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'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.'