
(From “Studies in Child Development.” American contemporary. Instructor
in the University of Chicago.)
It goes without saying that every mother has an imperative duty toward
her son as he approaches this important period in his development.
Nature has done her part in preparing the boy’s body, the mother must be
doing her part in preparing his mind for all of these new experiences.
There are many things which a mother can do because she is the mother,
and because her mind is mature while the mind of the boy is yet immature.
The mother, through her study, comes to see that the adolescent boy is
about to acquire new powers. Before, he was simply an individual. Now
he is becoming a part of the race, because he is acquiring the power
of conserving it. To the mother who has duly prepared herself for her
child’s adolescence, its appearance will bring the same mysterious thrill
which she felt when she first saw the child as a new-born babe. It has
been said in this connection, “When a baby is to be born, preparations
for its advent are carefully made. But when, in future years, the most
critical time comes when the child is to be re-born, a man or a woman, it
is rare that intelligent suggestions or wise words of counsel tell him or
her of the importance of the period.”
Mother
By Laura Simmons
(In the “Boston Herald.”)
Oh, Mother—hands of balm and gracious healing,
And cool, soft fingers that could heal and bless!
So sure to charm the aching and the fever
With magic spell and soothing tenderness.
Oh, Mother—feet that grew so very tired
Treading Life’s pavements and its burning sands!
Have they found rest at last, and cooling waters
Where they may stop to loose their earthly bands?
Oh, Mother—eyes so keen to probe the sorrows!
So quick to see the hurt and understand!
Do they not shine tonight from highest Heaven
Bright with the old-time courage, high and grand?
Oh, Mother—heart so wise and tender—
That has not died, nor failed, but lived and wrought
In deeds and words—in daily work and action—
In lovely memory and blessed thought!
Oh, Mother—love that lives past death and parting!
That reaches still to bless and guard and guide,
To hold me from the snare undreamed and waiting—
To point the refuge where I yet may hide!
And, oh—the things my heart hath yearned to utter!
The joys that thrilled—the pain that seared and scarred!
But I must wait—I, too—till sunset’s splendor
Shall hold for me its shining gates unbarred.
Past joy, past sorrow, past the driving torrent
Of tears, I see her stand and watch for me;
And clear the sweet old Mother-question cometh:
“Oh, child—dear child! And is all well with thee?”
Wise Mothers
By Mona Cairo
(From “The Morality of Marriage.”)
We shall never have really good mothers until women cease to make
motherhood the central idea of their existence. The woman who has no
interest larger than the affairs of her children is not a fit person to
train them.
The Factory Worker and Motherhood
By Kate Richards O’Hare
(American contemporary. Well-known Socialist speaker and writer. From
“The Sorrows of Cupid.”)
I spent six months one winter in the various factories of New York in
order to get information by actual experience. I can truthfully and
conservatively say that not more than one out of two girls employed
in the factory trades for a year or more are physically fitted to be
wives and mothers, not considering their fitness mentally, morally or
spiritually. There are six million women workers in the United States. If
fifty per cent., not ninety, are made physically, mentally and morally
unfit for wife and motherhood by doing work unsuited to their strength,
then the wage-system must be weighed and “found wanting” indeed. Economic
conditions which force women to work in unsuitable industrial occupations
are not only a fruitful cause for divorce, but an outrage against
humanity as well.
Mothers
By Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(See page 280)
(From “The Forerunner.”)
We are mothers. Through us in our bondage,
Through us with a brand in the face,
Be we fettered with gold or with iron,
Through us comes the race.
See the people who suffer, all people!
All humanity wasting its powers
In the hand-to-hand struggle—death-dealing—
All children of ours!
Shall we bear it? we mothers who love them?
Can we bear it? we mothers who feel
Every pang of our babes and forgive them
Every sin when they kneel?
Dare ye sleep while your children are calling?
Dare ye wait while they clamor unfed?
Dare ye pray in the proud-pillared churches
While they suffer for bread?
Rise now in the power of the woman!
Rise now in the power of our need!
The world cries in hunger and darkness!
We shall light! We shall feed!
In the name of our ages of anguish!
In the name of the curse and the slain!
By the strength of our sorrow we conquer!
In the power of our pain!
A Good Mother
By Mary Wollstonecraft
1759-1797
(English. The mother of Mary, wife of the poet Shelley. One of the
earliest advocates of the right of woman to education, and political
rights.)
To be a good mother, a woman must have sense, and that independence of
mind which few women possess who are taught to depend entirely on their
husbands. Meek wives are, in general, foolish mothers; wanting their
children to love them best, and take their part, in secret against the
father, who is held up as a scarecrow. When chastisement is necessary,
though they have offended the mother, the father must inflict the
punishment; he must be the judge in all disputes; ... I ... mean to
insist that unless the understanding of woman is enlarged, and her
character rendered firm, but being allowed to govern her own conduct,
she will never have sufficient sense or command of temper to manage her
children properly.
The Mother a Creator
By C. Josephine Barton
(Contemporary. Formerly associate editor and publisher “The Life,” author
of “An Interlude,” “Evangel Ahvallah,” “The Mother of the Living,” etc.)
Thoughts are the blocks out of which children are made.... Your
child’s thoughts will flow in the trenches you open for it. During the
impressible first few months it will cultivate that which you cultivate.
If you love, it will love; if you hate, it will hate. If you have the
measles, it will have it; the child will rejoice at your rejoicing, and
will weep when you weep. (This is one instance wherein if you “weep you
will _not_ weep alone”! Anger indulged in by you will make the foetus
helpless in Anger’s toils! Love humanity, find and faithfully perform
your work, and your unborn child will one day be a philanthropist....
Two brothers manifested the same criminality their father had been
guilty of when begetting them, and they became even worse men, because
their weak, unresisting mother took no control over them during the
months most important, and their passions developed. Thus the design and
form of temple unwittingly carved out in the brain of their two sons,
developed the phrenological bumps, criminal protuberances to match the
design marked out for them by their father in his unenlightened Temple
of Thought. This condition could not have been altered by any process
known except that of the mother’s thought-action during the period of
pliability in the atom. But being incompetent, unable to systematize
her thoughts and purify her heart, or cultivate the philosophical and
rational, the begotten shape developed with all the qualities about it
that had so blighted the begetter....
It is with pleasure I turn from the above picture and point out to
you the laws leading up to the beautiful character of Elizabeth
Cady Stanton—one of the bravest of leaders in the cause of woman’s
emancipation. Daniel Cady was a distinguished lawyer, a New York judge,
later elected to Congress. Though a man of fine qualities, unimpeachable
integrity, he was sensitive and modest to a marked degree; while her
mother, Margaret Livingston, had the military idea of government, was
tall and queenly, self-reliant and at her ease under all circumstances.
She was the daughter of Colonel Livingston, who, at West Point, when
Arnold made the attempt to betray that stronghold into the enemy’s hands,
in the absence of his superior officer, took the responsibility of firing
into the Vulture, a suspicious looking British vessel that lay at anchor
on the opposite side of the river, leaving Andre, the British spy, with
his papers to be captured.
The foregoing shows the result of the influence of two united energies
in the production of a powerful woman. To modify the effect of her
begetter’s modesty, the mother’s military ideas stood in good place;
and to supplement his embarrassment, she was full of courage; so that
even if her father had implanted the foundation for the cultivation of
an over-modest child, the mother made up the happy balance during her
supervision, and it resulted in the freedom of individuality in the
beautiful woman who has blessed the race with light, in the dispelling of
many clouds. The loving and faithful mother of seven children, she found
time to fill a noble sphere in public, one in which they could rise up to
call her blessed.
Collective Motherhood
By Rheta Childe Dorr
(American contemporary. Author of “What Eight Million Women Want.” From
an article in “Good Housekeeping.”)
We have the ideal of collective motherhood expressing itself through
the women’s clubs, through consumer’s leagues, through mothers’
congresses, through a dozen like agencies. We have the ideal for a
collective fatherhood also, but this is waiting to express itself through
organizations, which can be formed only by men. Of the details of
children’s lives the average man knows infinitely less than do women. Of
the interrelationship of children and the whole structure of society most
men know nothing at all.
Woman and Mother
By C. Gasquoine Hartley
(Mrs. Walter M. Gallichan)
(See page 154)
Any stigma attached to women is really a stigma attached to their
potentiality as mothers, and we can only remove it by beginning with the
emancipation of the actual mother.
The Companion Mother
By Ida Tarbell
(From “The Business of Being a Woman.”)
A woman never lived who did all she might have done to open the mind of
her child for its great adventure. It is an exhaustless task. The woman
who sees it knows she has need of all the education the college can give,
all the experience and culture she can gather. She knows that the fuller
her individual life, the broader her interests, the better for the child.
She should be a better person in their eyes. The real service of the
“higher education,”—the freedom to take part in whatever interests or
stimulates her—lies in the fact that it fits her intellectually to be a
companion worthy of a child.
Parental Respect for Right of Children
By Ellen Key
(From “The Century of the Child.”)
(See page 143)
A mother happy in the friendship of her own daughter, said not long ago
that she desired to erect an asylum for tormented daughters. Such an
asylum would be as necessary as a protection against pampering parents
as against those who are overbearing. Both alike torture their children
though in different ways, by not understanding the child’s right to have
his own point of view, his own ideal of happiness, his own proper tastes
and occupations. They do not see that children exist as little for their
parents’ sake as parents do for their children’s sake.... Family life
would have an intelligent character if each one lived fully and entirely
his own life and allowed the others to do the same. None should tyrannize
over, none should suffer tyranny from, the other. Parents who give their
homes this character can justly demand that children shall accommodate
themselves to the habits of the household as long as they live in it.
Children on their part can ask that their own life of thought and feeling
shall be left in peace at home, or that they shall be treated with the
same consideration that would be accorded to a stranger. When the parents
do not meet these conditions they themselves are the greater sufferers.
The Ancient and Modern Mother
By Mrs. Alec Tweedie
(English contemporary. Author of “America As I Saw It,” “Mexico As I Saw
It,” “Sunny Sicily,” etc. From “Women the World Over.”)
The ancient mother and the modern mother are two very different beings.
The very ancient mother fought for her child like the tigress for her
young cubs. The mother of past generations gave her entire life to her
children to the absolute neglect of her husband. The modern mother,
although she sometimes neglects her children for her fads and frivolities
is really a much more sane person, for she lives three lives; one part
she gives to her husband, one part to her children, and a third part to
herself. Instead of entirely obliterating herself, as the ancient mother
did, she believes in self-culture, self-advancement, and is a thinking,
human being; she is therefore more of a companion to her husband, and
more capable of educating her offspring.
The Mother
By Mrs. Emmaline Pethick-Lawrence
(In “Votes for Women.”)
(See page 180)
In a small room, dimly lighted, sat a woman making collars. Above the
humming of her sewing machine the clock of a neighboring church struck
ten. The woman lifted her head, and, gathering up her work, folded it
together. She crossed the room and looked down upon the faces of two boys
sleeping. “Christmas Eve!” she sighed.
She went back to cover up the machine. Sitting wearily, she leant her
weight upon it and her head sank upon her arms. Last year it had all
been so different! She had to be both father and mother now, since the
bread-winner had been cut down by the hand of death falling with an awful
suddenness. And within her body there slept, soon to waken to life, a
child. “Pray God it be a boy,” she moaned. “If not, pray God it may die!
It is too terrible to be a woman.”
She thought of the girl on the second floor who had been taken that day
to the workhouse infirmary; she knew her story. The girl had been a
waitress in a tea shop. She earned her food and five shillings a week.
She could not live alone in the world on that wage. She had accepted the
“protection” of a man more than twice her age. When her trouble came he
had tired of her. He had left her. She did not know where he was now.
Would that child who was to be born in the workhouse be a girl, too? She
hoped not. She prayed that it might be a boy.
She remembered the old woman who had tried to drown herself last week.
The old woman’s husband had died; that was a year ago. The widow had
taken in work for an army clothing establishment. But the money she
earned had hardly paid the rent. The case had made something of a
sensation in the police court. The papers had taken it up for a day or
two. The employer said it was the Government that was to blame. The
Government would not allow its contracts to be carried out by the sweated
labor of men, but the sweating of women did not matter. Women did
not seem to matter to anybody. When her husband was alive she had not
realized it. She realized it now. She remembered, though, that even in
these days—
Suddenly her room seemed full of light. Afar off she heard a burst of
song. It came nearer. Never had she listened to such music. The woman
lifted her head. The window was gone, the whole of the outside wall had
fallen noiselessly away, and the sky was filled with a glory that was not
of the sun nor of the moon. The light seemed to come from a cloud, and
the singing, too. No, it was not a cloud, it was a host of radiant forms,
for, as she looked, those shining ones came nearer to her, and she could
hear their voices: “Good tidings of great joy!”
So that was what they were singing! Where had she heard it before? The
words seemed so familiar to her that, though she wondered, she was
not overwhelmed with surprise. Then came a rapturous outburst: “They
that dwell in the land of the shadow of death—upon them hath the light
shined.” The light! How wonderful it was! How amazing! It seemed to the
woman like a glorious sea upon which her spirit floated—a flood which
drowned her senses, so that for a moment or two she lost consciousness
of all else. Then once again her attention was arrested by the singing,
because she heard these words: “For unto us a child is born.” “Pray God
it is a boy,” she murmured.
She wanted to hear more, and listened breathlessly now. Nearer and
nearer to her came the voices, and she heard a new refrain that seemed to
fill both heaven and earth with ringing joy: “To set at liberty—them that
are bruised.”
Suddenly that triumphant chanting became a lament. “No room! No room!”
wailed that multitude of voices. “The door of the mother’s heart is shut.
She prays that the child may die!” Then the woman knew that it was the
child who stirred within her, whose coming the angels had heralded. The
woman child! Yes, for she had prayed that it might die, and her heart
stood still with fear.
And it seemed to the woman that the wall had been built up and the room
was dark again, save for the light of one small lamp. But in her heart
she heard still the echo of the song: “They that dwell in the land of the
shadow of death”—that was the girl in the workhouse infirmary; that was
the old woman in the police court charged with attempted suicide; that
was herself—upon them “hath the light shined.” “For unto us a child is
born, a Saviour, which”—Then she understood. It was her own child. The
child that moved under her heart. What was it came next? Ah! It came back
to her now; she seemed to hear again that burst of joy that filled the
sky with song: “To set at liberty them that are bruised.”
Who were the bruised? Some one had told her a story a few hours ago. It
was about the poor creature at the corner of the street; her husband
had come back last Saturday and demanded money; had knocked her down
and kicked her; the magistrate had made a joke about it in court, and
everybody had laughed except the woman. She had wept bitterly. But nobody
seemed to care. “To set at liberty them that are bruised.” The poor thing
was horribly bruised, they said. But was she not “at liberty?” No, she
was in bondage—cruel bondage. Were all women in bondage? If so, some of
the fetters were made of gold. Were fetters of gold light? Some one was
going to break the fetters. And that some one was—her own child. “No!
No!” she cried, in agony. “It is she—my child—who will be broken! Rather
let her die now, before she has become acquainted with grief.”
Then the woman felt herself folded in a purple mantle, so that she could
not see, but she was not afraid, rather comforted, as if with a sense of
deep security. “I am destiny,” she heard; “your child will be safe with
me. I will cover her with my arm. I will hide her in the secret place of
the Most High. She shall break in pieces the fetters of those who are in
bondage.”
“Then she shall not herself be broken?” faltered the mother.
“She shall be broken,” answered Destiny, “yet not her spirit. That shall
return victorious to God, who sends it forth.”
“Tell me one thing,” pleaded the mother, “Shall the joy of my child
outweigh her sorrow?”
“The angels sang at the birth of One who was destined to be crucified for
the world. Did the joy of the crucified outweigh the sorrow?”
“I do not know,” she answered.
“According to her strength her joy shall be like unto His joy, and her
sorrow like unto His sorrow.”
And the mother said, “God’s will be done.”
And when the veil was removed it seemed as though the little room was
full of those shining presences who had drawn near to her from the
singing hosts of heaven.
“I am Wisdom,” said one, and laid a hand upon the woman’s head. “I give
to your child what is mine.” “I am Vision,” cried another, kissing her
eyes, saying, “For the child’s sake.” And Love was revealed, as Love
reverently touched the child where she lay beneath the mother’s heart,
saying: “It is I who give to women the courage that amazes strong men.”
“Take from me for the child that shall be born, my double-edged sword,
the spirit and the word,” said one: “My name is Inspiration.”
Then once more there was wafted upon the air the singing of the heavenly
host—and the outside wall had disappeared again, and the garret was open
to the sky. And the heart of the woman sang with the joy of the angels:
“For unto us a child is born.” ...
A peal of bells rang out from the church. One of the boys stirred, sat
up, and cried out, “Mother!” She lifted her head. “Hush!” she said,
“Hush, the angels are singing.” She rose and walked to the window,
drawing aside the curtain. A star shone brilliantly; it seemed to shoot
a shaft of light into the room. The Christmas chimes clamored their
tidings. She went back and knelt by the startled child. “Kiss mother,”
she said, as she put her arms about him. “It is Christmas morning.”
I Am the Mother-Heart
By Grace D. Brewer
(In “The Progressive Woman.”)
I am the Mother-heart of this nation.
I have loved and nourished its little ones in age-long mother fashion;
have swelled with pride when the nation has protected them from disease;
come nearly to bursting with unuttered gratitude when happiness has come
to the youth of the land.
I have spent many long, sleepless nights weeping over the fate of
millions of my babies, forced from home, school and mother, to the
factories and shops of the cities, and all night have wondered “why” and
“how long?”
I am haunted by the childish protestations, desirous glances from faded,
childish eyes, and bleed anew when I see my children marching from the
factory door, their bent and bony figures clad in rags.
I, the Mother-heart of the nation have been deceived, tricked and
defrauded.
I believed that modern industry, with all the improvements, could provide
for my infants; believed the mighty labor-saving machines would not
require the help of my babies to feed the world; believed the children
would be given plenty of time in which to grow healthy bodies.
I have, however, awakened to existing conditions. No longer will I be
submissive.
I have ever been a power for good, but seldom rebellious.
I am now pulsing red blood. I will temper my mother-love with human
justice and stand only for right.
I will help restore to my babies the privileges of their years.
I can labor for justice and hover my young flock.
I no longer send out purely love throbs, but send warnings to those who
have been blinded by gold.
I beat in harmony with the masses struggling for freedom, feeling
confident of results. I beat with will and determination, a glorious
future before me.
I know the day will come when the Mother-heart of all nations will be
content because of the reign of justice.
I realize my responsibility and beat the faster.
I am the Mother-heart of this nation.
By Mrs. C. E. Porter
(Vice President National Congress of Mothers.)
Let no one fear the loss of womanliness so long as woman is a willing
slave to her mother instinct.