A SOCIETY FOR THE PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO MOTHERS.
“Can you help me a few minutes, Marion?” “I should like to, but I don’t see how I can.” The tone was not impatient, but hurried. “I have this essay to finish for the society this evening. I must go to our French history class in an hour, then to a Guild meeting, and get back to my German lesson at five o’clock.” “No, you can’t help me, dear. You look worn out yourself. Never mind. If I tie up my head, perhaps I can finish this.” “Through at last,” said Marion wearily, giving a finishing touch to “The Development of Religious Ideas among the Greeks,” at the same time glancing quickly at the clock. Her attention was arrested by a strange sight. Her tired mother had fallen asleep over her sewing. That was not surprising, but the startled girl saw bending over her mother’s face two angels, each looking earnestly at the sleeper. “What made that weary look on this woman’s face?” asked the stern, strange-looking angel of the weaker, sadder one. “Has God given her no daughters?” “Yes, but they have no time to help her.” “No time?” cried the other. “What are they doing with all the time I am allowing them?” “Well,” replied the angel of life, “I keep their hands and hearts full. They are affectionate daughters, much admired for their good works; but they do not know they are letting the one they love most slip from my arms into yours. Those gray hairs come from overwork and anxiety to save money for music and French lessons. Those pale cheeks faded while the girls were painting roses and pansies.” “Young ladies must be accomplished now,” exclaimed the other. “Those eyes grew dim sewing for the girls, to give them time to study ancient history and modern languages; those wrinkles came because the girls had not time to share the cares and worry of every-day life. That sigh comes because their mother feels neglected and lonely while the girls are working for the women of India; that tired look comes from getting up so early, while the poor, exhausted girls are trying to sleep back the late hours they gave to study or spent at the concert; those feet are so weary because of their ceaseless walk.” “Surely, the girls help her, too?” “What they can. But their feet get weary enough going around begging for the hospital and the church, and hunting up the poor and the sick.” “No wonder,” said the angel of death, “so many mothers call me. This is indeed sad—loving, industrious girls giving their mother to my care as soon as selfish, wicked ones.” “Ah, the hours are so crowded!” said Life wearily. “Girls who are cultured or take an active part in life, have no time to take care of the mother who spent so much in bringing them up.” “Then I must place my seal on her brow,” said the angel of death, bending over the sleeping woman. “No, no!” cried Marion, springing from her seat. “I will take care of her if you will only let her stay.” “Daughter, you must have the nightmare. Wake up, dear; I fear you have missed your history class.” “Never mind, mama, I am not going to-day. I am rested now, and I will make those button-holes while you curl up on the sofa and take a nap. I’ll send word to the Guild professor that I must be excused to-day; for I am going to see to supper myself and make some of those muffins you like.” “But, dear, I dislike to take your time.” “Seeing you have never given me any time! Now go to sleep, mama, dear, as I did, and do not worry about me. You are of more consequence than all the languages or classics in the world.” So, with a tender kiss from her daughter—usually too busy for such demonstrations—Mrs. Hensen fell into a sweet, restful sleep. “I see we might have lost the best of mothers in our mad rush to be educated and useful in this hurrying, restless day and generation,” Marion soliloquized, as she occasionally stole a glimpse at the sleeping mother. “After this, only what time she does not need I shall devote to outside work and study. Until she gets well restored, I will take charge of the house, and give up all the societies except one—that I’ll have by myself if the other girls will not join—a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Mothers.” And Marion kept her word. A few months later one of the Women’s Progressive League members said to her: “We miss your bright essays so much, Miss Marion. You seem to have lost all your ambition to be highly educated. You are letting your sisters get ahead of you, I fear. How young your mother looks to have grown daughters! I never saw her looking so well.” Then Marion felt rewarded for being a member of what she calls the “S. P. C. M.”—Woman’s Signal.