The Hickman courier., 1878-06-28
TEAR AND TEAR.

when they found her dead IN her old
chair the men noticed nothing but the
poverty surrounding her. The woman
saw tear in her eye before they noticed
anything else Some had called her hag.
and spoken Of her home as q hovel. Some
had heard her curse and seen her reeling
along, and they looked closer to see if it
really was tear It was a tear-a great,
round tear, and it rested on her wrinkled
cheek as if human hand had placed it
there.
Isn't it strange that she shed tear,
even in deathp' they whispered.
So it was, and yet it was not When
death comes slowly the crust melts from
the wickedest heart, and human nature
comes back with all the love and charity
and sorrow and pity which heart ever
had. Death came slowly to her. As
she sat in the chair and watched the sun
go daSu aud the shadows come, she knew
that she would not live again to hear
the notes OF the morning birds. Men
and women passed her door, but she did
not cry out. Over the heads of the glee-
ful children playing at the curb-stone she
saw darker shadow than the rest. 1t
was the shadow of death. It feated over
the heads Of the children as fog drifts
along the rivers surface, and as it stop
ped at her open door, she knew that the
shadow was chilling hsr sunshine of life.
There was not living thing in or
around the house for her to love-for
her to part with. No birds built their
nests under the lonely eaves-nO cat or
dog basked in the sunshine creeping in
through the dusty windows-even the
rats and mice seemed to avoid the place.
The husband had been dead so long that
she scarce ever gave his memery
thought, Her boy All that was it.
AS the shadow entered the door and cast
its chill over her, she whispered:
"John was wicked. He ran sway--he
stole from me, he beat me -
He had gone to the war. She had not
heard from him even once. Yet, when
the hearts crust melted the love Of q
mother crept in, and she whispered:
Poverty vexed me. Despair made
me drink. Desperation made me curse
louder than my boy could. He was
good boy once-I made him bad /! l, his
OVID mother, drove him into the
streets-beat him-abused him,
and when I could have won
him back by a kind, motherly
word would not speak it If he were
here tonight 1 would sing those old
child-songs to him, would tell him
those old stories, would look upon him
as my own precious child Here, in the
shadow of death, 1 ask his forgiveness; I |
ask God to forgive me p
Later, when the dusk was deeper and
the black sha1ow had crept yet nearer,
boy searched about her door for lost
ball and heard her murmur:
" John, won't you forgive your mo ther
1 am dying, John, but al the old love
has come back to me! I am your mother,
I want to hold yeu in my arms and kiss
you as l used to. want to hear your
voice and know that you forgive me !"
Her arms were outstretched, her
fingers felt of the darkness, nothing more.
"I want you to call me mother
again 20 she entreated. 81 want to
smooth back your hair as ] used to,
want to lock into your eyes and see if
you still hate me"
And those that found her knew not
the feelings that had brought the tear,
nor that it was the last of many which
had burned her cheeks as the gloom
grew deeper and the chilling
breath of the shadow made heart beat
slower.
It had been fierce fight. Shoulder to
shoulder the line swept out from the