The Middlebury register. [volume] (Middlebury, Vt.) 1850-1882, 1859-09-14

Il
theirs in fashionable willow baskets, and
sometimes teased me because | carried
mine ia "poke." | felt vexed, but rec
| onclled mys II with the recollection that
| II l did carry calico poke, " Mother
m""' H." In less than twenty-five years
after that time, one of those same school.
mates was happy to avail himself of the
privilege OF sending his children to nv
school to receive gratuitous instructions
proffered in view of his extreme poverty.
His children came to school without apy
i dinner. They had no nice willow basket
they needed no calico poke.
William Foster ruled his COPY book
with pencil set 10 fine silver case
lie said he would not carry such a great
ugly club of a pencil as mine. Compared
the pencils. His was the handsomest, but
no better than mine. had a good lead
pencil, hammered out of piece of lead.
" Mother made H." and | was satisfied
with it, After we grew up to be men,
William Foster came to me to get me to
calculate interest on a small note, at SIX
per cent, per annum he carried a pencil
worth four cents. had no pumelastic
ball but | had one made of woolen
ravellings and covered With leather,
Mother made it,"
When in my twenty-second year, | left
home to attend school in There
were in the school some fast young men,
the sons of wealthy parents. There were
others whose good sense was not annihi-
lated by pecuniary advantages. OF the
former class was one John Strokes, who
wore fine broadcloth. My best coat was
not so fne, the cloth cost two dollars and
fifty cents yard my mother had traded
tow. check Of her own manufacture for it
while | was working to assist my father
in raising his family. she paid fifty cents
for getting the garment cut, and made it
herself John Strokes come one day to
my desk, held out his arm, compared his
coat-sleeve with mine, and inquired ironi.
cally where | got such a fine coat.
proudly told him, " Mother made 10 !"
He feigned great surprise, and sarcastic
ally observed he had mistaken il for i'm.
ported goods; he wished he could get such
fine clothes, and wondered if mother would
get him up fine coat.
A short time afterward while in tailor
shop one morning with fellow student,
John Stokes fine coat was brought in by
lad, with instructions to scour and press,
lie was not in class that day he had
been seen the previous night on Water
ST., rolling in the mud, drunk as Baccbus.
He left the school in disgrace. He now
lies in drunkard's grave.
boarded myself while attending school
here. | walked nine miles home at the
close Of each week, and returned on Mon
day morning with my loaf of bread under
my arm. 1t would become stale before
Friday evening, but | always relished it
when | remembered that " Mother made
it,"
am now so far advanced in life that
my friends begin to call me old. But have
not lived long enough to learn why /
should not still respect my mother and re-
gard her affectionately. She is quite ad.
vanced in years, and has nearly lost her
sight. She sits within few feet of me,
sewing up rent in my linen coat while
write this. She knows not what | am
writing. She has been a widow eight
years, and is still toiling for the welfare
Of her children. She has never studied
grammar, nor philosophy, or music
These things were seldom taught in her
younger days. But she knows their val
ue, and has tailed hard many day to
purchase books for her children, and sup
port them at school. And shall | now
curl the lip Of scorn, or blush in company,
to hear her substitute verb of unity for
one of plurality, or pronounce a word
twenty years behind the Websterian era /?
Never-no never The old di,aoidated
grammar in my library might testify
against her style but its testimony would
be infinitely moro terrible against my iu-
gratitude. l recollect well when she rode
seven miles, one cold winters day, to sell
produce and purchase that book for me
when was little boy. 1t required a
sacrifice but " MOTHER MADE IT."
Among the effects OF a frsil young lady,
whose suicide in indianapolis we mention.
ed the other day, were the daeuerreotype