05/10/2026
A Story about the importance of honoring your Mother from an 1857 McGuffey's Reader
Title of the Story: My Mother's Grave
The female author of the story is not named
It was 13 years since my mother's death, when, after a long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that sad time, a great change had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and with them my youthful character. As I stood at my mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless, happy creature whose cheeks she so often kissed.
But the varied events of 13 years had not dimmed the remembrance of my mother's smile. The happy dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed would have been gentle and refreshing.
The circumstance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it now pains my heart. And I relate it that those children who have parents to love them may learn to value them as they ought.
My mother had been ill for a long time and I had become so accustomed to her pale face and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them as children usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed a lot. But when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, I began to believe she would always be spared for me. But they were telling me that she was going to die.
One day when I had a problem at school, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went to my mother's room. She was paler than usual, but she met me with the same affectionate smile that always welcomed my return. Alas! When I look back through the lapse of 13 years, I think my heart must have been stone not to have been melted by her smile. She requested me to go downstairs and bring her a glass of water. I foolishly asked her why she did not call someone else to do it. With a look of mild reproach, which I shall never forget if I live to be 100 years old, she said, "will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?"
I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing her as I had previously done, I set the glass down very quickly and left the room. After playing for a short time, I went to bed without telling my mother goodnight. But when alone in my room, in darkness and silence, I remembered how pale my mother looked. I remembered how her voice trembled when she said, "will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?" I could not sleep. I slipped into her room to ask for forgiveness. She had sunk into an easy sleep and they told me I must not awaken her.
I did not tell anyone what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct.
The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's room.
My mother had died in the night! She never spoke again! She never smiled upon me again! And when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that it made me start.
I bowed down by my mother's side and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought then I wished I might die and be buried with her.
As old as I now am, I would give worlds, if they were mine to give, could my mother have lived to tell me she forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back. And when I stand by her grave and whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me bites like a serpent and stings like an adder.
