The Mother and Her Children.
By Christian Observer
I AM sadly conscious that thousands of mothers are so overburdened that the actual demands of life from day to day consume all their time and strength. But "of two evils choose the less," and which would you call the less, an unpolished stove or an untaught boy? Dirty windows, or a child whose confidence you have failed to gain? Cobwebs in the corner, or a son over whose soul a crust has formed so strong that you despair of melting it with your hot tears and your fervent prayers? I have seen a woman who was absolutely ignorant of her children's habits of thought, who never felt that she could spare a half-hour to read or talk with them; I have seen this woman spend ten minutes in ironing a sheet (there were six in the washing), one hour in fluting the ruffles and arranging the puffs of her little girl's "sweet white suit," thirty minutes in polishing tins that were already bright and clean, and forty minutes in frosting and decorating a cake for tea because "company was expected." When the mother, a good, orthodox Christian, shall appear before the great white throne, to be judged for "the deeds done in the body," and to give in her report of the Master's treasures placed in her care, will there be questions and answers like these? "Where are the boys and girls I gave thee?"
Answer.—"Lord, I was busy keeping my house clean and in order, and my children wandered away!" "Where wert thou while thy sons and daughters were learning lessons of dishonesty, malice, and impurity?"
Ans.—"Lord, I was polishing furniture, ruffling dresses, and making beautiful rugs." "What hast thou to show for thy works?"
Ans.—"The tidiest house, Lord, and the best starching and ironing in all our neighborhood." Oh, these children! these children! These restless, eager boys and girls whom we love more than our lives! Shall we devote our time and strength to that which perisheth, while the rich garden of our child's soul lies neglected with foul weeds choking out all worthy and beautiful growths? Shall we exalt the incidentals of life to the rank of a purpose, to the shutting out of that work whose results reach beyond the stars? Fleeting, O mother, are the days of childhood! Speckless windows, snowy linen, the consciousness that everything about the house is faultlessly bright and clean, will be a poor comfort in that day wherein we shall discover that our poor boys' feet have chosen the path that shall take him out of the way to all eternity.