Clara Barton.
I remember my mother’s prayers, and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life. A. Lincoln.
Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him. Tennyson.
As the years sped on and the hands were stilled, there shone the gleam of the far sighted mother’s watchfulness that neither toil could obscure nor time relax. Clara Barton.
His sweetest dreams were still of that dear voice that soothed his infancy. Southey.
TO DREAM OF HOME AND MOTHER
At Decatur, Alabama, in a well-remembered scene of the Civil War many were the songs by southern chivalry started, but none finished. All efforts to sing one evening having been boisterously tabooed, there arose in the air a voice carrying the sentiment that thrills the camp, the field, the hospital. In gloom for today with foreshadowing for tomorrow, around a score of camp fires thousands of voices following the leader there broke forth pathetic, in full chorus, “Who will care for Mother now?”