At Reading Time
by Edith Bingham Howell
She has a little son
Who's nearly three
And in the bedtime hour
He climb's upon his mother's knee
and snuggles down on her arm
With "mother read to me!"
She reads about the squirrels
That frolic in the wood,
About two puppies-
one naughty and one good.
And then some tender lullabies-
Just as a mother should.
The light grows faint, and fainter;
The sandman guards the door;
My baby's boat drifts slowly
upon the slumber shore-
But when the reading stops, he cries,
"O, Mother, read some more!"
I'm sure his "Precious Mother, "
Adored from East to West,
Feels half the satisfaction
Or is so truly blessed
As, I when reading to my child
Held closely to my breast.
Not all the fame and glory
of others can compare
With that deep thrill of pleasure
which is my humble share,
For precious are the flowers
That reading mothers share!
1921-2002
