Love in the Home by Carrie Knight

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D. C. · Oct 31, 1912

Love in the Home

By Carrie Knight

CARRIE KNIGHT

Chancing to glance out of the window the other morning, my attention was attracted to a small group of persons, three men and a woman, standing on the wharf just under my window. They were preparing to enter a boat tied along one side. One man, seemingly the oldest of the three, stepped into the boat, untied a bundle, and began fixing a seat in the rear end. He arranged coats, then patted and rearranged them until he succeeded in getting the seat to his idea of comfort; then he said something to the woman. The language was foreign to me, but my interest in the little crowd redoubled. Taking her hand, he slipped his arm about her waist as tenderly as a mother would handle a delicate child; he helped her to the seat, and as he drew a cover over her lap, tucking it carefully about her feet, I saw the love light shine in his eyes. Taking off his own overcoat, he placed it carefully to her back, patting her shoulder, and saying something that brought a happy sparkle into her eyes, and a bright color into the pale, sweet face. I said to myself, “That woman may wear calico; she may live in one of these fisherman’s shacks, but she is rich; rich in that one thing, which thousands of hearts in this selfish world would give all they possess to obtain, love.”

My thoughts fly to the home across the way. Crape is flying from the door this morning. Death entered last night, and took the wife and mother. Flowers are being carried in, and piled high upon the coffin. Flowers had been denied her in life; she had had no time to enjoy them even if she could have had them; she was too busy. Husband and children must be fed and clothed; the house must be kept tidy; and so she had worked on, no ray of love brightening her pathway. But listen! I can almost hear the cries of anguish as that husband, who has denied the little tokens of love to that wife now sleeping in death, realizes what the words “too late” mean. No use now to pile high the fragrant flowers; no use now to pat the white, still hand, and to whisper into deaf ears the tender, loving words so long withheld. It is too late. Living, her life was barren of all the small, loving acts that make life sweet, and now it is too late. There comes to my mind an unidentified poem I have read:—

“I know that deep within your heart of hearts, You hold me shrined apart from common things, And that my step, my voice, may bring to you A gladness that no other presence brings. “And yet through all the weary days You never speak one word of tenderness; You never stroke my hair, nor softly clasp my hand Within your own in loving, mute caress. “You think perhaps I should be all content To know the loving place I hold Within your heart, and so you do not dream How much I long to hear the story told. “You can not know when we two sit alone, And tranquil thoughts within your soul are stirred, My heart is crying like a tired child For one fond look, one gentle, loving word.

“It may be when your eyes look into mine You only say, ‘How dear she is to me!’ O, could I read it in your softened glance, How radiant this plain old world would be! “Perhaps sometime you breathe a secret prayer That choicest blessings unto me be given; But if you said aloud, ‘God bless you, dear,’ I would not ask a greater boon from heaven. “What matter if our granaries are filled With all the richest harvest’s golden store, If we who own them can not enter in, But famished stand before the close-barred door?”

Dear readers, let us be more tender and loving to our own, giving the flowers and the sweets now while they can be enjoyed, and not waiting until we must heap them upon coffins.

Astoria, Oregon.