Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1869-03-12
NUMBER 8.

was who should secure the prize. But
bark, the bell tolls on. Seyenty-seyen-
ty-one - seventy two - seventy three -
seventy-four. She begins to grow feeble,
requires some care, is not always per-
fectly patient or satisfied; she goes
from one child's house to another, so that
no place seems Ike home. She mur-
murs in plaintive tones, that after all her
toll and WEAKNESS, il is hard she cannot
be allowed home to die in; that she
must be sent rather than invited from
house to house. Eighty-eighty-onc-
two-three-four All, she is a second
child-now "She has outlived her useful
ness, she has now ceased to be a comfort
to herself or apybody"-that is, she has
ceased to be profitable to her earth-crav-
ing and money-grasping children.
Now sounds out, ,reverberating through
our lovely forest, and echoing back from
our hill Of the dead" eighty-nine.
There she lies in her coffin. cold and
still; she makes no trouble now demands
no love, no soft love words, no tender
little offices. A look of patient endur-
ance,- iancied also, an expression OF
grief for unrequited love,-sat on her
marble features. Her children were
there clad in weeds of woe, and an irony
we remembered the strong mans words,
"She was good mother in her day"
When the bell ceased tolling, the
strange minister rose in the pulpit. His
form was very erect and his voice strong,
but his hair was silyery white. He read'
several passages of Scripture expressive
of Gods compassion to feeble man, and
especially of His tenderness when gray
hairs are on him and his strength faileth.
He then made some touching remarks on
human frailty, and of dependence on
God, urging all present 10 make their
peace with their Master while in health,
that they might claim His promises when
heart and flesh failed them. Then He,
The eternal God shall be thy refuge,
and beneath thee shall be the everlasting
arms" Leaning over the desk, and
gazing intcntly on the coilined form be-
fore him, he then said reyerently From
little child have honored the aged;
but never till gray hairs covered my own
head did truly know how much love
and sympathy this class have right to
demand of their fellow creatures. Now
see it, "Our mother he added most
tendcrly, "who now lies in death before
u, was a stranger 10 me, as are all oil
these, her descendants. All | know OF
her is what her son has told me today
that shs was brought to this town from
aflr, sxty-nine years ago, happy bride
that here she has passed the most oil
her life, toilng only As mothers ever
have strength to toll, until she has rear
ed large family OF sons and daughters
that she left her home here, clad in the
weeds Of widowhood, To dwell among
her children-til health and strength
left her. God forbid that conscience
should accuse any of you of ingratitude
or murmuring Oh account of the care
she has been to you of late.
When you go back to your homes, be
careful Of your example before your
children; for the fruit of your own do
ing you will surely reap from them when
YOU Yourself totter on the brink of the
grave. Ientreat you rs a friend, as one
who has himself entered the evening Of
life, that you may never say in the pres
ence of your families nor of Heaven:
! Our mother had outliyed her usefulness
she was burden 10 us Never, new
| era mother can never live So long as
that. When she can no longer labor for
her children, nor vet care for herself, she
can fall like precious weight on their
bosoms, and call forth by her helpless.
ness all the noble, generous feelings of
their hearts.
Adieu, then, poor toil-worn mother;
there arc no more days OF pain for thee.
Undying vigor and everlasting usefulness
arc thy inheritance.