A peal of bells rang out from the church. One of the boys stirred, sat up, and cried out, “Mother!” She lifted her head. “Hush!” she said, “Hush, the angels are singing.” She rose and walked to the window, drawing aside the curtain. A star shone brilliantly; it seemed to shoot a shaft of light into the room. The Christmas chimes clamored their tidings. She went back and knelt by the startled child. “Kiss mother,” she said, as she put her arms about him. “It is Christmas morning.”
I Am the Mother-Heart
By Grace D. Brewer
(In “The Progressive Woman.”)
I am the Mother-heart of this nation.
I have loved and nourished its little ones in age-long mother fashion; have swelled with pride when the nation has protected them from disease; come nearly to bursting with unuttered gratitude when happiness has come to the youth of the land.
I have spent many long, sleepless nights weeping over the fate of millions of my babies, forced from home, school and mother, to the factories and shops of the cities, and all night have wondered “why” and “how long?”
I am haunted by the childish protestations, desirous glances from faded, childish eyes, and bleed anew when I see my children marching from the factory door, their bent and bony figures clad in rags.
I, the Mother-heart of the nation have been deceived, tricked and defrauded.
I believed that modern industry, with all the improvements, could provide for my infants; believed the mighty labor-saving machines would not require the help of my babies to feed the world; believed the children would be given plenty of time in which to grow healthy bodies.