almost coördinate rank with God, and harmonizes perfectly with Bulwer Lytton's well known expression, "Nature's loving proxy, the watchful mother." The "proxy" idea grows out of the fact that the mother's instincts, acting as they do independently of and prior to reason, and being superior to and disconnected from the understanding, are in close and vital touch with the infinite source of all wisdom, and hence a substitute for God within the limitations of their function.

While it is true that highly educated mothers have written most feelingly of motherhood it is also true that the best thinkers among men in all ages have acknowledged the supremacy of the maternal tie, often ascribing divine attributes to her surpassing tenderness. Michelet says, "It is the general rule, that all superior men inherit the elements of their superiority from their mothers." To this add the words of the immortal Lincoln, "All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother"; and the tribute of John Quincy Adams, "All that I am my mother made me." Such acknowledgments can be duplicated over and over again from the literature of all countries and all times. Thus Napoleon, "The future of the child is always the work of the mother"; and again, Napoleon, "Let France have good mothers and she will have good sons."

Longfellow drawing his inspiration from the contemplation of motherhood says, "Even He that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as

if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought, the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven."

MY MOTHER

BY WILLIAM BELL SCOTT*

There was a gather'd stillness in the room:
Only the breathing of the great sea rose
From far off, aiding that profound repose,
With regular pulse and pause within the gloom
Of twilight, as if some impending doom

Was now approaching; —I sat moveless there, Watching with tears and thoughts that were like prayer,

Till the hour struck,- the thread dropp'd from the

loom;

And the Bark pass'd in which freed souls are borne.
The dear still'd face lay there; that sound forlorn
Continued; I rose not, but long sat by:

And now my heart oft hears that sad sea-shore,
When she is in the far-off land, and I

Wait the dark sail returning yet once more.
*From "The Victorian Anthology." Houghton Mifflin Company.

MOTHER AND CHILD

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS

The wind blew wide the casement, and within-
It was the loveliest picture! - a sweet child
Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life,

In pauses, from the fountain,- the white round Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, - Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower, Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh:And such alone are beautiful. Its eye,

A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,

Looked archly on its world,- the little imp,
As if it knew even then that such a wreath
Were not for all; and with its playful hands
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,
And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,
And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears
Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek,-
Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy;
And the true heart of that young mother then
Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously
The silliest ballad-song that ever yet
Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep
To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.

PENSIONING MOTHERS

FROM The Literary Digest

In spite of a good deal of sincere opposition from charity workers and philanthropic organizations, the