On this happy Christmas morning, let none forget mother; be she ever so far away, let some tribute of love be sent her. Honor dear old mother. Time has scattered the snowy flakes on her brow, plowed deep furrows on her cheek -but is she not beautiful now? The lips are thin and shrunken, but these are the lips that have kissed many a hot tear from childish cheeks and they are the sweetest cheeks and lips in the world. The eye is dim, yet it glows with the soft radiance of holy love which can never fade. The sands of life are nearly run out, but feeble as she is, she will go further and reach down lower for you than anyone else upon earth. When the world shall despise and forsake you, when it leaves you by the wayside to die, unnoticed, the dear old mother will gather you up in her feeble arms and carry you home and tell you of all your virtues until you almost forget that your soul is disfigured by vices. Love her dearly and cheer her declining years with tender devotion.