Holy Tornado

To see the soul of your comrade listen carefully to his music.

Friday, May 06, 2005


The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day;
The street was wet with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing, and waited long,
Alone, uncared for amid the throng
Of human beings who pass'd her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hasten'd the children on their way,
Nor offer'd a helping hand to her
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,
Lest the carriage wheels or the horse's feet,
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddie in all the group;
He paused beside her, and whispered low,
"I'll help you across if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She place, 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,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's Mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow;
And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my Mother, you understand,
If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bow'd low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was: "God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"

by Mary Dow Brine