The Forerunner, vol 1 | Page 8

Desire is the torchbearer, Motherhood is the Way.
Give Baby Love his due. He is not evil; he is good. He is a joy forever. He is vitally necessary in the scheme of things. Happy are they who in the real great work of life can carry with them this angel visitant, fluttering free along their path, now close and sweet, now smiling mischievously at a distance, yet returning ever.
But with all that can be said of him he is out of place as chief deity in this high temple. Let a little shrine be made at the gate outside the door. Let him smile there and take his tribute of red roses. But when we put the shoes from off our feet and enter, we should see before us, tall and grave, glorious in strong beauty, majestic in her amplitude of power, the Goddess Motherhood.
Such love should shine from her deep eyes that children would crowd to that temple and feel at home; learning to understand a little of what had brought them there. Such beauty in this body of great womanhood that men would worship as for long they have worshipped her of Melos. Such high pride that girls, gazing, would feel strong to meet and bear their splendid task. And such power--such living, overmastering power that man, woman and child alike should bow in honor and rise in strength.
Then will Love be truly worshipped.
ARREARS
Our gratitude goes up in smoke,?In incense smoke of prayer;?We thank the Underlying Love,?The Overarching Care--?We do not thank the living men?Who make our lives so fair.
For long insolvent centuries?We have been clothed and fed,?By the spared captive, spared for once,?By inches slain instead;?He gave his service and is gone;?Unthanked, unpaid, and dead.
His labor built the world we love;?Our highest flights to-day?Rest on the service of the past,?Which we can never pay;?A long repudiated debt?Blackens our upward way.
Our fingers owed his fathers dead--?Disgrace beyond repair!?No late remorse, no new-found shame?Can save our honor there:?But we can now begin to pay?The starved and stunted heir!
We thank the Power above for all--?Gladly we do, and should.?But might we not save out a part?Of our large gratitude,?And give it to the power on earth--?Where it will do some good?
THREE THANKSGIVINGS
Andrew's letter and Jean's letter were in Mrs. Morrison's lap. She had read them both, and sat looking at them with a varying sort of smile, now motherly and now unmotherly.
"You belong with me," Andrew wrote. "It is not right that Jean's husband should support my mother. I can do it easily now. You shall have a good room and every comfort. The old house will let for enough to give you quite a little income of your own, or it can be sold and I will invest the money where you'll get a deal more out of it. It is not right that you should live alone there. Sally is old and liable to accident. I am anxious about you. Come on for Thanksgiving--and come to stay. Here is the money to come with. You know I want you. Annie joins me in sending love. ANDREW."
Mrs. Morrison read it all through again, and laid it down with her quiet, twinkling smile. Then she read Jean's.
"Now, mother, you've got to come to us for Thanksgiving this year. Just think! You haven't seen baby since he was three months old! And have never seen the twins. You won't know him--he's such a splendid big boy now. Joe says for you to come, of course. And, mother, why won't you come and live with us? Joe wants you, too. There's the little room upstairs; it's not very big, but we can put in a Franklin stove for you and make you pretty comfortable. Joe says he should think you ought to sell that white elephant of a place. He says he could put the money into his store and pay you good interest. I wish you would, mother. We'd just love to have you here. You'd be such a comfort to me, and such a help with the babies. And Joe just loves you. Do come now, and stay with us. Here is the money for the trip.--Your affectionate daughter, JEANNIE."
Mrs. Morrison laid this beside the other, folded both, and placed them in their respective envelopes, then in their several well-filled pigeon-holes in her big, old-fashioned desk. She turned and paced slowly up and down the long parlor, a tall woman, commanding of aspect, yet of a winningly attractive manner, erect and light-footed, still imposingly handsome.
It was now November, the last lingering boarder was long since gone, and a quiet winter lay before her. She was alone, but for Sally; and she smiled at Andrew's cautious expression, "liable to accident." He could not say "feeble" or "ailing," Sally being a colored