Daily Evening Star

NO. 459.
DAILY EVENING STAR.
MY MOTHER'S HAIR IS GRAY.
"One lamp—thy mother's love—amid the stars
Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before
The throne of God burn through eternity
Holy—as it was lit and lent thee here."
"Pardon me, Miss Edwards, I cannot
agree with you. To me gray hair is beau-
tiful. My mother's hair is gray."
A deep silence followed these words.—
The low, earnest, reverential tone in
which they were spoken had impressed
the gayest of that gay young group.
The speaker had numbered more than
forty years. He was above the medium
height, his frame indicating vigor and
manly strength, rather than grace or
beauty. The face, though far from hand-
some, at once inspired both confidence
and respect. Its ordinary expression
was grave, smiles rarely visited it, but
when they came the effect was like a
bright beam of sunshine on a shady
place. Around the broad, high brow,
clustered graceful curls of dark brown
hair. The contour of the head was sin-
gularly beautiful and more than redeem-
ed the plainness of the face. He was a
man of great moral and mental power, to
whom his acquaintances looked up with
admiration that was little short of rever-
ence. By the magic of his eloquence he
could sway a listening multitude as the
leaf-burdened branches of the forest trees
are swayed by the winds of heaven. He
had an enviable reputation as a man of
learning, and he was one of the blessed
few
"Who gain the book to know,
Nor buy the knowledge with the heart."
His influence was felt in the political
world. Offices of honor and emolument
were pressed upon him, and he had but
to listen to the prompting of ambition to
scale the dizziest heights of public favor.
He was the poor man's friend. The widow
and the orphan never claimed sympathy
in vain. Kind words cost the giver no-
thing, and kinder deeds, which are the
true measures of benevolence,
"Fell from him noiseless as the snow,"
and made glad the hearts of the needy.
He knew the "names of Husband and
of Father." The brightest ornaments of
the modest cottage, where he had set up
his household gods, where his beautiful
sweet-voiced wife, and a group of fair-
haired children, who clustered like olive
plants around his table. His absence
from home was like the withdrawal of
light from the loving household of which
he was head; his presence, when he re-
turned, seemed to them
"to brighten light,
And give back sunshine with an added glow."
He was a Christian—not by profession
but in deed and truth. His religion was
not a dead letter; a matter of mere for-
mal belief and mere formal practice, but
of living active principle which regulated
all his actions. He did not wear it like
a Sunday coat, to be laid upon the shelf
at the going down of the sun, but he
wore it through the week, in the hurry
of business, and in the pursuit of plea-
sure, in the house and by the way.
That which more perhaps than any
thing else gave grace and beauty to his
character, was the love he bore his
mother, the watchful care with which he
smoothed the path of her declining years,
his unwearied devotion to her comfort,
and the reverence with which he always
spoke of her.
"To me gray hair is beautiful. My
mother's hair is gray." He could re-
member when that same gray hair was
dark and glossy as a raven's plume—
when the calm brow it shaded was free
from wrinkles—when the now colorless
cheek was flushed with the rosy tint of
health and happiness. He remembered
how carefully she guarded his helpless
infancy, cheerfully bearing privation,
weariness, and suffering for his sake;
the gentle force with which she restrained
him during the seasons of headstrong im-
petuous youth—the proud affection with
which she marked the noble develop-
ment of his manhood—and the deep,
strong, deathless love with which, all his
life long, she had covered him as with a
garment. And to him now, in the pride
and vigor of his manhood, even her gray
hairs were beautiful. Not hers alone
but every head which age had silvered
over was reverenced and respected for
her sake.
In this busy, bustling age of the world
when the accumulation of wealth and
passion for public honors engross so
large a share of men's time and thoughts,
reverence for the old is in danger of be-
ing accounted an old-fashioned duty, to
be laid aside with hoops and furbelows,
powdered wigs, and silver knee-buckles.
The command—"Honor thy father and
thy mother," which, to many minds,
savors too strongly of things beyond the
flood to claim present obedience, is as
binding now as at the day God uttered
it on Sinai. Even in the absence of a
direct command, every high and noble
sentiment in man's nature prompts him
to yield to his mother the homage of love,
if not as deep and tender, at least as pure
and changeless as her own.
"To me gray hair is beautiful. My
mother's hair is gray." The words were
few and simple enough, but they revealed
much. I thought how it would have
quickened the mother's languid pulses,
and how the weary heart, now almost
home, would have leaped with joy, had
they fallen on her ears. Involuntarily,
as it were, the man whom the world
called great had offered this tribute of
filial affection, and expressed his rever-
ence of the "crown of glory" which gray
hairs become to those who are found in
the paths of righteousness.
Many a mother lives, whose gray hairs
have no beauty in the eyes of her child-
ren, and claim no reverence from those
for whose welfare she would cheerfully
pour out her heart's blood. Many a mo-
ther's love is repaid by unkindness and
ingratitude. Many an hour of wearisome
toil and patient watching meets with no
other recompense than deeds, the know-
ledge of which wrings her faithful heart
with anguish. Yet through all the mis-
fortunes, even through the dishonor of
her children, her love knows no variable-
ness. Her sympathy is given, though
unsought; it is not forced upon the at-
tention, but its soothing power is felt.
In the silent night watches her tears flow
for them unbidden, and her voice goes
up in supplication that He, who never
slumbers, will watch over and comfort
them. In their presence her heart is
never weary of planning, for her hand