"MOTHER MADE IT."


A few weeks since, while at one of the beautiful

inland cities of Wisconsin, an incident

occurred which awakened in my mind a train

of reflections which possibly may be written

and read with advantage.

I was hurrying along the street, when my

attention was arrested by the appearance of a

little boy on the side of the pavement selling

candy. He was not really beautiful, nor was

he decidedly the reverse. His age was about

nine years; his clothes were old and faded,

but well patched. His candy was spread upon

a coarse, white cotton cloth, neatly stretched

over what had been a japanned server. He

was surrounded by a small group of boys,

 evidently belonging to different grades of

 society.

As I came nearly opposite him the oft repeated

interlude, "Candy, sir?" fell upon my

ears, and although opposed to the excessive use

of candy, I stepped aside to patronize the light-

haired, pale, freckled, home-spun little 

representative of trade. I purchased of him, 

partly or his encouragement, but with particular  

reference to the friendship of the little folks of

the family of which I was a temporary guest.

The candy was as white as the cloth beneath

it, being free from the very poisonous coloring

ingredients so extensively used in the 

confectionary art. I tasted it, and found it 

delicately flavored and very nice.

"My boy," said I, "your candy is very good;

let me have a little more."

I immediately saw that my remark had

awakened in his young heart emotions which,

in themselves, were quite abstract from the

candy trade. His countenance beamed with

joy as he raised his large eyes, sparkling with

delight, and observed in reply

"It is good, isn't it? Mother made it."

In these few words was embodied an

 unconscious exhibition of character. Here 

was a spontaneous outburst of filial affection.

Now this incident, in itself, was trifling; but

the spirit of the language carried me back

through life more than thirty years, and at 

irregular intervals bade me pause and apply the

sentiment to some item connected with my own

history.

Before making the application, however, I

wish to disabuse myself of the charge, which

such application may incur, of appropriating to

myself the nobility of character which I have

above attributed to the candy boy. Holding

myself exempt from this arrogance, I would

simply say, I am not ashamed of the profession

of my affection for my parents, and hope I

may not outlive that profession.

When I was a little boy at school and carried

my dinner in a satchel made of calico,

some of my schoolmates carried theirs in 

fashionable willow baskets, and sometimes 

teased me because I carried mine in a "poke." I

 felt vexed, but reconciled myself with the 

recollection that, if I did carry a calico poke, 

"mother made it." In less than twenty-five years

 after that time, one of those same schoolmates

 was happy to avail himself of the privilege of

 sending his children to my school to receive 

gratuitousinstruction, proffered in view of his

 extremepoverty. His children came to school

without any dinner. They had no nice willow

basket, they needed no calico "poke."

William Foster ruled his copy-book with a

pencil set in a fine silver case. He said he

would not carry such a great ugly club of a

pencil as mine. I compared the pencils. His

was the handsomest, but no better than mine.

I had a good pencil hammered out of a

piece of lead. "Mother made it," and I was

satisfied with it. After we grew up to be men,

William Poster came to me to get me to 

calculate interest on a small note, at six per 

cent, per annum; he carried a pencil worth four

cents. I had no gum elastic ball; but I had

one made of woolen ravelings and covered with

leather. "Mother made it."

When in my twenty-second year, I left home

to attend school in L. There were in the school

some fast young men, the sons of wealthy 

parents.

There were others whose good sense was

not annihilated by pecuniary advantages. Of

the former class was one John Stokes, who

wore very fine broadcloth. My best coat was

not so fine, the cloth cost two dollars and fifty

cents a yard; my mother had traded a tow

check of her own manufacture for it; while I

was working to assist my father in raising his

family; she paid fifty cents for getting the 

garment cut, and made it herself. John Stokes

came one day to my desk, held out his arm,

compared his coat sleeve with mine, and 

inquired ironically, where I got such a fine coat.

I proudly told him, "mother made it!" He

feigned great surprise, and sarcastically 

observed, he had mistaken it for imported goods;

 he wished he could get such fine clothes, and

wondered if mother would get him up a fine

coat.

A short time afterward, while in a tailor shop

one morning with a fellow student, John Stokes'

new coat was brought in by a lad, with 

instructions to scour and press it. He was not in

 his class that day; he had been seen the 

previous night on Water-street, rolling in the 

mud, drunk as Bacchus. He left the school in

 disgrace.

He now lies in a drunkard's grave.

I boarded myself while attending the school

there. I walked nine miles home at the close

of each week, and returned on Monday morning,

with my loaf of bread under my arm. It

would become stale before Friday evening, but

I always relished it, when I remembered that

"Mother made -it."

I am now so far advanced in life that my

friends begin to call me old. But I have not

lived long enough to learn why I should not

still respect my mother and regard her

 affectionately.

She is quite advanced in years, and

has nearly lost her sight. She sits within a

few feet of me, sewing up a rent in my linen

coat, while I write this. She knows not what

I am writing. She has been a widow eight

years, and is still toiling for the welfare of her

children. She has never studied grammar, nor

philosophy, nor music. These things were 

seldom taught in her younger days. But she

knows their value, and has toiled hard, many a

day, to purchase books for her children, and

support them at school. And shall I now curl

the lip of scorn, or blush in company to hear

her substitute a verb of unity for one of plurality,

or pronounce a word twenty years behind

the Websterian era ? Never no, never! The

old dilapidated grammar in my library might

testify against her style; but its testimony

would be infinitely more terrible against my

ingratitude. I recollect well, when she rode

seven miles, one cold winter's day, to sell

 produce and purchase that book for me, when I

was a little boy. It required a sacrifice, but

"MOTHER MADE IT." 




Home Journal.

 

 

"MOTHER MADE IT."