The Forerunner, vol 1 | Page 8

is the great work as moulder and builder. She carries in her the Life
Power which this absurd infant is supposed to typify; and her love is
greater than his, even as a wise, strong mother is greater than a little
child.
Consider the imperative law that demands motherhood, that gives
motherhood, that holds motherhood to its great continuing task; where
short pleasure is followed by long discomfort crowned with pain;
where even the rich achievement of new-made life is but the beginning
of years of labor and care. Here is the life force. Here is power and
passion. Not the irritable, transient impulse, however mighty, but the
staying power, the passion that endures, the spirit which masters
weakness, slays selfishness, holds its ministrant to a lifelong task.
This is not appetite, hunger, desire. Desire may lead to it, and usefully.
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