The Austin weekly statesman. (Austin, Tex.) 1883-1898, 1892-06-30
THE HOME CORNER.

How the years fly! Why only yes
terday, it seems, she was o baby, and
1 had taught her to stand up in my
hand while / held her out at arms
length. And here she is, as tall as
her mother, and having her little love
dreams, maybe, in which I have no
share. I'll tell you, 1 don't like it.
1t comes hard on me to give up
my babies and have them
grow into young ladies and
then into wives and mothers
before know it. We are trying to
play that our least one is baby still,
but dear me, she is growing so tall it
is inconvenient to nurse her, and her
baby lisp is all gone. And yet, if we
could stop the years, would we, 1
wonder? Some day we will have to
step of the scene, and it is a good
thing to know that the babies are
growing up and will be able to look
out for themselves when our work
is over and our hands are folded"
x*x
The Home Corner heard pleasant
thing last week. 1t was said of an
Austin lady by her son, and all things
considered, it was the highest praise
that could be bestowed "We all try
to keep mamma from working So
hard, !" he said, "but she isn't satisfied
unless she can keep employed. She
is going all the time. L never saw
any one that could do so much. Be-
sides all her house duties she visits the
sick and nurses them and cooks nice
little dishes for them, and don't be-
lieve there's poor person in town that
mamma hasn't been to see. The way
she looks after them and helps them.
| don't suppose there is anybody in
the world knows all of it. / have
found out good deal of it by acct
dent. She never told me. And she'll
go on, just the same way, until some
day she'll break down and can't go
any more" And the Home Corner
thought what an epitaph this would
make for the mother whose son could
say such things of her. Some day,
when the feet grow weary and can
walk no more, and the hands are no
10. ger busy in the sick room or the
home of the poor, what cry will 60
up from the very hearts of those she
has helped, the sick, the poor, the af-
flicted and bereaved! 1t was some
faithful worker of whom it was
said in olden times, "She hath done
what she could.n
~
They were sitting in the depot
waiting for the train, two old country
people with honest, sunburned faces,
and hands hardened with toll; but
words could not describe the tender
ness with which they cared for the
pretty baby that slept on the woman's
lap. 1T had clasped one of the mans
large, rough fingers before it went to
sleep, and he would not draw it away;
the dainty little pink hand looking
like rosebud against his brown skin.
When some one questioned him he re-
piled readily enough, in his slow,
simple way:
"It's Mary's baby-our daughter
Mary-an' we're takin' it home to
raise, me an mother here. It's
pretty baby, amt it ? 1t makes me
think all the time of it's mother, when
she was lynn in her mothers arms,
just that way. She was always
pretty girl, Mary was. She growed up
tall an straight, am her hair
was sight! 1t was just like she car
ried the sunlight about with her all
the time, her hair was so shiny. We
was dreadful proud of her, for she
was the only one, an we give her all
the chances we could, because we
hadn't never had none ourselves, an
we knowed what it was to miss 'em.
An when at last the time come for us
to give her up, why we was proud am
happy because it was rich man that
had fell in love with her, an he would
be able to take keer of her an keep
her from the hard work that was
a-breakin' her mother down. We was
so plain an unsuspectin', mother an
me, we never thought onct as the man
that had married our girl would look
down on her pore ole father an moth
err, as had worked so hard, an would
tell his wife that they wasn't welcome
in his house. But oh, sir, it come =! it
come never mind, mother, 1 amt
cryin' AM for three long years we
never looked upon her pretty face!
AM when we did see it at last it was
in the coffin. Yes he sent for us then
when it was too late. But oh, the
memory of old times had been always
with her-he told US that; and when
she found that she was about to 60
she made him promise that we should
have the baby. And it's so much like
Mary-ifit wasn't for the heartache
we might almost think that the
trouble was all dream, an this was
little Mary, baby yet.
And just then the baby stirred, and
the bereaved mother, rocking it softly,
crowed over it the same old lullaby
with which she had soothed its moth
Ell to sleep, long ago.
JULIA TRUITT BISHOP.