RECOLLECTIONS

I always have remembered, tho' it's many years ago
When I would kneel these simple words to pray,
As my Mother morn and evening would recite each
Little prayer,
And I'd try to repeat every word she'd say.

"Now I lay be down to sleep", it was just an evening prayer,
Said in simple language children understand;
And methinks the prayers our mothers taught us
Often helps us through,
When we at times do need a guiding hand.

"Make me good Dear Lord I pray,
Keep and guide me through this day",
Just a daily repetition, nothing new,
Yet it is a recollection, little words I
Ne'er forgot,
Said each morning and quite often hurried through.

Where ever I have wandered, on the land, or o'er the sea
Some childhood scenes have followed all the way;
And the memories I cherish most was by my
Mother's knee,
As she first taught me these little prayers to say.

JUNIOR'S TROUBLES

Arriving home at eventide,
And feeling quite alright,
My Mom she looks me up and down
And says "Oh you're a fright".

"Where have you been? Go wash yourself,
And hurry on upstairs;
Roll up your sleeves, use lots of soap,
And wash behind your ears".

And so I try to wash my face
And hands to look my best,
But after I have wiped them both
The towel looks a mess.

When I am at the bathing beach
Warm days in summer time,
I wade and splash, and swim and dive,
The water feels just fine.

But when I try to wash at home
It never feels the same,
And if I am not nice and clean
My Mom says I'm to blame.

Now I can do all kinds of stunts,
And exercise by 'heck';
But when I wash I finds it hard
To reach behind my neck.

And I can swing a baseball bat,
Or throw a ball so high,
But when there's chore to do at home
I don't feel half as spry.

GROWING UP

How pleasant are the sound of little feet
When Junior first begins to toddle 'round,
With faltering steps he ventures forth alone,
And not a prouder baby can be found.

His Dad returning home when day is done
Sits up the little toddler on his knee,
Ad listens as his prattle seems to say,
"I'm growing up, and soon a man will be."

It's not so long until the mother spies
Some little finger marks upon the door,
And topsy-turvy is the house at times
With playthings strewn around upon the floor.

Sometimes he has a fall and bumps his head,
He yells aloud and seems in awful pain,
Then Mom she quickly runs and picks him up,
And kiss' the spot, and soon it's well again.

He's growing up, and his first day at school
He tells his parents all the fun he had,
Then Dad says he is smart, and getting big,
But Mom says he is just a tiny lad.

He has grown up, and starting out one day
For his first job at office, store or mill,
His father calls him his big grown up son,
But mother thinks of him as baby still.

MOTHER'S GRACE

It's just a prayer so simple,
And it's in my memory stored
Since we were growing youngsters
Around the family board.

Around the family table
We all would take our place,
Then bow our heads in silence
While mother cited grace.

At morning, noon or evening,
Whene'er her brood were fed,
We all would wait with patience
Until the grace was said.

These memories ever linger
As now my thoughts retrace,
And live again these moments
With mother saying grace.

These days are gone forever,
And time has changed the scene
My mother now is resting
Beneath the plot so green.

But still it is a memory
That time will ne'er efface,
When we were all together
With mother saying grace.

Where ever we may wander,
What ever time or place,
May each of us remember
Our mothers saying grace.

March, 1947

A MOTHER'S LOVE

A mother's love, how sweet the name,
What is a mother's love?
It is an inward fervent flame
Enkindled from above;
And like an ever clinging vine,
The family circle it entwine.

A mother's love will ever grow
Until the end of time,
It's height and depth we'll never know,
It is a gift sublime;
Wherever sons and daughters rove,
They'll ne'er outspan a mother's love.

True mother love has stood the test
Through all preceding years,
And often joy, with care and stress
Are mingled with their tears;
In grief or pleasure, joy or pain,
A mother's love will still remain.

May every mother, everywhere
Again on Mother's Day,
Be free from anxious care
That often comes their way,
And may their sons and daughters prove
Worthy to share a mother's love.

May, 1948

BE KIND TO THY MOTHER

Be kind to your mother
You'll ne'er have another,
So cherish her while she is near;
Let no ill will or shame
Ever blight your good name,
That may bring silver threads in her hair.

In days long gone by
When you were but knee high,
On her you could always rely;
She were your best friend,
And on her would depend,
For she shared both your troubles and joy.

As the years they unfold,
And your mother grows old,
Then respect those gray locks in her hair;
Never let it be said
When her spirit has fled
That you caused her remorse or despair.

You'll ne'er find another
To replace your mother,
One who will prove true to the end;
May her old vacant chair
Never cause you a tear,
But instead, happy memories may blend.

July, 1946

MOTHER'S CAKE

When we see our Mom get ready,
And she says she's going to bake;
Then we know just by her actions
She is going to bake a cake.

First she gets the flour ready,
And whatever else it takes;
Then she sings a little ditty
While she's mixing up her cake.

Then she mixes all together,
Stirs until her arms do ache;
And we all keep off a distance
While Mom's mixing up her cake.

Then she sets it in the oven,
When it is prepared to bake;
Soon we sniff the rich aroma
Coming from her flavoured cake.

Then when it is baked and ready,
From the oven she will take;
And we all have such a longing
For a piece of Mother's cake.

When it is cooled off so nicely,
Then the icing she will make,
And she lays it on so even
All around her dainty cake.

When she sets the dinner table,
And we all our places take;
We are sure to leave an opening
For a piece of Mother's cake.

When she serves us all a helping,
We are very much awake;
And it pays her for her labour,
When we praise her tempting cake.

You may talk about your tid bits
That gives you the 'tummy' ache;
But there's nothing half as tasty
As a piece of Mother's cake.