Mundane Musings

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 212, 26 November 1927, Page 22 (Supplement)

Mundane Musings

Mother and Son (Written for THE SUN.) It is no use the little lady’s pretending she is not his mother, because I know that she is. I know by the tenderness in her eyes whwi she speaks to him, or of him.

He is long and lean, and about 20. He is slightly hunchbacked, but has

the kindest, most patient face. I should say that at his birth the fairies conferred upon him all the graces of spirit, but none of the flesh. He is ugly—in voice, face, and figure. And his mother? She is little, fair, thousands of lines on her wizened face, and yet strangely young-looking. She is not really very old to have a son of twenty. I should say that she is no more than 36, yet bent and bowed by 20 years’ sorrow. For she wears no wedding ring! If you go into their shop—they sell little animals and birds—you will see the little wizened lady and her bent son, tinkering with their animate merchandise. She will probably be scolding him for his carelessness, for ruffling the feathers of a bantam, or bending the ears of a rabbit. And in her tones you will hear that quality of love that speaks of her parentage. Such tenderness, such adoration, such tolerance for the po*r hunchback could never be in the eyes and on the lips of one who was not his mother.

Is it not pitiful, then, that she talks of him as her nephew? And that he calls her "auntie”? I often think that she must be longing to stand up and tell the whole world that he is her son. I believe that her hair, going so silver, would turn golden again if she could tell the world the truth. For in her eyes he is not crippled and unpleasant to look upon. He is a god, an Adonis. The sun rises and sets for him alone, and all the joy of her life she gets from the lovelight in his poor tired eyes. I love to hear her scolding him. She tells me: “Charley is so careless: he never cares if he hurts the little souls dependent upon him. It is all the same to him; hurt or not hurt, he does not worry.” And then she smiles at him, and in her smile is the assurance that she knows that the tiniest animal would be safe with him; that he would die sooner than cause a moment’s pain to the meanest thing alive. And it is true —he would die sooner than hurt his little friends, who crowd round him when he calls, as if he were the most beautiful person alive. Their love for him is a great love, founded on trust and good fellowship. For they can see beyond the mask of flesh to the soul of the boy. And they see that it is good. It is the mother who really interests •• more. She has a. great patience on her little face. She looks as if she had known life and love: staked much, and lost; and. through the loss, come to something ineffably precious. She always reminds me of this verse, and so, I think, she lives: 1 have known life and love, I have known death and disaster: Foregathered with fools, succumbed to sin , and been not unacquainted with shame; Doubted and yet held fast to a faith no doubt could overmaster, 1 Yon and lost —and I know that it was all a vart of the game. Youth and the dreams of youth; hope, * and the triumph of sorrow; 1 took them, as they came, I played them all; and I trumped the trick when I could. And now , O Mover of Men, let the end be to-day or to-morrow — I have staked and played for myself, and, You, and the Game were good. K. M. KNIGHT.