MOTHERS NOT IN FICTION
A sick youth was lying in bed, watching with quiet eyes his mother’s form moving gently about the room where for weeks she had been ministering to him with tenderest heart and hands. There had been stillness there for a little while, when the boy spoke: “I wonder why there are no mothers in fiction.” “Why, there are, dear; there must be,” the mother answered quickly, but when she tried to name one, she found that none came at the call. When she related me the little incident, I too immediately said that our memory must be strangely at fault that it did not furnish us with examples in plenty. Maternal love! Why, art was filled with illustrations of it, and so was literature. And yet, on making search, I too have failed to find the typical mother where it seems she would so easily be found.—Atlantic Monthly.
(2112)
Mother, The, and the Lambs—See [Father’s Voice].
Mother Wisdom—See [Wealth and Work].
MOTHERHOOD
We can understand how Tennyson was preserved from the fatality of recklessness, how it is he wore the white flower of a blameless life, and ruled himself with chivalrous regard for womanhood, when we study his mother’s face. What such a woman must have been in the home, and what sort of home it must have been where she moved like a ministering spirit, we can readily imagine.—W. J. Dawson, “The Makers of English Poetry.”
(2113)
Alexander the Great never wore any garments save those made by his mother. These beautiful robes he showed to the Persian princes who came to visit his court as marks of the skill of Olympia, who was the daughter of a chieftain, the wife of a sovereign and the mother of a conqueror.