Mother! Mother! Mother!

(Archibald Brown, "
Better than a Mother!")

Mother! Mother! Mother! What associations of loving tenderness are in the very name, Mother! The word touches a secret spring in the heart, and conjures back scenes of the past. It brings to view in the dim distance, a sweet face that used to bend over our little bed at eventide, and impress a kiss upon our brow. It reminds us of one who used to smile when we were happy — and weep when obliged to correct us. It calls to remembrance one who always seemed interested in our little tales of adventure, and never laughed at our little sorrows that seemed so large to us. Mother! It was her face we gazed last upon, when we went away to school. And it was into her arms that we first rushed, when the holidays brought us home.

Mother! It was the thought of her that held us back from sin with unseen silken cords! And when those dark locks of hers became silvered with advancing age, we only thought an extra charm had crowned her brow.

With many present, that mother has long since fallen asleep in her Savior's arms — but you did not forget the love that was as strong as death, and escaped from her dying lips in words that you treasure to this day. Forget? No! Her name still has a magic power, and the tears I see rolling down so many cheeks this morning are eloquent in their language. They declare that at least one word has neither lost its music or its charm, and that one word is, mother.

I think I cannot better show the hold the memory has of a mother upon a man, than by quoting the words of Archibald Thompson. He says, "Mother!! How many delightful associations cluster around that word. When my heart aches at the world's wickedness, and my limbs are weary, and my feet bloody, traveling the thorny path of life — I am accustomed to sit down on some mossy stone, and closing my eyes on real scenes, to send my thoughts back to the days of early life — and in all these reminiscences, my mother arises. If I seat myself upon my cushion, it is at her side; if I sing, it is to her ears; if I walk the meadows, my little hand is in my mother's, and my little feet keep company with hers; if I stand and listen to the piano, it is because my mother's fingers touch the keys; if I survey the wonders of creation, it is my mother who points out the object of my admiring attention. There is . . .
   no velvet so soft as a mother's lap,
   no rose so lovely as her smile,
   no path so flowery as that imprinted with her footsteps."