1. It was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a long
absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound beneath
which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, a great change
had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and with them my
youthful character. The world was altered, too; and as I stood at my
mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless,
happy creature, whose checks she so often kissed in an excess of
tenderness.
2. But the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance
of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday--as
if the blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. The gay
dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my
mind that, had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed
would have been gentle and refreshing.
3. The circumstance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it now
pains my heart; and 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 had become 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.
4. One day when I had lost my place in the class, 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 been melted by it. She
requested me to go downstairs and bring her a glass of water. I pettishly
asked her 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, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor, sick
mother?"
5. I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead
of smiling, and kissing her as I had been wont to do, I set the glass down
very quickly, and left the room. After playing a short time, I went to bed
without bidding my mother good night; but when alone in my room, in
darkness and 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.
6. I did not tell anyone 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.
7. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I
then wished that I might 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 she forgave my childish ingratitude. But I can not 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.