Whatever temptations may come to him, the mother's face and voice and the
memory of her high principles will forbid his yielding and hold him steady
and loyal to that mother and her teaching. He must feel that if he should
debase himself he would dishonor her, and that he cannot do. He can still
hear her voice echoing from the years long gone, and feel the kindly touch
of her hand upon his brow. When troubles came, mother knew just what to do
and soon the sun was shining again. It was her magic that made the rough
places smooth, her voice that exorcised all evil spirits. She it was who
drove the lions from his path and made it a place of peace and joy. To be
disloyal to her would be to lose his manhood.
Whatever vicissitudes befall, we yearn to return to the old homestead, for
there, and there alone, can we experience, in full measure, the reactions
that came from our early associations with the old well, the bridge that
spans the brook, the trees bending low with their luscious fruit, the
grape arbor, the spring that bubbles and laughs as it gives forth its
limpid treasure, the fields that are redolent of the harvest season, and
the royal meal on the back porch. The man who does not smile in recalling
such scenes of his boyhood days is abnormal, disloyal, and an apostate.
These are the scenes that anchor the soul and give meaning to
civilization. The man who will not fight for the old home, and for the
memory of father and mother, will not fight for the flag of his country
and is, at heart, an alien.
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