Ihr liewe Leit:
Schunn efders hen ihr gude Leser em Professer gschriwwe odder gsaat er
sett doch mol widder sell Muddersdaag Schtick gewwe ass er fer's aerschtmol
sechzeh Yaahre zerrick gewwe hot. Do iss es:
Am Sunndaag iss der Muddersdaag. Darref ich hoffe ass ihr die Mammi
bsucht odder villeicht uffruft, odder wennichschdens en Kaart schickt?
Der Dichter Birmelin gemaahnt uns draa wie es uns reie kennt wann mer net
draadenke die Mammi zu ehre:
Im diefe Graab, mit seine kiehle Wend,
Do leit die Mudder in der siesse Ruh.
'S iss alles schtill, was watt's mer's Hatz so schwer!
Ach, Mudder! Wann ich dir's yuscht saage kennt,
Es reit mich oft ass ich dir Leed geduh.
Nau bischt du fatt - was iss die Welt so leer!
Vun "Muddergraab"
Ya, mer kennt's gewiss reie wann mer am Sunndaag net an die Mammi denke.
Awwer wie kennt so ebbes brassiere? Charles C. More kann e suns schee auslege:
Mer vermisst yo net der Sunneschein
Bis der Owet kummt;
Mer vermisst yo net der Voggelsang
Bis es Lied verschtummt;
Mer vermisst yo net der Roseduft
Bis aus iss seine Zeit;
Mer vermisst yo net die Mudderlieb
Bis im kiehle Graab sie leit.
Vun "Mudderlieb"
Ihr liewe Leit, macht yo net der neemlich Fehler! Mer sett doch em
Arthur D. Graeff seim Rot follige. Er hot mol gschriwwe:
Wann die Ebbelbeem bliehe un's Friehyaahr iss do, Dann kummt widder der
Muddersdaag rum; Un mer bsuche die Mammi, sie's immer so froh,
Ihre Kinner sin allfatt willkumm.
In kee Schprooch gebt's ee Watt ass so viel Meening schprecht
Ass wie "Mammi" zu uns deitsche Leit.
Es schteht immer fer Gut, fer grooss Lieb un fer Recht.
Du kummscht aerscht in ihr Hatz allezeit.
Geb der mammi die Blumme, deweil sie noch lebt!
Loss sie wisse ass du net vergesscht!
Weil mer weess ass die Lieb ass es Mudderhatz hebt
Iss in all der grooss Welt noch es bescht.
Vun "Mudderlied"
Waardt net! Ruft sie am Sunndaag uff, odder geht sogaar zu der
Mammi uff Bsuch! Un wann's meeglich iss, bringt ihre Blumme mit, un wann net,
dann schick, ihre die Blumme - heit noch!
Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear people:
Quite often you good readers have written or told the Professor that he
should once again give the Mother's Day piece that he gave for the first
time 16 years ago. Here it is:
On Sunday is Mother's Day. May I hope that you will visit your Mom
or perhaps call her up, or at least send her a card?
The poet Birmelin reminds us of the fact that we could regret it if we do
not remember to honor Mother:
In a deep grave, with its cool walls,
There lies Mother in sweet rest.
Everything is so still, how heavy my heart becomes!
Oh, Mother! If I could only tell you
How often I regret that I caused you pain.
Now you are gone - how empty the world is!
From "Mother's Grave"
Yes, we could truly regret it if we do not think of Mother on Sunday. But
how could such a thing happen? Charles C. More can explain it to us
nicely:
One doesn't miss the sunshine
Till evening comes;
One doesn't miss the bird's song
Till the song is done;
One doesn't miss the scent of roses
Till its time is over;
One doesn't miss Mother's love
Till she lies in her cool grave.
From "Mother's Love"
Dear people, don't ever make the same mistake! One should follow
Arthur D. Graeff's advice. He once wrote:
When the apple trees bloom and spring is here,
Then Mother's Day comes around again:
And we visit Mother, she is always so happy,
And her children are always welcome.
In no language is there a word that speaks so much meaning
Than "Mother" to us German folks.
It stands for good, for great love and for right.
You come first in hear heart all the time.
Give Mother the flowers while she still lives!
Let her know that you don't forget!
Because one knows that the love that a mother's heart holds
Is in all the great world still the best.
From "Mother's Song"
Don't wait! Call her up on Sunday, or even go to your Mother for a
visit! And if it is possible, take her flowers along, and if not, then
send her the flowers-today yet!
Take care,
The Old Professor
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