Mother's Picture

There’s a picture that I'm always painting and unfinished it's destined to be.

It lingers thru Years that are wanting,

for Charms you so justly could see.

It visions my darling young Mother,

who left me in childhood alone.

She left me to nourish no other, the Angel’s they called her back home.

Though no outline she left unto me,

as a guide to my lonesome crude hand. Somehow she gave me the wisdom to see,

that no picture but her’s quite so grand.

School Years my playmates brought me, at my request.

Their Mother’s, pictures to see, and their homes, with their Mother’s so blessed.

It was then my first painting begun,

as I noticed how Mother’s attended their Sons. How she joyed at their pleasure, how she grieved at their pain.

Later years found me, at homes of dear friends,

And deep were my thought’s as I watched Mother’s nurse Sons who were men.

How I worked on my picture and longed for a mother at home,

Yet it did not darken my future, or caused me to roam.

My picture is still unfinished, though I now have I now have a home of my own home.

Home that with Mother, and Children, is blessed.

I'll always be painting my Mother alone.

And to you my dear Children, this warning I give.

Get picture’s of Mother, while she still lives.

Then you all can have pictures of Mother, pictures real, warm and true. You see I have learned even an Artist can’t paint her that way for you.

M. H. MacDonald,

April 21,1928