The Caledonian

Youth's Department.

PARTING KISS.

I do not know when I have been more affected by any narrative than by one I have lately read, entitled 'The Parting Kiss.' "I was but five years old when my mother died; but her image is as distinct to my recollection, now that twelve years have elapsed, as it was at the time of her death. I remember her as a pale, beautiful, gentle being, with a sweet smile, and voice that was soft and cheerful when she praised me, and when I cried, or I was a wild, thoughtless child there was a trembling mildness about it that went to my little heart And then she was so kind, so patient, methinks I can now see her large blue eyes moist with sorrow, because of my childish waywardness, and hear her repeat; "My child, how can you grieve me so?", I recollect she had for a long time been pale and feeble, and that sometimes there would come a bright spot on her cheek which made her look so lovely that I thought she must be well. But she sometimes spoke of dying, and pressed me to her bosom, and told me to be good when she was gone, and to love my father a great deal, and be kind to him, for he would have no one else to love. I recollect she was sick all day, and my little hobby horse and whip lay inside, and I tried to be very quiet-I did not see her for the whole day, and it seemed very long. At night they told me mother was too sick to kiss me, as she always used to before I went to bed, and I must go without it. But I could not I stole into the room, and laying my lips close to hers and whispered, "mother —-mother-won't you kiss me?" Her lips were very cold: and when she put her arms around me, laid my head upon her bosom, and one hand upon my cheek, I felt a cold shuddering creep over me; my father carried me from the room, but he could not speak.-After they put me in bed, I lay a long time thinking, I feared my mother would die, for her cheek felt as cold as my little sister's did when she died, and they laid her in the ground. But the impressions of mortality are always indistinct in childhood, and I soon fell asleep In the morning I hastened to my mother's room. A white napkin covered her face. I removed it-it was just as I feared. Her eyes were closed-her cheeks were cold and hard, and only the lovely expression, that rested upon her lips, remained In an instant all the little faults for which she had often reproved me rushed to my mind. I longed to tell her how good I would always be, if she would remain with me. She was buried, but my remembrance of the funeral is indistinct: I only retain the impression which her precepts and examples left upon my mind. I was a passionate headstrong boy; but I never yielded to this turn of my disposition, without fancying I saw her mild tearful eyes fixed upon me, just as she used to do in life. And then, when I succeeded in overcoming it, her sweet smile of approbation beamed upon me, and I was happy. My whole character underwent a change, even from the moment of her death. Her spirit was forever with me, strengthening my good resolutions and weakening my propensity to evil-I felt that it would grieve her gentle spirit, to see me err, and I could not-would not do it. I was the child of her affection; I knew she had prayed and wept over me, and even on the threshold of eternity her affection for me had caused her gentle spirit to linger, that she might pray for me once more. I resolved to become all that she could desire. The resolution I have never forgotten-it helped me to subdue the waywardness of childhood, protected me through the temptations of youth, and will comfort me through the busier scenes of manhood. Whatever there is that is estimable in my character, I owe to the impressions of goodness, made upon my infant mind, by the exemplary conduct and faithful instruction of my excellent mother."

Dear children, never forget this story.-Love your mothers. Be careful to do nothing while they are alive to fill your hearts with bitterness after they are dead.-Cong. Journal.