To his mother, the silence of Johnny was no longer a mystery. He had not come to her, but she had gone to him.
Vanished Years
BY HELEN A. SAXON
She sitteth in the sunshine, old and gray,
Her faded kerchief crossed upon her breast,
Her withered form in sober colors drest,
Her eyes, deep-sunken with far memory,
See not the eager children at their play
But look beyond them to the crimsoning west,
And still beyond where everlasting rest
Remains to crown and close her little day.