Mother and Son

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Tacoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 18, 1907

On the Boston express the other day I witnessed a scene which I wish I could describe as it impressed me. It was the “four o’clock express,” and an elderly woman, evidently a foreigner, stepped on the train with that peculiar square-rigged, canvas-covered, broad valise so much used in Europe.

Directly behind her was a sturdy young man, who carried the remainder of her luggage on his shoulder. He, too, was evidently a foreigner, whose dress and appearance indicated that he was thoroughly acclimated, and was now a prosperous, adopted American citizen.

With a peculiar motion the little woman shrank from taking a seat in the coach among the finely dressed people. Although I did not understand the conversation, I heard her inquiry as to whether they should go “first class.” The son — for I had gotten that far in conclusion — went toward the center of the car to select a good seat, while the mother had seated herself in one near the door. His bright face beamed as he ushered that little stooped mother to the seat as tenderly as if she were his bride. What happiness was reflected in those faces!

They were seated in front of me, with their luggage carefully stowed away overhead and underneath. Her hands were brown and rough. Her little bonnet was very simple; her gray hair was smoothed down in front, and was twisted into a picturesque Norwegian knot behind; her features were irregular, her face wrinkled, her large nose sharp; and she had no upper teeth — and yet I never saw a more beautiful face when, after the son was seated, this little woman turned and stroked the hair of her son as only a mother can, regardless of the curious eyes in the coach, and then, unable longer to repress the joy of a mother’s heart, she kissed him. Such tenderness in those eyes glistening with tears — she was with her boy again.

The heads came just above the top of the seat, and how close they were together as they talked over the past! What memories of the old home were awakened in the heart of the young man while the mother recounted, as only a mother can, those things which he was most anxious to know about! When he brought her a drink, when he pulled the shade, every act was devotion. If I could only impress upon sons the priceless heritage they have in their mother! There never

can be but one mother, and every little act of devotion and love will some day be a treasured memory.—National Magazine.