Well, the babe grew apace, But yesterday morning a flush on its face And a look in its eye worried Roger. The mother Was due at some sort of convention or other In Boston--I think 'twas a grand federation Of clubs formed by women to rescue the Nation From man's awful clutches; and Mabel was made The head delegate of the Bay Bend Brigade. Once drop in a small, selfish nature the seed Of ambition for place, and it grows like a weed. The fair village angel we called Mabel Lee, As Mrs. Montrose, has developed, you see, To a full fledged Reformer. It quite turned her head To be sent to the city of beans and brown bread As a delegate! (Delegate! magical word! The heart of the queer modern woman is stirred Far more by its sound than by aught she may hear In the phrases poor Cupid pours into her ear.) Mabel chirped to the baby a dozen good-byes, And laughed at the trouble in Roger's grave eyes, As she leaned o'er the lace ruffled crib of her son And talked baby-talk: "Now be good, 'ittle one, While Mama is away, and don't draw a long breath, Unless 'oo would worry Papa half to death. And don't cough, and, of all things, don't _sneeze_, 'ittle dear, Or Papa will be thrown into spasms of fear. Now, good-bye, once again, 'ittle man; mother knows There is no other baby like Roger Montrose In the whole world to-day."
So she left him. That night The nurse sent a messenger speeding in fright For the Doctor; a second for Grandmama Lee And Roger despatched still another for me. All in vain! through the gray chilly paths of the dawn The soul of the beautiful baby passed on Into Mother-filled lands.
Ah! my God, the despair Of seeing that agonized sufferer there; To stand by his side, yet denied the relief Of sharing, as wife, and as mother, his grief. Enough! I have borne all I can bear. The role Of friend to a lover pulls hard on the soul Of a sensitive woman. The three words in life Which have meaning to me are home, mother and wife-- Or, rather, wife, mother and home. Once I thought Men cared for the women who found home the spot Next to heaven for happiness; women who knew No ambition beyond being loyal and true, And who loved all the tasks of the housewife. I learn, Instead, that from women of that kind men turn, With a yawn, unto those who are useless; who live For the poor hollow world and for what it can give, And who make home the spot where, when other joys cease, One sleeps late when one wishes.