The Mother's Question

When I was a boy, and it chanced to rain,

Mother would always watch for me;

She used to stand by the window pane,

Worried and troubled as she could be.

And this was the question I used to hear,

The very minute that I drew near;

The words she used, I can n't forget:

“Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.”

Worried about me was mother dear,

As healthy a lad as ever strolled

Over a turnpike, far or near,

‘ Fraid to death that I'd take a cold.

Always stood by the window pane,

Watching for me in the pouring rain;

And her words in my ears are ringing yet:

“Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.”

Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire,

And slippers ready for me to wear;

Seemed that mother would never tire,

Giving her boy the best of care,

Thinking of him the long day through,

In the worried way that all mothers do;

Whenever it rained she'd start to fret,

Always fearing my feet were wet.

And now, whenever it rains, I see

A vision of mother in days of yore,

Still waiting there to welcome me,

As she used to do by the open door.

And always I think as I enter there

Of a mother's love and a mother's care;

Her words in my ears are ringing yet:

“Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.”