this is what the children say, trooping, crowding, big and smallon the threshold1, in thehall-joining in the constant cry, ever as the days go by- "where"s mother?"from the weary bed of painthis same question comesagain:
from the boy, with sparkling eyes,
bearing home his earliest prize;
bearded son.
1threshold: the flooring in a doorway.
2bronzed: sunburnt; tanned.
perils past, and honours won; "where"s mother?"burdened with a lonely task, one day we may vainly ask for the comfort of her face, for the rest of her embrace let us love her while we may! well for us that we can say, "where"s mother?"mother, with untiring hands, at the post of duty stands,patient, seeking not her own1,anxious for the good alone of the children as they cry, ever, as the days go by, "where"s mother?"-j. r. eastwood, in fireside poems1 seeking not her own: unselfish.