A MOTHERS PRAYER A mother stands on the station platform, A brave smile on her lips. Her boy is going far away To do his little bit. Her heart breaks deep within her, Theres anguish in her eyes, And she clings to the boy beside her As they stand neath the clear blue skies. The call to arms has sounded For this boy she holds so dear, And she wonders what fate has in store In the coming years. He puts his arms around her And kisses her sweet lips, As the train pulls up beside them To start him on his trip. Smile, my dearest mother, Dont let the teardrops start, Ill always hold this memory Deep within my heart. Ill never forget you, mother, But now its time to go, So smile, my dear, while I dry each tear, You know I love you so. The station platform is empty, Her heart is empty too, But theres pride in those dear eyes As she looks at the Red, White and Blue. Slowly she wends her way homeward, The house seems so empty and bare, But in memory hes there beside her And she bows her head in prayer. Oh, merciful God above, Hear my humble plea, Please watch oer the boy I love And send him back to me. Keep him clean and spotless, Let him always be A guiding light along the way To shine each day for me. And so it is with all the mothers Whose boys have gone away. Their hearts are filled with anguish And their hair slowly turns to gray. May this strife soon be over, Is their humble prayer. And we join in this rising chorus For our boys over there! Dear Mrs. Hardy; No doubt you are quite surprised to hear from someone that is a total stranger to you. About ten days ago I saw a picture of you and your son. It was a picture of your son kissing you goodby at the railroad station in Ogden. The expression on your face and in your eyes seemed to me to mirror the sadness and heartache and pain of such a parting that all mothers must feel when their sons are called to the service of their country to face the great unknown. The picture so impressed me that I decided to write a poem. The enclosed is the result of my effort and I would like to dedicate it for you and to your son. The poem has no value although a lot of people have expressed a wish to have a copy of it. Very sincerely yours. Richard M. Conover. The Kind Shepherd The night wind Is a shepherd, The little stars his sheep; He leads them out to pasture Above a world of sleep. All night his flocks are grazing On the hill slopes of the sky; Nor do they wander far away When the wind goes riding by. But if the night be very dark, And paths by clouds are crossed, The shepherd keeps his flocks, at home For fear a lamb be lost. Was Ever Anything Lovelier Than Dusk? At dusk, when it is very still, I think I am alone until The little child I used to be Comes in to sit and talk with me. I see beyond her, through the haze, All my forgotten yesterdays. I am glad we know each other yet, I, and the child who cant forget. Home Front Soldier...She doesnt wear a uniform or make a bid for fame, She doesnt think that honor rolls will ever call her name. She doesnt wear a medal or boast a heros prize, But she found her fame and glory in her babys shining eyes! She cuddles Baby Billy holds him very near, Whispers little secrets into his tiny ear. She croons a wee-tot lullaby says a little prayer, Dreams about the future Baby Boy must share. Geography may change a lot history will repeat, But life and love and babies are the things they cant defeat! She is proud her little baby has a soldier for a dad, Of course he is the bravest any baby ever had. But she keeps one little secret you can see how Baby rates She thinks he will be President of these United States! By Rosa Lee Lloyd. American Housewife This is her strength, that all her life, Day after day, in sun and showers; She prays to do the best she can. The regiments of pot and pan, The woolen spoon, the kitchen knife, Are here and hers the homely hours. The polished wood, and the clean floor, The closet with its counted linen, All tell her when she comes to rest That hand and heart have done their best, And rich or poor she wants no more And has no less than other women. This is the limit of her rule: Her garden with its weedy loam, The church, the pigeons in the steeple, The voices of the neighboring people, Her children coming back from school, Her peace, her freedom, and her home. This is her hope, that she may give To those she loves, before she dies, One precious gift, America This home as it was given to her, This happy land, where they may live As she did, under freedoms skies. ROBERT NATHAN