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rine's window one morning digging with great zeal and earnestness, she called to him to know what he was doing, and, lifting his curly head with great simplicity, he answered, 'Why, I'm going to heaven to find Mamma.'

"Although mother's bodily presence disappeared from our circle, I think that her memory and example had more influence in molding her family, in deterring from evil and exciting to good, than the living presence of many mothers. It was a memory that met us everywhere, for every person in town, from the highest to the lowest, seemed to have been so impressed by her character and life that they constantly reflected some portion of it back on us.

"Even our portly old black washerwoman, Candace, who came once a week to help off the great family wash, would draw us aside, and, with tears in her eyes, tell us of the saintly virtues of our mother.

Your mother never spoke
Your mother never told a
Guilford, where her early

"The traditions that I heard from my aunts and uncles were such as these: an angry word in her life. lie.' And in Nutplains and days were passed, I used to find myself treated with a tenderness almost amounting to veneration by those who had known her.

"I recollect, too, that at first the house was full of little works of ingenuity, and taste, and skill, which had been wrought by her hand; exquisite needle-work, which has almost passed out of memory in our day. . . .

"One thing in her personal appearance every one

spoke of, that she never spoke in company or before strangers without blushing. She was of such great natural sensitiveness and even timidity that, in some respects she could never conform to the standard of what was expected of a pastor's wife. In the weekly female prayer-meetings she could never lead the devotions. Yet it was not known that any body ever expressed criticism or censure on this account. It somehow seemed to be felt that her silent presence had more power than the audible exercises of another. Such impression has been given me by those who have spoken of this peculiarity.

"There was one passage of Scripture always associated with her in our minds in childhood; it was this: 'Ye are come unto Mount Zion the city of the living God, to the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels; to the general assembly and Church of the first-born, and to the spirits of just men made perfect.' We all knew that this was what our father repeated to her when she was dying, and we often repeated it to each other. It was to that we felt we must attain, though we scarcely knew how. In every scene of family joy or sorrow, or when father wished to make an appeal to our hearts which he knew we could not resist, he spoke of mother.

"I remember still the solemn impression produced on my mind when I was only eight years old. I had been violently seized with malignant scarlet fever, and lain all day insensible, and father was in an agony of apprehension for my life. I remember waking up just as the beams of the setting sun were shining into

the window, and hearing his voice in prayer by my bedside, and of his speaking of 'her blessed mother who is now a saint in heaven,' and wondering in my heart what that solemn appeal might mean.

"I think it will be the testimony of all her sons that her image stood between them and the temptations of youth as a sacred shield; that the hope of meeting her in heaven has sometimes been the last strand which did not part in hours of fierce temptation; and that the remembrance of her holy life and death was a solemn witness of the truth of religion, which repelled every assault of scepticism, and drew back the soul from every wandering, to the faith in which she lived and died.

"The passage in 'Uncle Tom,' where St. Clare describes his mother's influence, is a simple reproduction of this mother's influence as it has always been in the family.

"The following lines, written by her eldest daughter, Catharine, then a girl of sixteen, were a tribute offered to her memory. We knew them by heart in our childhood, and often repeated them with tears:

"The busy hum of day is o'er,

The scene is sweet and still,

And modest eve, with blushes warm,

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Walks o'er the western hill.

The great, the good, the rich, the wise,
Lie shrouded here in gloom;

And here with aching heart I view
My own dear mother's tomb.

"Oh, as upon her peaceful grave
I fix my weeping eyes,
How many fond remembrances
In quick succession rise.

"Far through the vista of past years
As memory can extend,

She walked, my counselor and guide,
My guardian and friend.

"From works of science and of taste,

How richly stored her mind;
And yet how mild in all her ways,
How gentle meek and kind.

"Religion's bless'd and heavenly light

Illumined all her road;

Before her house she led the way

To virtue and to God.

"Like some fair orb she bless'd my way With mild and heavenly light,

Till, called from hence, the opening heav'n Received her from my sight.

"Now left in dark and dubious night, I mourn her guidance o'er,

And sorrow that my longing eyes
Shall see her face no more.

"Father in heaven, my mother's God,
Oh grant before thy seat,
Among the blessed sons of light,
Parent and child may meet.

"There may I see her smiling face,
And hear her gentle voice;
And, gladdened by thy gracious smile,
Through endless years rejoice."

* Reprinted by permission of Harper and Brothers.

CHRIST THE MENDICANT

BY JOHN B. TABB

A Stranger, to His own
He came; and one alone,

Who knew not sin,

His lowliness believed,

And in her soul conceived

To let Him in.

He naked was, and she

Of her humanity

A garment wove:

He hungered; and she gave,
What most His heart did crave,
A Mother's love.

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