Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1857-02-28
"she has outlived her Usefulness. IS

A
On being questioned as 10 his business, he re-
piled" have lost my mother, and as this
| place used to be ber home, and my father
lies here, we have come to lay her beside
him"
Our heart rose in sympathy, and we said,
you have met with O great loss A"
Well-yes," replied the strong man with
hesltancy, " mother is a great loss in gem
eral; but our mother has outlived her useful
ness: she was in her second childhood and
her mind was grown as weak as her body, so
that she was no comfort 10 herself, and bur
den TO everybody. There was seven Of us.
sons and dsug hters; and as we could not hnd
anybody who was willing to board her, we
sgreed TO keep her among US year about.
Bu: I've bad more than my hare of her for
| she was too feeble 10 be moved when nv time
was out; and that was more than three
| months before her death. But then she was
good mother in her day, and toiled very
| hard to bring us all up
without looking at the face Of the heart
| less man, we directed him TO the house of q
neighboring pastor, and returned 20 our own
nursery. We gaEed on the merry little faces
which smiled or grew sad in imitation of ours
those little ones TO whose ear no word in our
language is half so sweet as " Mother" and
we wondered if that day would ever come
when they would say of US, " She has outliv-
ed her usctulneSs-she is no comfort 10 her
self and burden 10 everybody else,"-and
| "e hoped that before such a day would dawn
We might be taken 70 our rest. God forbid
that Wo should outlive the love of our children,
hatheT let Us die while our hearts are a part
| Of their own, that our grave may be watered
Win their tears, and our love linked with
their hopes Of heaven
When the bell tolled for the mothers br-
raj, We went t. the sanctusryS pay our only
| token Of respect for the aged stranger for We
telt that We could give her memory a tear.
nvh hN- ..hs l.
shed.
:, She was good mother in her day, and
iolled hard 10 bring US all up-she was NO
comfort 10 herself AMI burden 10 everybody
/ else These cruel. besrtless words, rang in
our ears, as we saw the coffin borne ND the
| aisle The bell tolled long and loud, until
IT. Iron tongue had cbronicled the years Of
the t"il-TVrn mother. 0De--two-three-
| foaT-hEe. How clearly and almost merriIy
each stroke OF her once peaceful slumber told
| In her mothers bosom, and Of her seat az
| nightfill on her weary fathers knee. Six
von-eiSht-nine-ten- out the tale Of
her sports upon the greensward, in the mead
| Ow and by the brook.
! Eleven-twelve-thir:een r:een-fOurteen-ffteen,
| spoke more gravely Of school days and little
| household joys and cares. Sixteen-seyen.
tecn-elSbteen, sounded out the enrsptured
| visions Of maideDhOod, and the dreams Of
early love Nineteen brought before Us the
| happy bride. Twenty spoke Of the young
mother whose heart was full to bursting with
the new strong love which God had awaken
ed in her bosom And then stroke after
| stroke told Of her early womanhood, of the
| loves and cares, and hopes, fears, and tolls
through which she passed during these long
years, till fifty rang out harsh and loud.
From that TO sixty each stroke told of the
warm-hearted mother and grandmother, liI-
| ing over again her own joys and sorrows in
those Of her children and chlldren-s children.
Every family Of all the group wanted grand
mother then, and the only strife was who
should secure the prize; but hsrk! the bell
tolls on Seyenty-seyenty nty-one-two-thres
-four.
She begins TO grow feeble, requires sone
care, is not al ways perfectly patient or salts
fed, she goes from one child house TO another,
so that TO one place seems like home.
She murmurs in plaintive tones and after
all her toll and WEAKNESS, il is hard she can
not be allowed home TO die il; that she
must be sent, rather than invited, from house
to house. Eighty-eighty-one-
-four -ah, she is now q second child-nov
" she has cutliyed her usefulness, she has
now ceased 10 be comfort TO herself or any
body" that 10, she has ceased TO be profitable
to her earth-craving ami money-grssping chill
dren.
Now sounds out, reverberating through our
| lovely forest, and echoiBg back from our
| hill OF the dead" Eighty-nine. There she
| lies now Ia the coffin cold and still-she makes
| no trouble now, demands 10 love, no soft
| words, no tender little Offices. A look of pa
| tient endurance, We fancied also an express
sion Of grief for unrequited love sat on her
| marble features. Her children were there,
| clad In weeds CT woe, and In an irony we re-
membered the strong mans words, She was
| q good mother in her day F"
When the bell ceased tolling, the strange
minister rose in the pulpit. His form was
4 AFT "a -
was silvery white. lie read several passages
OF Scripture expressive Of Gods compassion
| 10 feeble man. and especially OF his tender
| ness when gray hairs are On him, and his
strength faileth. He then made some touch
ing remarks on human frailty, and Of depend
ence on God, urging all present to make their
peace with their Maker while in health, that
they might claim the promises when heart and
flesh should fail them. Then" he said
"the eternal God shall be thy refuge and
beneath thee shall be everlasting arms
| Leaning over the desk, and gazing intently on
the cofhned form before him, he then said
| reverentlv, From little child have hoa-
| ored the aged; but never till my gray hairs
covered my own head, did know truly how
much love and sympathy this class have a
| right TO demand of their fellow creatures
| Now / feel il I" Our mother" he added
| most tenderly, who now lives in death be-
fore Us, was stranger TO me, as are all these,
her descendants All know Of her is what
| her son has told me to-day-that she was
| brought to this town from afar, sixty years
| ago, a happy bride-that here she has passed
most of her life, toiling Gs only mothers have
| strength to toll, until she has reared q large
family Of sons and daughters-that she lett
! her home here, clad in the weeds Of widow
| hood, to dwell among her children; and that
till health and vigor left her, she lived for
! you, her descendants You, who together
havs shared her love and her care, know how
| well you have requited her. u God forbid that
conscience should accuse any of you ofingrat-
| itude or murmuring on account Of the care
she has been to you Of late. When you e.
back TO your homes, be careful Of your words
| and your example before your own children,
for the fruit of your own doing you will surely
| reap from them when you yourselves totter on
the brink of the grave. l entrest you as a
friend, as one who has himself entered 'the
evening of Iifs," that you may never say, in