THE HOMELESS MOTHER by Mrs. S. E. Bridgman

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jan 29, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 13.

THE HOMELESS MOTHER.

By Mrs. S. E. Bridgman

BY MRS. S. E. BRIDGMAN.

In a union depot of one of our large western cities the writer was compelled to tarry several hours, owing to delay in connecting trains. A cosmopolitan place it was. North and south, east and west, Occident and Orient seemed to be represented—a good place to study human nature. Each train brought crowds, coming and going, the scene constantly shifting; father and mother with their little brood anxiously running hither and thither, seeking their train; little groups settled here and there on the platform or in the waiting room, lunching from the generous baskets provided by the good house-mother. As the great door swung open, the tall, gaunt form of an evident frontiersman strode in, gray-bearded, barefooted, in his shirt sleeves, carrying his huge cowhide boots in his hand. Following him came a smart, fine-looking, self-satisfied woman with her silk and velvet. Dropping into one of the seats, she took from her pocket a well-filled clay pipe, lighted it, and comfortably crossed one foot over the other, and began to smoke, evidently not noticing the placards on the wall, "No smoking allowed here." As the smoke curled up and the fumes filled the room, the courteous station master came up and whispered a few words in her ear. With a smile and in a loud voice she exclaimed, "Is that so?" shook the tobacco from her pipe, and replaced it in her pocket.

Among the crowd in this busy place we noticed a gray-haired lady in deep mourning. So still she sat, with folded hands, evidently unconscious of her surroundings. She spoke to no one, and no one spoke to her. Alone in the throng, what was her story? Touched with a feeling of sympathy and reverence for the aged traveler, I gently approached her and asked:—

"You look so weary. Have you much farther to travel?"

The sweet, patient eyes looked into mine as she replied, "Oh, yes! I have nearly two days before I reach the end of my journey, and I cannot start from here till midnight."

Little by little, as I won her confidence, the pitiful story came out, which I repeat in her own language.

"My home was in Connecticut. A year ago my husband and I came out to see our son, who was living on a ranch on the frontier. We had a pleasant visit, and were about to return home. One day we were riding, when my husband fell from the carriage unconscious. He lingered only a few hours and left me alone, a widow. With the dead body I took the long, sad journey alone back to my old home and buried him. My son, lately married, who lived with us, persuaded me to make over the farm to him, as it would relieve me of all care and responsibility, and I should always have my home with them. This I foolishly did. For a little while everything went well, but I began soon to be conscious of a change in their manner and an evident desire on their part to have me make a visit indefinitely to John. How could I go the long, lonely way back again, and no husband with me this time, and no invitation from John or intimation that I should be welcomed at his home? The desire on the part of my son and his wife to have me go made me so uncomfortable that I have started, and am so far on my journey. Though I have two days and nights to travel, and it is a long and weary way, and I am very tired, I would not mind if I thought I should be welcomed; and if I only knew that John wanted me, it would take away this tired, desolate heartache."

Never shall I forget the bowed form, the patient folding of the hands, the sad, tender eyes which looked into mine so appealingly for sympathy. Poor, dear, broken-hearted mother! What could I say? What words of comfort could I bring to cheer her in the weary hours of travel before her? Turned out of the home of her childhood and sent alone across the continent, to find, possibly, at the end of the long journey the same treatment from her children there! Not wanted! God pity the gray-haired mother. I could only clasp her hand in loving sympathy, and utter the silent prayer that God would give the aged one a home somewhere.—The Advance.