The woman was old and ragged
with the chill of the winter’s day.
The street was wet with a recent
And the woman’s feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
beings who passed her by
Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom
of “school let out,”
Came the boys like a flock
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way.
Nor offered a helping hand to her—
Lest the carriage
wheels or the horses’ feet
her down in the slippery street.
The happiest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
“I’ll help you cross
, if you wish to go.”
Her aged hand on his strong arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
“She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know,
For all she’s aged and poor and slow,
“And I hope some fellow will lend
“If ever she’s poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away.”
And “somebody’s mother” bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was “God be kind to the noble
Who is somebody’s son, and pride