I once saw a splendid young college graduate introduce his poor, plainly dressed old mother to his classmates with as much pride and dignity as though she was a queen. Her form was bent, her hands were calloused, she was prematurely old, and much of this deterioration was caused by all sorts of drudgery to help her boy to pay his college expenses.
I have seen other college men whose mothers had made similar sacrifices, and who were ashamed to have them attend their graduating exercises, ashamed to introduce them to their classmates.
I know of one peculiarly ungrateful son whose mother slaved for him for years, taking in washing, and going out to work by the day in order to send him to college, and who looked forward as a reward for all her labors to seeing him graduated. When the time came, just before commencement, she told her son how she longed to hear his commencement address, but he said that that would be impossible, because she did not have proper clothes to wear; that everybody at that fashionable college commencement would be elegantly dressed. In other words, he tried to discourage her from going because he was ashamed of her and did not want to introduce her to his classmates and teachers. But she was determined to go, and, keeping carefully out of her son’s sight, she gained entrance to the rear of the hall. The young man’s address was a good one; and so proud of her son was the poor old woman and so overjoyed at his success that when he finished speaking, in the very midst of the applause, she rushed up to the platform and tried to throw her arms around his neck. He repulsed her, and afterwards told her that he was ashamed that at his graduation she should have made such a scene! That was all the mother got for years of sacrifice and effort to help her ungrateful son, and she went home alone and brokenhearted.
I have never known a man who was ashamed of his mother to make a real man. Such men are invariably selfish and mean.
Think of the humiliation and suffering of the slave mother, who has given all the best of her life to a large family, battling with poverty in her efforts to dignify her little home, and to give her children an education, when she realizes that she is losing ground intellectually, yet has no time or strength for reading, or self-culture, no opportunity for broadening her mental outlook by traveling or mingling with the world! But this is nothing compared to the anguish she endures, when, after the flower of her youth is gone and there is nothing left of her but the ashes of a burned-out existence, the shreds of a former superb womanhood, she awakes to the consciousness that her children are ashamed of her ignorance and desire to keep her in the background.
But no matter how callous or ungrateful a son may be, no matter how low he may sink in vice or crime, he is always sure of his mother’s love, always sure of one who will follow him even to his grave, if she is alive and can get there; of one who will cling to him when all others have fled.
One of the saddest sights I have ever seen was that of a poor, old, broken-down mother, whose life had been poured into her children, making a long journey to the penitentiary to visit her boy, who had been abandoned by everybody but herself. Poor old mother! It did not matter that he was a criminal, that he had disgraced his family, that everybody else had forsaken him, that he had been unkind to her—the mother’s heart went out to him just the same. She did not see the hideous human wreck that crime had made. She saw only her darling boy, the child that God had given her, pure and innocent as in his childhood.
Oh, there is no other human love like this, which follows the child from the cradle to the grave, never once abandons, never once forsakes it, no matter how unfortunate or degenerate it may become.
“So your best girl is dead,” sneeringly said a New York magistrate to a young man who was arrested for attempting suicide. “Who was she?” Without raising his eyes, the unfortunate victim burst into tears and replied, “She was my mother!” The smile vanished from the magistrate’s face and, with tears in his eyes, he said, Young man go and try to be a good man for your mother’s sake.” How little we realize what tragedy may be going on in the hearts of those whom we sneeringly condemn!
What movement set on foot in recent years, deserves heartier support than that for the establishment of a national Mothers’ Day?
The day set apart as Mothers’ Day by those who have inaugurated this movement is the second Sunday in May. Let us unite in doing all we can to make it a real Mothers’ Day, by especially honoring our mothers; in the flesh, those of us who are so fortunate as to have our mothers with us; in the spirit, those who are not so fortunate.
If away from her, write a good, loving letter, or telephone or telegraph to the best mother who ever lived—your mother. Send her some flowers, an appropriate present; go and spend the day with her, or in some other way make her heart glad. Show her that you appreciate her, and that you give her credit for a large part of your success.
Let us do all we can to make up for past neglect of the little-known, half-appreciated, unheralded mothers who have had so little credit in the past, and are so seldom mentioned among the world’s achievers, by openly, and especially in our hearts, paying our own mothers every tribute of honor, respect, devotion, and gratitude that love and a sense of duty can suggest. Let us acknowledge to the world the great debt we owe them by wearing, every one of us, boy and girl, man and woman, on Mothers’ Day, a white carnation—the flower chosen as the symbol and emblem of motherhood.
Happily chosen emblem! What could more fittingly represent motherhood, with its whiteness symbolizing purity; its lasting qualities, faithfulness; its fragrance, love; its wide field of growth, charity; its form, beauty!
What an impressive and beautiful tribute to motherhood it would be for a whole nation to unite one day in wearing its chosen emblem, and in song and speech, and other appropriate exercises, to honor its mothers!
Chapter XX.
The Home As A School Of Manners
Not long ago I visited a home where such exceptionally good breeding prevailed and such fine manners were practiced by all the members of the family, that it made a great impression upon me.
This home is the most remarkable school of good manners, refinement, and culture generally, I have ever been in. The parents are bringing up their children to practice their best manners on all occasions. They do not know what company manners mean.
The boys have been taught to treat their sisters with as much deference as though they were stranger guests. The politeness, courtesy, and consideration which the members of this family show toward one another are most refreshing and beautiful. Coarseness, gruffness, lack of delicacy find no place there.
Both boys and girls have been trained from infancy to make themselves interesting, and to entertain and try to make others happy.
The entire family make it a rule to dress before dinner in the evening, just as they would if special company were expected.
Their table manners are specially marked. At table every one is supposed to be at his best, not to bring any grouch, or a long or sad face to it, but to contribute his best thought, his wittiest sayings, to the conversation. Every member of the family is expected to do his best to make the meal a really happy occasion. There is a sort of rivalry to see who can be the most entertaining, or contribute the spiciest bits of conversation. There is no indication of dyspepsia in this family, because every one is trained to laugh and be happy generally, and laughter is a fatal enemy of indigestion.
The etiquette of the table is also strictly observed. Every member of the family tries to do just the proper thing and always to be mindful of others’ rights. Kindness seems to be