My Mother

ONE may be partial in favor of their own kindred,

but in my respect for the memory of my

mother I am not alone. All who knew her will

sustain me in saying that she was one of the 

excellent of the earth.

She was a native of Massachusetts, and died

in Ohio, aged 68, beloved and lamented by all

who knew her. Her children all loved her greatly; 

we took delight in obeying her. We used

to notice her expression of countenance, and

glance of her eye was sufficient; we never

thought of disobeying. How could we disobey

one who was so consistent, and even, and kind?

When we were children, visitors at our house

would sometimes say, "Why, Mrs. Clarke, you

only have to look at your boys, and the fire is

instantly replenished, or if you want a pail of

water, a look, or a motion of your hand

 commands it."

I do not say this to praise the living. No one

could do otherwise than try to please one who

was so self-sacrificing, so self-denying, so 

consistent, so truly lovely. No, it is natural 

enough to obey such a parent. I thank God for 

the early and late instructions which dropped 

like heavenly manna from her lips.

When a little child, I used often to wake in

the night, from a dream that she was dead, and

then I would pray that she might live till I

 became a man, and this childish fancy did not

leave me till I was old enough to know better.

But God heard my prayers and she lived. Praise

his holy name! And God took her away, I believe,

to slumber with the remnant who sleep in


It is six years since she slept, and I am nearly

forty years old, but her memory is as green

as ever. Tears dim my eyes while I write, for

the sweet memory of early days, when her 

affectionate care and counsel attended every

 step of her children. No angry word ever marred

her lips. I never saw her angry or heard her

speak hastily, (with one exception,) and her good

sense never forsook her.

Oh, she was a jewel of a mother. Precious

indeed, is the memory of our mother.