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“One honest John Thompson, a
hedger and ditcher, Although he '.was poor, did not
want to be richer; For all such vain wishes in him
were prevented By a fortunate habit of being contented.”
—__— “Oh, what a funny-looking cow,” said the sweet young thing from the city. “But why hasn’t it any horns?”
“There are many reasons,” the farmer explained, “why a cow does not have horns. Some do not have them until late years in life, others are dehorned; while still other breeds are not supposed to have horns. The reason that this cow does not have horns is because it is a horse.”
A week from this Sunday—the second Sunday in May—is Mother’s Day. Someone is sure to quote old John Quincy Adams: “All that I am my mother made me.”
I once heard a man lecture on that subject. He wasn’t overly enthusiastic; in fact, he insinuated that he feared it wasn’t much man if his mother had entire responsibility in the making. The lecturer seemed to be of the opinion that the mother could have helped the boy, but the man was no better than his own making. It might, however, be an excuse for his faults. There is no influence better than a good mother, but the best mothers in the world have had some pretty rotten products of their handiwork; and I’m inclined to think that it’s another case of that “silk purse from a sow’s ear” —you can’t make much unless you have the material with which to work.
I wish the old New Englander had said.: ! am ^a product of my mother’s e n c o u r a g e merit a fid
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