An Appeal to Young Mothers.
I AM an old woman; I have only a few threads more to weave when the pattern will be completed, and the Master will fold it up and lay it away. It is an imperfect piece, full of broken threads and wrong colors. I do not like to look upon it; I would like to take it all out and weave it over again. But no, it must go just as it is. But I will try to add a few good threads and right colors that the finishing up may be better; and as the garment is folded up, may they appear upon the outside, and, meeting the gaze of those just weaving their piece, teach them what to put in their pattern. Mothers, young mothers, listen to my story, and learn a lesson therefrom. You do get so out of patience with that boy of yours. He is never quiet—whistling, singing, stamping—making some kind of a noise all the time. You think you cannot bear it your nerves are so weak, so you send him away, out of doors, anywhere, that you may not be so annoyed. Don't do it any more. Come with me to yonder cemetery. Here in the corner, under the willow, lies my boy, “Earnest Clinton, aged twenty-one.” Sit down with me near his grave and I will tell you about him. He was a beautiful babe. How I did love the precious blue-eyed one! How cunningly he would twine those little arms around my neck, and press his little cheek against mine! Every moment of his little baby-life was a joy and comfort to me. Soon the little feet began to toddle round and he would run to mamma for safety. Then the childish prattle came, and how sweetly he would lisp my name, and, looking into my eyes, say: “I love you, mamma!” O Earnest, my precious boy, come back again and be once more a babe on mother's knee! Let mother try again! But the little fellow kept on growing, and soon arrived to the dignity of his first pair of pants. How proudly he strutted around and called himself “mamma's man.” But I cannot follow him along step by step. He soon became the school-boy; and how I used to get out of patience with him as he came rushing in from school, so noisy and boisterous. I would scold him, and try to keep him quiet by seating him in a chair. After awhile he would not come directly from school, but would play by the way. Mother had so much to do she did not take much heed of her boy's seeking pleasure away from home. When he was a little fellow I always went with him when he went to bed, read to him from the Bible, knelt by him while he said his evening prayer, and talked kindly to him about any wrong he had done through the day. How tender his little heart was at those times! All ready to receive impressions for good. And how he used to enjoy those bed-time talks! But as he grew older, when bed-time came I would feel tired, or be busy, and would send him away alone. He felt badly at first, and would kiss me over and over again before going; but after awhile he would go without saying anything, or even kissing me. I did not then think much about the change; my mind was occupied with work, which seemed more important than anything else. Thus he gradually drifted away from me. When he was naughty I would get all out of patience with him instead of kindly and firmly reproving him. I would dread vacation-time, and permit him to go from home to play; I could not stop to amuse and interest him at home, and it was such a relief to have him away. But why need I go on? The loving, affectionate boy was weaned from his mother, and every year found him farther away. Rumors began to come to the ears of his father and myself of his being wild. We talked with him; he felt very badly and promised to do better. But, alas! the chain of love which should have bound him to his home and mother had been severed, and other chains, woven by wicked companions, had been thrown around him and held him fast. We sent him away to school. I wrote many letters to him. I tried to get my influence over him back again, but it was too late. He ran away from school, and for five years we heard nothing from him. Mothers, just imagine those five long, weary years, with no knowledge whatever of my only son! One evening we sat before the fire talking of our absent boy. The storm raged without, and the tempest in our own hearts could not be stilled. I thought I heard a timid knock at the door. I went, and there stood my long-lost Earnest. But what a change! Was it possible that this was my blue-eyed, curly-haired baby—my robust, ruddy-cheeked son? A pale, emaciated young man stood before me. “Earnest, my boy,” I cried, “is this you?” “Yes, dear mother, it is Earnest; may I come in? I have come home to die.” We did everything we could for him, but could not save him. Those five years of dissipation had ruined his health, and he only lived a few months. “Mother,” he would often say, “I am only twenty-one, and have got to die. I have wasted the past years of my life, and cut off the future, which might have been mine to use for good.” Bitterly did he repent, and we believe was forgiven, which is the only drop of comfort my cup of sorrow contains. He dropped asleep very peacefully, and we have laid him here to rest till God shall bid him rise. But my heart was broken then, and bitterness and sorrow have been my companions ever since. God gave me that boy to bring up, and I was responsible for his future. There was in him the germ of a noble manhood, and I crushed it. The heart of my child was mine, but, instead of making an effort to keep that heart, I permitted it to slip from my grasp. I never see a little boy now but that I want to go to the mother and on bended knee implore her to so love that boy that she will be patient with him; that she will so win and retain his affections that his love for mother shall be a shield of safety in the darkest hour of temptation. Dear young mothers, bear with the noisy boys; better a few headaches now than the dreadful heartaches that will come in after years. Make home pleasant for them. No matter if the work is not all done to your satisfaction; the eternal welfare of the child is of far more importance. Lay aside your work sometimes, and enter into their sports and games. Question them about their doings at school; rejoice with them when they are happy; sympathize with them when they are in trouble. Let them see that mother is a true friend to them. At the same time be firm and insist upon implicit obedience. They will respect you all the more for that. Make bed-time a happy hour for them, that the memory may linger with them in after years, and that hour shall ever be a sacred one, causing a deep tenderness to spring up in the heart, and a strong yearning to bow the head again on mother's knee, and say the evening prayer, even when they have become strong men engrossed in the business of life. Dear mothers, as I say farewell to you, I would lift my heart in prayer to the Father above, asking him to give you, each and all, wisdom and strength so to bring up those boys of yours that a noble manhood may be theirs, a happy heart yours, and a mansion of rest be for you all in the pure city of God. And if my story will help some mother to be more patient and tender with her boy, I will thank God that he has permitted a few threads of gold to finish my web of life.—Arthur's Home Magazine.