O mother, mother! As you learn these things, prove them in your own life; and then your work is only begun; for you are bound by all the ties of our common sisterhood to pass them on to mothers less favored than you, that they too may learn the possibilities bound up in motherhood. A noble rule among the early Christians was this: “Whenever you learn a new and good thing, go and find some one that does not know it, and tell him of it.” A blessed rule for us as mothers to follow. We who have had some of the higher opportunities have a great responsibility resting upon us. I found a few months ago, in one of our religious papers a little poem that appealed to me in its beauty and truthfulness. I cut it out and read it over many times until the words were learned. It is too true, I said to myself, but need it be so? No; it need not, if we reach out for the noblest within us and claim our privileges. I caught up my pen and in the meter that had sung itself into my heart, I copied my own thoughts on the subject, and I will give them both to you. THE BABY. BY EMMA A. LENTE. “She is a little hindering thing,” The mother said, “I do not have an hour of peace Till she’s in bed. “She clings unto my hand and gown And follows me About the house from room to room, Talks constantly. “She is a bundle full of nerves, And wilful ways. She does not sleep full sound at night, Scarce any, days. “She doesn’t like to hear the wind, The dark she fears, And piteously she calls to me To wipe her tears. “She is a little hindering thing,” The mother said, “But still she is my wine of life, My daily bread.” The children what a load of care Their coming brings: But oh, the grief when God doth stoop To give them wings. THE BABIES. The children: what if months before We planned their lot, And never in the passing weeks, Their good forgot? What if, as little garments grew From busy hands, We wrought with tender patient care The soul’s white bands? And what if we both willed and prayed That baby’s life Should be a better one than ours ’Mid toil and strife? So filled the weeks while waiting them With full content, That sweetness, joy and bubbling life Were to them lent? I’m sure this song would then be changed And read more sweet; We’d sing it to the dancing time Of baby feet. She’s such a little gladsome thing The mother’d say, I cannot have an hour of joy When she’s away. She is a bundle full of rest And joyous ways; She sleeps so sweetly round at night, And fills my days. She doesn’t mind about the wind, The dark ne’er fears, She laughs and sings and cuddles down With smiles not tears.