p. 310 | The Baby's Autograph

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jul 13, 1882

The Baby's Autograph.

THEY gave it to me at Christmas—the pretty new autograph album—and I was proud of it; the binding was so gay, and the white, gilt-edged sheet so spotlessly pure. I could hardly make up my mind who should have the honor of dedicating that album, or what verse was grand enough to be inscribed on its pages; and before I had quite decided, baby found it. She had toddled into the parlor, and taken it down from the table before I had missed her, and was sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, with the precious book in her lap. That would not have been worth recording, and I should not have valued my album beyond all price now if it were all. But she had a pencil—for she dearly loved to scribble on bits of paper—and she had made her mark on the front leaf, the title page of my beautiful book. She had made a dozen marks, criss-cross and zig-zag; and there she sat, her bright hair tossed down over her face, her little demure mouth pursed up, her blue eyes full of mischief, half shy, half defiant, and we three women looked at her.

“Oh, you naughty, naughty baby!” I cried; “you’ve just ruined my new album, you bad little thing.”

“Bless her dear little heart,” said my mother; “doesn’t she make a picture?”

“Whip her!” cried aunt Harriet, in a vindictive tone. She has no children of her own, and knows just how to bring up other people’s.

I was angry enough to do it, and had made one step forward, intending to wrest the book out of the clasping baby hands, and then—what, beat my own child? I was saved that degradation by my own good mother, who shook her head at me over Aunt Harriet’s shoulder.

How long is it since Christmas? Counting by heart-throbs, I would say years! years! It is only a couple of months, and to-day I would give, oh! what would I not give to have those little hands doing their sweet mischief. Peace, foolish heart! “He giveth his beloved rest.” The baby is gone, but when I look at the little short lines

that dedicate my album—the sweetest, saddest lines to me that were ever written—soon ended like her little life—I am glad that I took her in my arms, kissed her rosebud lips, and put the book away without one reproving word—glad that I caused no angry feelings in that baby heart, or left memories for myself that would now have power to wound.

That is why all the leaves of my new album are blank—pure, spotless, just as the fair page of her little life was; but you, who think these characters on the dedicating page unmeaning, have never had the key to them. Mothers can tell what they are. Angels will be glad over this record without blot or stain. There is no handwriting so fine that I would exchange it for my baby’s autograph.—Sel.