perishable
mind of her child. That tablet and that history will remain indelible
when time shall be no more. That history each mother shall meet again,
and read, with eternal joy, or unutterable grief, in the coming ages of
eternity.

1408

MOTHERS AND MEN.

That it is the mother who moulds the man is a sentiment beautifully
illustrated by the following recorded observation of a shrewd writer:--

"When I lived among the Choctaw Indians, I held a consultation with one
of their chiefs respecting the successive stages of their progress in
the arts of civilized life; and among other things he informed me, that
at their start they made a great mistake,--they only sent boys to
school. These boys came home intelligent men; but they married
uneducated and uncivilized wives, and the uniform result was, the
children were all like their mothers. The father soon lost all his
interest both in wife and children. 'And now,' said he 'if we would
educate but one class of our children, we should choose the girls; for,
when they become mothers, they educate their sons.'"

1409

MOTHER.

Can'st thou, mother, for a moment think
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honors on thy weary head,
Could from our best of duties ever shrink?
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink,
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day
To pine in solitude thy life away,
Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.
Banish the thought!--where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage
And smoothe the pillow of thy sinking age.

--_Henry Kirke White._

1410

MY MOTHER.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
I heard the bells tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot:
But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

--_Cowper._

1411