Quote of the Day.... Little Boys

"Little boys come in all shapes and sizes,
Shy and adventurous, full of surprises,
With misshapen halos and
mischievous grins,
Small dirty faces, and sweet, sticky chins.

They'll keep you so busy, and yet all the while
Nothing can brighten the world like
their smile.

And no greater treasure has brought homes more joy
Than a curious, active, and lovable boy!"

-Author unknown

{Source of pictures: LIFE photos hosted on Google Images. http://images.google.com/hosted/life/}

My Wife by: Robert Louis Stevenson

My Wife

by: Robert Louis Stevenson

TRUSTY, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The great artificer
Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The mighty master
Gave to her.

Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,
A fellow-farer true through life,
Heart-whole and soul-free
The august father
Gave to me.

Image: "In the Garden" by: Charles Schweninger from: http://www.erasofelegance.com

As Unto The Bow

As Unto The Bow

by: Henry Wadworth Longfellow

As unto the bow the cord is, 

So unto the man is to woman:

Though she bends him, she obeys him;

Though she draws him, yet she follows;

Useless each without the other.

Image: Godspeed (1900) by: Edmund Blair Leighton from: http://www.erasofelegance.com

A Mother's Love by: James Montgomery

A Mother's Love by: James Montgomery

A Mother's Love, - how sweet the name!

What is a Mother's love?

-a noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,

To bless a heart of earthly mould;

The warmest love that can grow cold;

This is a Mother’s Love.

To bring a helpless babe to light,

Then, while it lies forloen,

To gaze upon that dearest sight,

And feel herself new-born,

In its existence lose her own,

And live and breathe in it alone;

This is a Mother’s Love.

Its weakness in her arms to bear;

To cherish on her breast,

Feed it from Love’s own fountain there,

And lull it there to rest;

Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath,

As if to guard from instant death;

This is a Mother’s Love.

To mark its growth from day to day,

Its opening charms admire,

Catch from its eye the earliest ray

Of intellectual fire;

To smile and listen while it talks,

And lend a finger when it walks;

This is a Mother’s Love.

And can a Mother’s Love grow cold?

Can she forget her boy?

His pleading innocence behold,

Nor weep for grief – for joy?

A Mother may forget her child,

While wolves devour it on the wild;

Is this a Mother’s Love?

Ten thousand voices answer “No!”

Ye clasp your babes and kiss;

Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o’erflow;

Yet, ah! Remember this, -

The infant, rear’d alone for earth,

May live, may die,- to curse his birth;

-Is this a Mother’s Love?

A parent’s heart may prove a snare;

The child she loves so well,

Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,

Down the smooth road to hell;

Nourish its frame,-destory its mind:

Thus do the blind mislead the blind,

Even with a Mother’s Love.

Blest infant! Whom his mother taught

Early to seek the Lord,

And pour’d upon his dawning thought

The day-spring of the word;

This was the lesson to her son

-Time is Eternity begun:

Behold that Mother’s Love.

Blest Mother! Who, in wisdom’s path

By her own parent trod,

Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,

And know the fear, of God:

Ah, youth! Like him enjoy your prime;

Begin Eternity in time,

Taught by that Mother’s Love.

That Mother’s Love! –how sweet the name!

What was that Mother’s Love?

-The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,

That kindles from above,

Within a heart of earthly mould,

As much of heaven as heart can hold,

Nor through eternity grows cold:

This was that Mother’s Love.

Image: "The Teeter-Totter" by: Frederick Morgan from: http://www.erasofelegance.com

Againet Idleness and Mischief by: Isaac Watts

 

Against Idleness and Mischief

by: Isaac Watts 

How doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour,

And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell!

How neat she spreads the wax!

And labours hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill

I would be busy too:

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.

In books, or works, or healthful play

Let my first years be past,

That I may give for every day

Some good account at last.

Image: "Untitled"`by: Jessie Willcox Smith from: http://www.erasofelegance.com/

Home Defined by: Charles Swain

Nobody Knows But Mother

Nobody Knows But Mother

By: Mary Morrison

How many buttons are missing today?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many playthings are strewn in her way?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many thimbles and spools has she missed?
How many burns on each fat little fist?
How many bumps to be cuddled and kissed?
Nobody knows but Mother.

How many hats has she hunted today?
Nobody knows but Mother.
Carelessly hiding themselves in the hay
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many handkerchiefs wilfully strayed?
How many ribbons for each little maid?
How for her care can a mother be paid?
Nobody knows but Mother.

How many muddy shoes all in a row?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many stockings to darn, do you know?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many little torn aprons to mend?
How many hours of toil must she spend?
What is the time when her day's work shall end?
Nobody knows but Mother.

How many lunches for Tommy and Sam?
Nobody knows but Mother.
Cookies and apples and blackberry jam
Nobody knows but Mother.
Nourishing dainties for every "sweet tooth,'
Toddling Dottie or dignified Ruth-
How much love sweetens the labor, forsooth?
Nobody knows but Mother.

How many cares does a mother's heart know?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many joys from her mother love flow?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many prayers for each little white bed?
How many tears for her babes has she shed?
How many kisses for each curly head?
Nobody knows but Mother.

 

Painting: "Motherly Love" by Frederick Morgan from Eras of Elegance

The Need of the Hour

The Need of the Hour

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What does our country need? Not armies standing

With sabers gleaming ready for the fight;

Not increased navies, skillful and commanding;

To bound the waters with an iron might;

Not haughty men with glutted purses trying

To purchase souls, and keep the power of the place;

Not jeweled dolls with one another vying

For palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.

But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly

With that rare meekness, born of gentleness;

Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,

The women whom all little children bless;

Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,

With finest scorn for all things low and mean;

Women who hold the names of wife and mother

Far nobler than the title of a queen.

Oh! These are they who mold the men of story,

These mothers, ofttime shorn of grace and youth,

Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory

Than making some young soul the home of truth;

Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing

The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,

And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growing

And weed out tares which crafty hands cast in.

Women who do not hold the gift of beauty

As some rare treasure to be bought and sold,

But guard it as a precious aid to duty—

The outer framing of the inner gold;

Women who, low above their cradles bending,

Let flattery's voice go by, and give no heed,

While their pure prayers like incense are ascending

These are our country's pride, our country's need.

Charles Perugini Painting from Era's of Elegance.

Your High Calling

Mother, who ever you may be,

You may think long and earnestly

Of your high calling. Pondering

The undreamed honor of the thing;

Learning how God, through you, would plan

To be well know to every man.

And through your arms would gather fast

The whole world to His heart at last.

by: Fay Inchfawn

"Motherhood" painting by: Charles Schweninger from Eras of Elegance.

In Such an Hour

     Sometimes, when everything goes wrong:
     When days are short, and nights are long;
     When wash-day brings so dull a sky
     That not a single thing will dry.
     And when the kitchen chimney smokes,
     And when there's naught so "queer" as folks!
     When friends deplore my faded youth,
     And when the baby cuts a tooth.
     While John, the baby last but one,
     Clings round my skirts till day is done;
     When fat, good-tempered Jane is glum,
     And butcher's man forgets to come.

     Sometimes, I say, on days like these,
     I get a sudden gleam of bliss.
     "Not on some sunny day of ease,
     He'll come . . but on a day like this!"
     And, in the twinkling of an eye,
     These tiresome things will all go by!

     And, 'tis a curious thing, but Jane
     Is sure, just then, to smile again;
     Or, out the truant sun will peep,
     And both the babies fall asleep.
     The fire burns up with roar sublime,
     And butcher's man is just in time.
     And oh! My feeble faith grows strong
     Sometimes, when everything goes wrong!

by: Fay Inchfawn