But my heart still sings, and always will.

And this I owe to my mother.
I can see her yet in our tiny Welsh cottage, her foot on a wooden cradle rocking a baby, my baby brother, her hands busy with her knitting, her voice lifted in jubilant song for hours at a time.

And all her songs were songs of praise.
She thanked God for life and for strong hands to labor for her little ones.

In those days furniture was rare, and few were the pieces in a worker's home.

It took a dozen years for her to acquire two feather beds.