The Mother’s Question
When I was a boy, and it chanced to rain,
Mother would always watch for me;
She used to stand by the window pane,
Worried and troubled as she could be.
And this was the question I used to hear,
The very minute that I drew near;
The words she used, I can’t forget:
‘Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.’
Worried about me was mother dear,
As healthy a lad as ever strolled
Over a turnpike, far or near,
‘Fraid to death that I’d take a cold.
Always stood by the window pane,
Watching for me in the pouring rain;
And her words in my ears are ringing yet:
‘Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.’
Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire,
And slippers ready for me to wear;
Seemed that mother would never tire,
Giving her boy the best of care,
Thinking of him the long day through,
In the worried way that all mothers do;
Whenever it rained she’d start to fret,
Always fearing my feet were wet.
And now, whenever it rains, I see
A vision of mother in days of yore,
Still waiting there to welcome me,
As she used to do by the open door.
And always I think as I enter there
Of a mother’s love and a mother’s care;
Her words in my ears are ringing yet:
‘Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.’
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