The Child at Home | Page 7

I relate it, that those children who have parents to love them
may learn to value them as they ought.
"My mother had been ill a long time, and I became so accustomed to her pale face and
weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, as children usually are. At first, it is true, I
sobbed violently; but when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same,
I began to believe she would always be spared to me. But they told me she would die.
"One day, when I had lost my place in the class, and had done my work wrong side
outward, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went to my mother's chamber. She was
paler than usual, but she met me with the same affectionate smile that always welcomed
my return. Alas, when I look back through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart
must have been stone not to have melted by it. She requested me to go down stairs and
bring her a glass of water. I pettishly asked why she did not call a domestic to do it. With
a look of mild reproach, which I shall never forget, if I live to be a hundred years old, she
said, 'And will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?'
"I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead of smiling and
kissing her, as I was wont to do, I set the glass down very quickly, and left the room.
After playing about a short time, I went to bed without bidding my mother good night.
But when alone in my room, in darkness and in silence, I remembered how pale she
looked, and how her voice trembled when she said, 'Will not my daughter bring a glass of
water for her poor sick mother?' I could not, sleep. I stole into her chamber to ask
forgiveness. She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. I

did not tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, resolved to rise early in
the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct.

"The sun was shining brightly when I awoke: and, hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to
my mother's chamber. She was dead! She never spoke more--never smiled upon me again
and when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold
that it made me start. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart.
I thought then I might wish to die, and be buried with her, and, old as I now am, I would
give worlds, were they mine to give, could my mother but have lived to tell me that she
forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when I stand by her grave,
and whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she
gave me will bite like a serpent and sting like an adder."
And when your mother dies, do you not think that you will feel remorse for every unkind
word you have uttered, and for every act of ingratitude? Your beloved parents must soon
die. You will probably be led into their darkened chamber, to see them pale and helpless
on their dying bed. Oh, how will you feel in that solemn hour! All your past life will
come to your mind, and you will think that you would give worlds, if you could blot out
the remembrance of past ingratitude. You will think that, if your father or mother should
only get well, you would never do any thing to grieve them again. But the hour for them
to die must come. You may weep as though your heart would break, but it will not recall
the past, and it will not delay their death. They must die; and you will probably gaze upon
their cold and lifeless countenances in the coffin. You will follow them to the grave, and
see them buried for ever from your sight. Oh, how unhappy you will feel, if you then
have to reflect upon your misconduct! The tears you will shed over their graves will be
the more bitter, because you will feel that, perhaps, your own misconduct hastened their
death.
But perhaps you will die before your parents do. If you go into the grave-yard, you will
see the graves of many children. You know that the young are liable to die, as well as the
old. And what must be the feelings of the dying child, who knows that