Prescott journal. [volume] (Prescott, Wis.) 1861-1871, 1862-04-23

click-the mother, who sits sewing rap
idly by the window, on some dimnutive
garment, glances up at the clock, and
knows that "school is OUT before she
hears the quick stamp and soft minor
patter of small feet upon the stairs.
The next moment, the door is burst
wide open and then the noisy, eager,
hungry troup of boys and girls pour in.
and the quet, through which the clock
spoke so peremptorily, few moments
ago, is all over now, and the mother
looks up with a little sigh, as she remem-
bers this; but the next moment the
thought is gone for the smallest and the
sweetest face of the flock, little four
year old face, with the dantiest pair of
pink lips, is put up to hers, and the little
lips say, "My bonnet strings got into
hard knot" as though this were the
greatest evil that could have befallen
her; but the mothers soft, skillful fingers
soon remedy that, even taking off the
hood, and smoothing the bright rings of
yellow hair, she asks, "has my little
Katie been good girl, and said her
lessons to-dav!'
What Ii ght comes into the blue eyes,
how much pride run through the lisp,
Yes aud L shall be into Baker, next
week 2"
"Dear me! what little scholar have
got" bending down and kissing the
eager face and then loud voice comes
in betwixt these
lin almost starved mother, l want q
piece of gingerbread"
"And l too mother" A trio of sim
ultaneous voices takes up the chorus.
Always company Of hungry wild
animals" exclaimed the mother, looking
over her little flock of boys and girls and
she fastenes her needle into the hem of
Katies' apron, and reached down the
card of cake, and cuts out four generous
slices, and four small pairs of hands are
eagerly put cut to receive them.
"There now, children, you mustn't
have another mouthful before tea time"
Mother" interrupted the voice which
had first proclaimed itself in imminent
starvation, 4" tomorrow Saturday, and
and the boys are all going down TO the
pond to skate, and | want to 60 too, It's
frozen as hard rs rock"
'.Its dangerous place for little boys,
Samuel" and the mother looks on her
first born with that one look which no
other eyes, no matter how laden with
pride and tenderness they may be, will
ever bend on him-the look which his
heart will, carry NJ through all its strong
manhood, and down amongst the shad-
ows of old age, if his life ever wander
through that dim land where the al
mond tree shall flourish, and the grass
hopper shall DO BURDEN" but Samuel
does not think Of this now, he only lifts
his head and looks over bis younger
brothers and sisters with mingle pride
and patronage as he says
Il was eleven last October; l guess l
can take care of myself now"
"Well my son, well see what faith
er says"
another, mayn't l take my sled and
90 down the bank" This time it is
little black eyed, black haired, fun loving
rouge of eight years, who having quickly
dispatched his cake, comes up with his
petition.
"pm afraid, Johnnie, the wind blows
So"
1.-THE wind won't hurt me bit Moth
er-Oh it's such fun, you better believe.
Do let me 90 mother"
Well, tie your tippet tight around
your throat, and mind you are back in
half an hour and with shout, which
would shock any but a Mothers nerves.
Johnnie seized his cap, and rushed out of
the room,
"Mother, mother, l can't tie dolls
cloak" The speaker has face cut quite
after the pattern of the mother's-sof
and delicate, it may be for this reason,
Mary is her fathers especial pet; and that
her fair, grave, thoughtful little face has
n charm for him, beyond that of the
laughing, dimpled, merry "youngster of
the flock"
And the patient mother lays down her
sewing for the twentieth time, and ties
the silk cloak around the dainty shoulders
of the wax doll, and Samuel's boisterous
laugh, and Kat;es merry ripple ring out
and tangle themselves together, ut the
great topping mosque Turkish Temple
he has built with blocks of wood.
"ComiDg home from School," Dear
readers, far away up the pathway of your
years, is there not some room locked up
and bolted in your memory, which does
not fly back on its rusty hinges at these
words, and the sweet faces of the brothers
and sisters of your boy and girlhood
shine down upon you from the haunts
of memory" and that best and most
blessed picture of all. you SEQ there, once
moro, the saint of your childhood-the
loving patient, self-sacrifcing mother,
who used to sit sewing by the window.
and whose loving smile used to greet you
as you "came home from school,"
Many springs, it may be. have woven
over the loving face their wool of grass
the fingers of many summers have
overshot the mound with daises and
violets; but il will warm and enrich your
heart TO 90 up the long, winding path of
- ii al.