Weekly Calaveras chronicle., 1866-11-17
A Vain Wish.

The following account was written by
a lady many years after her mothers
death, when on visit to her grave:
1t was thirteen years since my moth
er's death, when, after a long absence
from my mothers native village, l stood
beside the sacred mound beneath which
| had seen her buried Since that
mournful period great change had
come over me. My childish years had
passed away, and with them my youth
full character The world was altered,
too; and as l stood at my mothers
grave could hardly realize that I was
the same thoughtless, happy creature,
whose cheeks she so often kissed in the
excess of tenderness But the varied
events of thirteen years bad not effaced
that mothers smile. 1t seems as if it
had been but yesterday-as the blessed
sound of her well-remembered voice was
in my ear. The gay dreams of my in.
fancy and childhood were brought back
SO distinctly to my mind, that had it
not been for one bitter recollection, the
tears shed would have been gentle
and refreshing. The circumstance may
seem a trifing one, but the thought Of
it now pains my heart, and l relate it,
that those children, who have parents
to love them may learn to value them as
they ought.
My mother had been i'll long time,
and became so accustomed to her pale
face and weak voice that l was not
frightened at them as children usually
are. At first, it is true, l sobbed vio-
lently; but when, day after day, l re-
turned from school and found her the
same, began to believe she would al
ways be spared to me. But they told
me she would die.
One day, when I had lost my place
in the class, and had done my work
wrong side outward, 1 came home dis
couraged and fretful l went to my
mothers chamber. Sine was paler than
usual, but she met me with the same
afectionate smile that always welcomed
my return Alas. when I look back
through the lapse of thirteen years, l
think my heart must have been stone
not to have melted by it. She request
ed me to go down stairs and bring her
a glass of water. pettishly asked why
she did not call domestic to do it
With look of mild reproach which I
shall never forget if l should live to be
an hundred years old, she said "And
will not my daughter bring glass of
water for her poor, sick mother ?"
I went and brought her the water,
but I did not do it kindly. Instead of
smiling and kissing her as l was wont
to do, sat down the glass very quickly
and left the room. After playing about
short tina | went to bed without bid
ding my mother good night. But when
alone in my room, in darkness and in
silence, l remembered how pale she
looked, and how her voice trembled
when she said "Will not my daughter
bring glass of water for her poor, sick
m other p I could not sleep, stole
into her chamber to ask forgiveness.
She had sunk into an easy slumber and
they told me must not wake her.
did not tell any one what troubled me,
but stole back to my bed, resolved to
rise early and tell her how sorry was
for my conduct. -....--- ...
The sun was shining brightly when
I awoke, and hurryinC on my clothes I
fastened to my mothers chamber
She was dead ! She never spoke more
never smiled upon me again-and
when l touched the hand that used to
rest upon my head in blessing, it was
so cold it made me start. l bowed my
head by her side and sobbed in the Bit
terness of my heart. I thought then
that l might wish to die and be buried
with her, and old as l am, l would give
worlds, were they mine to give, could
my mother but have lived to tell me
that she forgave me my childish ingrat-
itude. But l cannot call her back;
and when | stand by her grave, and
when / think of her manifold kindness,
the memory of that reproachful look
she gave me will bite like serpent and
sting like an adder.
And when your mother dies. dear
child, do you not think-do you not
know, that every act or word of thine
that wounds her heart, will bite thee
like serpent and sting like an adder?
Then, while they are with us, let US
treat our parents with all respect and
reverence.