In the heart of spring, amid the blos-soming of the flowers, the universe celebrates Mothers' Day. And upon my life, spring has never gloried in love growing tender within its folds, nor in dreams that fill its mornings and its evenings, nor in blossoms coquetting, sweet scents wafting, and warblings that intoxicate—as it has gloried in having this singular day set at its head, the day that reminds a man (and what man forgets?) of her who, after God, created him; and behold, the mother is a full moon, and all these things are halos surrounding that moon.

...What wonder? Did not the Godhead keep yearning and burn-ing, until one night it was in Bethlehem, "and behold, a little child asleep in Mary's bosom"?

And on the cross he uttered two names: My God—and, to his beloved disciple: care for my mother!

And of old, insult among the Arabs never split open upon anything more hateful than: You have no mother!

...And today, on the day of your feast, what shall we offer you? A bouquet of flowers, a present from the markets? Perhaps!

As for me, I shall offer you thanks-giving for the gifts and qualities you made grow in me, and for love, and for the abundance you poured out to me with the milk: faith in God and love for mankind; that I be a hand for the needy and two eyes for the blind; that I do good and speak the truth and give heed to beauty; that I live the "superstitions" in this age of knowledge—believing in faithfulness, uprightness, and humanity, and living them...

Talents were left to me: will you then see me investing them well, and laying them (on the day we meet) at your feet? And behold, in your face is the radiance I knew, and on your lips the smile I see wherever I go; and behold, your arms open, and my forehead is moist with a kiss!

What is motherhood? Is it the essential happiness for which woman longs in her married life? Or the social event she cannot do without in the forming of the family?

It seems to me that it is nothing but the dream that turns in the head of every woman, and that it is the immortal mission in which is made manifest what God has bestowed upon the female alone. All women bow in reverence, with the tremor of awe in their souls, before the splendid image of motherhood; all of them wish to taste this deep happiness, giving it the first place in their lives; and they feel no gladness so great as that which they feel when they become mothers, even if, short of it, the blessings of this world are theirs in abundance, and broad standing, vast fortunes, and a happiness-giving husband are gathered to them! Zarathustra said: "Man for woman is only a means; her end is the child." Children are the source of their hopes; they are not happy unless they are granted the children who strengthen their position and raise the worth of their ultimate end in life. A mother's love for her child is the strongest of all loves, the purest, and the furthest removed from all selfishness; she sacrifices everything for his sake, without hoping for anything in return. Were it not for this strong love, stripped of all selfishness, no mother would expose herself to that danger, content to do so for the sake of bringing into this world a new child whose mother she is. The man, in begetting the child, may be driven by the factor of pleasure; and the woman's pain may itself be a pleasure, for the mother endures this passing pain only for the lasting pleasure that follows it: every mother feels a pleasure beyond all pleasures in bringing forth a little child. Dr. Stopes has said: "Radiant motherhood in its intensest meaning is summed up in two things: the pleasure of bringing forth a little child, and the bearing of pain in giving birth to this child—in other words, it is the sacrifice of the self for the sake of the self."

The female is happy, and her soul beams with the colors of bliss, in the exalted moment when this wish is fulfilled—a wish surpassing all the radiances of happiness, and all the moments of bliss she has ever enjoyed.

In the instant in which the mother gives birth to a child, her eye is gladdened by him, her careworn conscience finds rest in him, and her life brightens because of him, despite the exhausting pregnancy and the bitter delivery that so often threatens to end her life.

To the mother the child is the shining light that fills her eyes; she sees the truth of her world in the opening of his eyelids, and so she loves her world, even if torment weighs heavy on her shoulder and the wound of pain bursts open in her breast.