A Mother's Year Book

by Unknown

NOVEMBER TWELFTH

I'd rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle

of gold on a bough of the willow,

To the cho-heen-ho of the wind of the west and

the lulla-lo of the soft sea billow.

Sleep, baby dear,

Sleep without fear:

Mother is here beside your pillow.

Alfred Percival Gates

NOVEMBER THIRTEENTH

You too, my Mother, read my rhymes,

For love of unforgotten times;

And you may chance to hear once more

The little feet along the floor.

Robert Louis Stevenson

NOVEMBER FOURTEENTH

And still to childhood's sweet appeal

The heart of genius turns,

And more than all the sages teach,

From lisping voices learns.

Whittier

NOVEMBER FIFTEENTH

The wondrous child,

Whose silver warble wild

Out-valued every pulsing sound

Within the air's cerulean round.

Emerson

NOVEMBER SIXTEENTH

He saw his Mother's face, accepting it

In change for heaven itself, with such a smile

As might have well been learnt there.

Mrs. Browning