The Lonely Child by Emma A. Lente

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D. C. · Jan 28, 1915

The Lonely Child

By Emma A. Lente

I LIVE with auntie on the farm. She's nice as she can be; She says she means to do as well as she knows how by me. She bids me think if I've been good, she bids me say my prayers; And then she takes the light away, and leaves me here upstairs. She does not tuck the covers in, nor pat me on the head, The way my mother used to do before that she was dead.

And auntie says she never dreamed of bringing up a child; She hasn't any of her own, and children drive her wild. I try to be as still as still, and help her do the chores; And when I really have to cry, I slip away outdoors, Then wash my eyes out in the brook to take away the red: They never used to get that way when mother wasn't dead.

I think of how we used to go and take the loveliest walks, And just before I went to bed we had the sweetest talks. It was so dear to cuddle in the hollow of her arm, I never used to be afraid, nor think of any harm; And O, the songs she loved to sing, the stories that she knew— I wonder if God needs the mothers more than children do?

—Emma A. Lente.