A Happy Family

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jun 22, 1911

During the whole of one of last summer’s hottest days I had the good fortune to be seated in a railway car, near a mother and four children, whose relations with one another were so beautiful that the pleasure of watching them was quite enough to make one forget the discomforts of the journey. It was plain that they were poor; their clothes were coarse and old, and had been made by inexperienced hands. The mother’s hat alone would have been enough to condemn the whole party on any of the world’s thoroughfares. I remembered afterward, with shame, that I myself had smiled at its antiquated appearance; but her face gave one a sense of rest to look upon, it was so earnest, tender, true, and strong. It had little comeliness of shape or color; it was thin and pale; she was not young; she had worked hard; evidently she had been very ill; but I have seen few faces which gave me such pleasure.

The children—two boys and two girls—were all under the age of twelve, and they were talking over all the wonders they had seen, with a glow of enthusiastic delight which was to be envied. Only a word-for-word record would do justice to their conversation; no description could give any idea of it, so free, so pleasant and genial; and the mother’s part borne all the while with such equal interest and eagerness that no one not seeing her face would dream that she was any other than an elder sister.

In the course of the day there were many occasions when it was necessary for her to deny requests and to ask services, especially from the eldest boy; but no young girl, anxious to please a lover, could have done either with a more tender courtesy. She had her reward; for no lover could have been more tender and manly than was this boy of twelve.

Their lunch was simple and scanty; but it had the grace of a royal banquet. At the last, the mother produced, with much glee, three apples and an orange, of which the children had not known. All eyes were fastened upon the orange. It was evidently a great rarity. I watched to see if this test would bring out selfishness. There was a little silence, just the shade of a cloud. The mother said: “How shall I divide this? There is one for each of you; and I shall be best off of all, for I expect a share from each.”

“O, give Annie the orange! Annie likes oranges,” spoke out the eldest boy, with the air of a conqueror, and at the same time taking the smallest and poorest apple himself.

“O, yes; let Annie have the orange!” echoed the second boy, nine years old.

“Yes, Annie may have the orange, because that is nicer than the apples, and she is a lady, and her brothers are gentlemen,” said the mother, quietly. Then there was a merry contest as to who should feed the mother with the largest and most frequent mouthfuls; and so the feast went on. Then Annie pretended to want apple, and exchanged thin, golden strips of orange for bites of the cheeks of Baldwins; and, as I sat watching her intently, she suddenly fancied she saw longing in my face, and sprang over to me, holding out a quarter of her orange, and saying, “Don’t you want a taste, too?” The mother smiled understandingly when I said, “No, I thank you, my dear, generous little girl. I don’t care about oranges.”

At noon we had a tedious interval of waiting at a dreary station. We sat for two hours on a narrow platform, which the sun had scorched till it smelled of heat. The eldest boy held the baby, and talked to her, while the tired mother closed her eyes and rested. The two other children were toiling up and down the banks of the railroad track, picking ox-eyed daisies, buttercups, and sorrel.

They worked like beavers, and soon the bunches were almost too large for their little hands. They came running to give them to their mother.

“O, dear,” thought I, “how that poor, tired woman will dread to open her eyes; and she can never take those great bunches of common, faded flowers, in addition to all her bundles and bags.”

I was mistaken. “O, thank you, my darlings! How kind you were! Poor, hot, tired little flowers; how thirsty they look! If they will only try to keep alive till we get home, we will make them very happy in some water, won’t we? And you shall put one bunch by papa’s plate and one by mine.”

Sweet and happy, the weary and flushed little children stood looking up in her face while she talked, her heart thrilling with compassion for the drooping flowers and with delight in the giving of their gift. Then she took great trouble to get a string and tie up the flowers, and then the train came, and we were whirling along again. Soon it grew dark, and little Annie’s head nodded. Then I heard the mother say to the eldest boy: “Dear, are you too tired to let Annie put her head on your shoulder and take a nap? We shall get her home in much better case to see papa if we can manage to give her a little sleep.” How many boys of twelve years hear such words as these from tired, overburdened mothers?

Soon came the city, the final station, with its bustle and noise. I lingered to watch my happy family, hoping to see the father. “Why, papa isn’t here!” exclaimed one disappointed little voice after another.

“Never mind,” said the mother, with a still deeper disappointment in her own tone; “perhaps he had to go to see some poor body who was sick.” In the hurry of picking up all the parcels and the sleepy babies, the poor daisies and the buttercups were left forgotten in a corner of the rack. I wondered if the mother had intended this. May I be forgiven for the injustice! A few minutes after, I passed the little group, standing just outside the station, and heard the mother say: “O my darlings! I am so sorry! I wonder if I could find them if I went back. Will you all stand still and not stir from this spot if I do?”

“O mama, don’t go, don’t go! We will get you some more. Don’t go!” cried all the children.

“Here are your flowers, madam,” I said. “I saw that you had forgotten them, and I took them as mementoes of you and your sweet children.”

She blushed and looked disconcerted. She was evidently unused to strangers, and shy with all but her children. However, she thanked me very sweetly, and said: “I was very sorry about them. The children took such trouble to get them; and I think they will revive in water. They can not be quite dead.”

“They will never die!” said I, with an emphasis which went from my heart to hers. Then all her shyness fled, and we shook hands, and smiled into each other’s eyes with the smile of kindred as we parted.—Exchange.