You Can Always Trust Mother. A Poem

FISHERMAN KNUTE'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 17

woman. You do not chide me, you do not even scold, but awaken me with a loving touch." "Yes, love is stronger than all things, Knute. If love will not help you, nothing else can. My love, Knute, my love will help you to make a man of yourself yet, will it not? Tell me it will!" "Through the grace of God, it will," said he. He took her down to the boat, and they sailed home to- gether. And hope again dared to peep out from its place of hiding. (to be concluded in DECEMBER NUMBER.)

YOU CAN ALWAYS TRUST MOTHER. BY SARAH E. PEARSON.

[For the Improvement Era.]

Out in the world with its untried joy, Its triumphs, pleasures and pains,

You are eager to enter the fray, my boy, And share in its glittering gains. Strong in youth, in faith and in health, my boy, You smile as you enter its strife; You taste the elixir without the alloy Old experience offers to life. And yet, don't forget, in the whirl and fret Of the strenuous life of the man, There's a true heart beating for you, my boy, Which never will change nor can. Unselfish type of our Father's love Which yields the palm to no other; Whatever the failure or grief or care, You can safely trust your mother.

18 IMPROVEMENT ERA.

Her pride and joy is your honor, my boy, Her hope is your happiness; But if sorrow and care early silver your hair. She'll love you none the less.

Though her cheek may be withered, her footstep slow, Growing dim those eyes of blue. Yet they have grown old in your service, you know. She would give her heart's blood for you. For love sharpens the wits and steadies the hand, And strengthens the judgment true; And lends a sort of second sight To those faded eyes of blue; Ah, the Autumn of life, brings the seed time of faith, Which bloomtime can never bring; And her prayers are most often for you, my boy, And her thoughts most around you cling.

So, trust your mother, for never another Will love you just as she Who bore, and guarded and guided you, And your baby prayers heard at her knee. Oh, be tender as well as brave, my boy. And thoughtful as well as gay; 'Twill smooth her path to the grave, my boy, And be balm to your heart alway. And so, don't forget, in the whirl and fret Of the strenuous life of the man. There's a true heart beating for you, my boy. Which never will change, nor can. Unselfish type of our Father's love Which yields the palm to no other; Whatever the failure or grief or care, You can always trust your mother.