Our Gift | Page 2

magic spell which Memory weaves,
Shall long in kindred
hearts be worn.
And when the last farewell is said,
A solace to each
heart shall be
The memory of that love which spoke
In parting
tones, "Remember me!"
HONOR THY PARENTS.
CONVERSATION I.
"Honor thy father and thy mother."
"Well, Clara," said Mary, as they left the church, "shall we go now and
take a walk before we go home? Look, there are William Johnson and
George Field waiting to see which way we shall turn, in order to
accompany us."
"Not this afternoon," answered Clara, "I think we had better go home."

They continued their way homeward until they reached the street where
Clara lived, and were about to part, when Mary asked her companion at
what time she would meet her the next morning to take a long walk,
adding that William and George would go with them.
"I will ask mother," replied Clara, "and if she is willing, I will meet you
at six o'clock."
"How is this," said Mary, "you never used to say you would ask your
mother; besides, there can be no possible objection to our going to take
a walk."
"True," rejoined Clara, "there can be no objection to our taking a walk;
but we have never told our mothers that William and George are in the
habit of going with us."
"Well, I don't see any great harm in their going with us," continued
Mary, with a tone which indicated that she did not see any harm
whatever in it.
"Perhaps there is not, and yet, Mary, I have thought that there might be;
therefore, I prefer to speak to my mother about it."
"And pray, Miss Clara, what has made you so conscientious all at
once?"
"I will tell you, Mary. You recollect that on the last Sabbath, our pastor
took for his text, the fifth commandment."
"Yes, I do."
"Well, something which he said, caused me to think more about these
words than I ever did before; and the more I think of them, the more
convinced I am, that we do not consider and reflect upon them so much
as we ought to."
"Let me see," said Mary, "Honor thy father and thy mother;"--"Well, I
am sure I do honor my father and my mother; I obey them when they

give me a command, and I love them with all my heart. What more can
I do?"
"So I reasoned before, but when I sat down alone in my chamber, a
good many things came to my mind, to convince me that I was wrong."
"Well," added Mary, "let me have the benefit of your reflections."
"Why, in this very instance of going to walk, I had always asked my
mother's consent, and she had given it; but I never told her where we
went, or who went with us, which now appears to me wrong. Our
mothers are much older than we are, and have had much more
experience than we have, and there may be wrong in doing what
appears to us quite harmless."
"For the life of me," interrupted Mary, "I cannot think there can
possibly be any harm in such a slight occurrence. However, say nothing
to your mother to-night; but go with us to-morrow morning, and then
you can mention it to her, and see what she says."
"I beg your pardon, Mary; but you said just now, you could not see
what possible harm there could be in so slight an occurrence, and yet
your request to put off mentioning this to my mother, shows that you
have some misgivings on the subject."
Mary reflected for a moment. "Clara," said she, "if you have no
objection, I will go home with you, and hear what your mother will
say."
"I shall be delighted to have you," was the answer.
Mary Winthrop and Clara Spaulding had arrived at the ages of fourteen
and fifteen years, a time of life which is peculiarly critical for girls. At
no age do they more require the advice of a mother, and at no age are
they less inclined to seek it. This would seem to be a natural
disinclination, so prevalent is it. These were both good girls, but, as
may be judged from the conversation we have just related, Clara was
the more thoughtful, while Mary was very apt to act without much

reflection. She possessed, however, this noble trait; she was always
ready to acknowledge her error, when it was pointed out to her, and
would endeavor to avoid repeating it.
Mrs. Spaulding had reached home when the girls entered. She was a
woman of excellent sense, and a mother indeed to her children. Mary
frankly told her all the conversation which had passed between Clara
and herself, and then waited for her