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From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 6, 1914. By Kate Porter.

When he was a little boy o’ mine,
    And e’en before he came,
I thought of him as a hero brave,
    A man who’d win a name.

The little hands that clung to mine
    I taught to work alone,
The little mind I taught to think
    Without depending on my own.

I made his little body strong,
    I made him brave and true,
Although I knew that all the while
    From me he further grew.

Then why should I be sorrowing,
    His country’s call has come?
Oh, why should I not feel my pride?
    He bravely leaves his home.

His land is what I trained him for,
    So why should tears fall fast?
The man-child that I gave to it
    Goes forth to serve at last!

As strong as any mother’s son
    I watched him ride away,
Yet why do I keep thinking him
    My little boy today?

Long years it’s been since I last heard
    His voice in childish key,
And why do I keep hearing now
    A little cry for me?

’Twas sweet to hold his baby form
    (How safe he was with me!)
But ever in my mind I hold
    The man that was to be.

And now how fades that vision bright,
    This thought of him, in pain!
Ah, why can I but see instead
    My little boy again?

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