[Illustration]
A poor emigrant had gone to Australia to "make his fortune," leaving a
wife and little son in England. When he had made some money, he wrote
home to his wife: "Come out to me here; I send the money for your passage;
I want to see you and my boy." The wife took ship as soon as she could,
and started for her new home. One night, as they were all asleep there
sounded the dreaded cry of "Fire, fire!" Everyone rushed on deck and the
boats were soon filled. The last one was just pushing off then a cry of
"there are two more on deck," arose. They were the mother and her son.
Alas! "Only room for one," the sailors shouted. Which was to go? The
mother thought of her far away home, her husband looking out lovingly
and longingly for his wife. Then she glanced at the boy, clinging
frightened to her skirts. She could not let him die. There was no time
to lose. Quick! quick! The flames were getting around. Snatching the
child, she held him to her a moment. "Willie, tell Father I died for
you!" Then the boy as lowered into the sailor's willing arms. She died
for him.
--Selected.
"I DON'T LOVE YOU NOW, MOTHER"
A great many years ago, I knew a lady who had been sick for two years,
as you have seen many a one, all the while slowly dying with consumption.
She had one child--a little boy named Henry.
One afternoon I was sitting by her side and it seemed as if she would
cough her life away. Her little boy stood by the post of the bed, his
blue eyes filled with tears to see her suffer so. By and by the terrible
cough ceased. Henry came and put his arms around his mother's neck,
nestled his head in his mother's bosom, and said, "Mother, I do love
you; I wish you wasn't sick."
An hour later, the same loving, blue-eyed boy came in all aglow, stamping
the snow off his feet.
"Oh, Mother, may I go skating? it is so nice--Ed and Charlie are going."
"Henry," feebly said the mother, "the ice is not hard enough yet."
"But, Mother," very pettishly said the boy, "you are sick all the time--
how do you know?"
"My child, you must obey me," gently said his mother.
"It is too bad," angrily sobbed the boy, who an hour ago had so loved
his mother.
"I would not like to have my little boy go," said the mother, looking
sadly at the little boy's face, all covered with frowns; "you said you
loved me--be good."
"No, I don't love you now, Mother," said the boy, going out and slamming
the door.
Again that dreadful coughing came upon her, and _we_ thought no
more of the boy. After the coughing had commenced, I noticed tears falling
thick upon her pillow, but she sank from exhaustion into a light sleep.
In a little while muffled steps of men's feet were heard coming into the
house, as though carrying something; and they were carrying the almost
lifeless body of Henry.
Angrily had he left his mother and gone to skate--disobeying her; and
then broken through the ice, sunk under the water, and now saved by a
great effort, was brought home barely alive to his sick mother.
I closed the doors feeling more danger for her life than the child's and
coming softly in, drew back the curtains from the bed. She spoke, "I
heard them--it is Henry; oh, I knew he went--is he dead?" But she never
seemed to hear the answer I gave her. She commenced coughing--she died
in agony--strangled to death. The poor mother! The boy's disobedience
killed her.
After a couple of hours I sought the boy's room.
[Illustration]
"Oh, I wish I had not told mother I did not love her. Tomorrow I will
tell her I do," said the child sobbing painfully. My heart ached; tomorrow
I knew we must tell him she was dead. We did not till the child came
fully into the room, crying, "Mother, I do love you."
Oh! may I never see agony like that child's, as the lips he kissed gave
back no kiss, as the hands he took fell lifeless from his hand, instead
of shaking his hand as it always had, and the boy knew she was dead.
"Mother, I do love you now," all the day he sobbed and cried, "O Mother,
Mother, forgive me." Then he would not leave his mother. "Speak to me,
Mother!" but she could never speak again, and he--the last words she had
ever heard him say, were, "Mother, I don't love you now."
That boy's whole life was changed; sober and sad he was ever after. He
is now a gray haired old man, with one sorrow over his one act of
disobedience, one wrong word embittering all his life--with those words
ever ringing in his ears, "Mother, I don't love you now."
Will the little ones who read this remember, if they disobey their mother,
if they are cross and naughty, they say every single time they do so,
to a tender mother's heart, by their actions if not in the words of
Henry, the very same thing, "I don't love you now, Mother."
"LITTLE MOTHER"
She was a clear-eyed, fresh-cheeked little maiden, living on the banks
of the great Mississippi, the oldest of four children, and mother's
"little woman" always. They called her so because of her quiet, matronly
care of the younger Mayfields--that was the father's name. Her own name
was the beautiful one of Elizabeth, but they shortened it to Bess.
She was thirteen when one day Mr. Mayfield and his wife were called to
the nearest town, six miles away. "Be mother's little woman, dear," said
Mrs. Mayfield as she kissed the rosy face. Her husband added: "I leave
the children in your care, Bess; be a little mother to them."
Bess waved her old sun-bonnet vigorously, and held up the baby Rose,
that she might watch them to the last. Old Daddy Jim and Mammy had been
detailed by Mr. Mayfield to keep an unsuspected watch on the little
nestlings, and were to sleep at the house. Thus two days went by, when
Daddy Jim and Mammy begged to be allowed to go to the quarters where the
Negroes lived, to see their daughter, "Jennie, who was pow'ful bad wid
the toothache." They declared they would be back by evening, so Bess was
willing. She put the little girls to bed and persuaded Rob to go; then
seated herself by the table with her mother's work-basket, in quaint
imitation of Mrs. Mayfield's industry in the evening time. But what was
this? Her feet touched something cold! She bent down and felt around
with her hand. A pool of water was spreading over the floor. She knew
what it was; the Mississippi had broken through the levee. What should
she do? Mammy's stories of how homes had been washed away and broken in
pieces were in her mind. "Oh, if I had a boat!" she exclaimed. "But there
isn't anything of the sort on the place." She ran wildly out to look for
Mammy; and stumbled over something sitting near the edge of the porch.
A sudden inspiration took her. Here was her boat! a very large,
old-fashioned, oblong tub. The water was now several inches deep on the
porch and she contrived to half-float, half-row the tub into the room.
Without frightening the children she got them dressed in the warmest
clothes they had. She lined the oblong tub with a blanket, and made ready
bread and cold meat left from supper. With Rob's assistance she dragged
the tub upstairs. There was a single large window in the room, and they
set the tub directly by it, so that when the water rose the tub would
float out. There was no way for the children to reach the roof, which
was a very steep, inclined one. It did not seem long before the water
had very nearly risen to the top of the stairs leading from below.
Bess flung the window open, and made Rob get into their novel boat; then
she lifted in Kate, and finally baby Rose, who began to cry, was given
into Rob's arms, and now the little mother, taking the basket of food,
made ready to enter, too; but, lo! there was no room for her with safety
to the rest. Bess paused a moment, drew a long breath, and kissed the
children quietly. She explained to Rob that he must guard the basket,
and that they must sit still. "Goodbye, dears. Say a prayer for sister,
Rob. If you ever see father and mother, tell them I took care of you."
Then the water seized the insecure vessel, and out into the dark night
it floated.
[Illustration: ]
The next day Mr. Mayfield, who, with his neighbors, scoured the broad
lake of eddying water that represented the Mississippi, discovered the
tub lodged in the branches of a sycamore with the children weeping and
chilled, but safe.
And Bess? Ah, where was Bess, the "little mother," who in that brief
moment resigned herself to death? They found her later, floating on the
water with her brave childish face turned to the sky; and as strong arms
lifted her into the boat, the tears from every eye paid worthy tribute
to the "little mother."
--_Detroit Free Press_