Somebody's Mother by Mary Dow Brine
The woman was old and ragged and gray
and bent with the chill of the Winter's day.
The street was wet with recent snow
and the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
alone, uncared for amid the throng
of human beings who passed her by,
not heeding the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street with laughter and shout,
glad in the freedom of school let out,
came the boys like a flock of sheep,
hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
went the children along their way.
None offered a hand to her -
so meek, so tired, afraid to stir
lest the carraige wheels or the horses' feet
should crowd her down the slippery street.
At last came one of the many troops,
the gayest laddie of the group;
he paused beside her and whispered low,
'I'll help you cross, if you wish to go.'
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
she placed, and so, without harm,
he guided the trembling feet along,
proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
his young heart happy and well content.
'She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
for all she's aged and poor and slow,
and I hope some fellow will lend a hand
to my mother you understand,
if ever she's poor and old and gray,
when her own dear boy is far away.'
And somebody's mother bowed low her head
in her home that night, and the prayer she said
was 'God, be kind to the noble boy
who is somebody's son, and pride and joy.'
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