Arrived at home, how then they gazed around. In every place where she no more was found; The seat at table she was wont to fill; The fireside chair, still set, but vacant still; The garden walks, a labor all her own; The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown: The Sunday pew she filled with all her race-- Each place of hers, was now a sacred place, That while it called up sorrows in the eyes, Pierced the full heart, and forced them still to rise. --_From the Eclectic Magazine._ 1403 A MOTHER'S LOVE. Children, look in those eyes, listen to that dear voice, notice the feeling of even a single touch that is bestowed upon you by that gentle hand. Make much of it while yet you have that most precious of all good gifts, a loving mother. Read the unfathomable love of those eyes; the kind anxiety of that tone and look, however slight your pain. In after-life you may have friends, fond, dear, kind friends; but never will you have again the inexpressible love and gentleness lavished upon you which none but a mother bestows. Often do I sigh in my struggles with hard, uncaring world, for the sweet, deep security I felt when, of an evening nestling in her bosom, I listened to some quiet tale, suitable to my age, read in her tender and untiring voice. Never can I forget her sweet glances cast upon me when I appeared asleep, never her kiss of peace at night. Years have passed away since we laid her beside my father in the old church yard; yet still her voice whispers from the grave, and her eye watches over me, as I visit spots long since hallowed to the memory of my mother. 1404 The mother's heart is the child's school-room. 1405 He who takes the child by the hand, takes the mother by the heart. 1406 Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well? My mother. 1407 Each mother is a historian; she writes not the history of empires or of nations on paper, but she writes her own history on the imperishable mind of her child. That tablet and that history will remain indelible when time shall be no more. That history each mother shall meet again, and read, with eternal joy, or unutterable grief, in the coming ages of eternity. 1408 MOTHERS AND MEN. That it is the mother who moulds the man is a sentiment beautifully illustrated by the following recorded observation of a shrewd writer:--