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264 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



THE MOTHER AND HER BOY. 

 A PICTURE OF LIFE. 



BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 



Many long years bad pass'd away — and still the 



mourner came, 

 And knelt beside the cold grave-stone that bore 



her husband's name ; 

 The flow'rs he loved she planted there, whilst 



bitter tears she shed, 

 And gladly would have shared with him his cold 



and narrow bed, — 

 But for the child she lived to bless, and now her 



only joy, 

 The hope of future happiness, her own, — her dar- 

 ling boy. 

 The days of infancy had pass'd, the years of child- 

 hood fled; 

 And oft his merry voice recall'd the memory of 



the dead. 

 He wore his father's happy smile ; his flowing 



auburn hair 

 Fell richly on his bonny brow, yet innocent and fair ; 

 And in the fulness of her heart the widow gazed 



with pride, 

 And pictured scenes of pleasure with the darling 



at her side. 

 Yes, truly did she love him; she bless'd him 



every hour, 

 She press'd him to her bosom, and call'd him 



" Scotland's flower." 



But now the hapless time arrived when he must 



quit his home, 

 To seek employment ; and perchance, o'er distant 



lands to roam. 

 And oh what heartfelt sorrow the widow'd mother 



felt! 

 And tears of bitter anguish fell o'er him as he 



knelt. 

 But children little know the grief that rends a 



parent's heart, 

 The sorrow, agony, and care, when fortune bids 



them part : 

 The anxious thoughts that fill their breast, the 



hopes, the doubts, the fears ; 

 The dreary days, the sleepless nights, the bitter, 



bitter tears. 

 Ye who have parents ! honor them ; guard them 



with tender care, 

 Or God will surely visit you with sorrow and des- 

 pair ! 



The widow's home was now bereft of every earthly 



joy, 

 "Weeks, months, years pass'd ; and still there came 



no tidings of her boy. 

 Sometimes a sad presentiment of fear would fill 



her breast, 

 Then Hope again would smile and lull those 



anxious doubts to rest. 

 At length worn out with watching, with grief and 



hope deferr'd, 

 And pondering on his silence — the postman's step 



is heard. 

 She seized the letter with delight ; she kissed it 



o'er and o'er ; 

 She press'd it to her bosom, and hop'd to weep no 



more. 



But why that start — that frenzied look ? why are 



her cheeks so pale ? 

 It is indeed a letter from her son in Newport 



Jail! 

 Oh God protect the widow, some consolation 



send ; 

 In the sad hour of sorrow, oh be to her a 



friend ! 



In a close cell unbless'd by light, scarcely ad- 

 mitting air, 

 Sentenced to transportation, on bread and water 



fare, 

 Pale, fetter'd, and in prison garb, — behold the 



widow's son ; 

 But who is she who meekly cries — " God's holy 



will be done!" 

 It is his mother, — but how changed I exhausted, 



pale with care, — 

 Without a penny in the world, oh, judge her deep 



despair ! 

 Yes she had travell'd, and on foot, without a friend 



or guide, 

 More than five hundred dreary miles, — forgetting 



all beside 

 The noble deed she had in view, braving all toil 



and pain ; 

 Alike regardless of fatigue, wind, tempest, hail, or 



rain ; 

 Existing on the humblest fare, — spring-water by 



the way, 

 Two or three boil'd potatoes, with a bit of salt a 



day, 

 "Was all she had, — and to procure herself a decent 



rest, 

 She sold her clothes (poor creature ! ) it was all 



that she possess'd — 

 With the exception of a dearly valued relic. 



t Yes; 

 Driven by penury and pain, despair and wretch- 

 edness, 

 Bow'd down with hardships she endur'd on the 



rough road she trod, 

 This, this she resolutely kept ; it was " the Word 



of God," 

 For her poor erring child ! And though her eyes 



with tears were dim 

 She read the Sacred Word of Truth, to cheer and 



comfort him, — 

 Then kneeling down, devoutly pray'd it might be 



understood ; 

 And thus had she performed her mission, great as 



it was good. 

 A mother's love clings to her child in sorrow, sin, 



and shame, 

 And in affliction's trying hour glows with a 



brighter flame ; 

 With tears of intercession she pleads her cause 



above, — 

 The heart is not bereft of joy that knows 



a mother's love ! 



PECULIARITY OF THE HUMAN MIND. 



The endless varieties of form in which nature 

 shows herself, scarcely differ more widely than the 

 impression they produce on different minds ; and 

 the noblest prospect each can boast of, is lost and 

 thrown away if the beholder's mind is not in 

 accordance with it. 



