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THE WOMAN WHO WORRIED

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Sep 10, 1902

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 28, No. 37.

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THE WOMAN WHO WORRIED.

By Lillian Ferguson

She looked for trouble every day And so, of course, it came her way.
To worry was her dear delight From morn till noon, from noon till night.
The paltry little pin-point things She harped upon like worn-out strings.
She prowled for trouble round the house Much as a cat will hunt a mouse.
Her temper twisted all askew— That is what worry drives one to.
She lived a wretched, nervous life, Her thoughts with petty trifles rife,
Until her face as wrinkled grew As an old cast-off leather shoe.
The great world swung upon its way; She worried till her head was gray.
The birds sang, but she could not hear; Her own complaining filled her ear.
God painted for her wondrous skies; She did not even lift her eyes.
He wove a carpet for her feet And broidered it with blossoms sweet—
And she? Alack, indoors or out She fretted, fumed, and fussed about
She died before she ever knew That she had lived. The mourners drew
A long sigh when she passed away; Grief, or relief? I can not say.
But O, alas! that women choose To look like wrinkled leather shoes! —Lillian Ferguson.