MY BROOM by Mrs. C. M. Livingston

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jan 13, 1887

"MY BROOM."

By Mrs. C. M. Livingston

"Oh, mamma, don't take my pretty broom to sweep the stairs, please don't!"

This came in shrill tones from Bessie, as she danced into the front hall and came suddenly upon her mother, who considered that she had found an excellent tool in the shape of her little daughter's new broom. It was a present to Bessie from the old broommaker just round the corner, and because he had taken great pains in its manufacture, it was an unusually good one, and pleasant for anybody to use.

As might be supposed, its chief merit to a six-year-old child was its gaily painted handle. She had always kept it among her treasures, and was horrified now to find it in use, like any common broom.

The work Mrs. Allan had laid out for that day was enough for three days. There was cake to be made, and everything to be put in perfect order for company to tea. Perfect order, in the mind of this fastidious woman, meant a great amount of labor. With no help but an inexperienced girl, not a moment was to be lost. So she worked in nervous haste, taking no notice of Bessie's protest, except to say, "Be quiet, child, you will be heard on the street."

"I want my broom, please mamma," persisted Bessie.

"What a selfish little girl! For shame!" her mother said sharply, sweeping vigorously at the same time.

"Oh, don't use it so hard, my dear little broom," pleaded Bessie, tears rolling down her cheeks. "You'll spoil it, mamma, you truly will."

"If I spoil it I will get you another. Get out of my way now, quick."

"Another broom won't do," sobbed Bessie, growing more excited at this suggestion. "I want to keep this one always, 'cause old Mr. Strong made it for me, and he likes me. It shan't be used, I shall put it away;" and, springing up the stairs, she clasped her arms about her treasure.

The mother's patience was by this time quite exhausted. She angrily wrenched the broom from Bessie's hands, then seized, and half carried her up the stairs, and thrust her into a room in no gentle manner, bidding her stay until she called her.

Bessie was not a difficult child to manage, nor was her mother a hard woman. It needed but a little loving tact on her part, and the little girl would have been happy in lending her broom. But, poor mother, she had allowed herself to become nervous and tired and heated through much serving, and so she forgot that she was outraging an innate sense of justice which the Lord himself had placed in the child's heart—forgot, too, that it had been written, "Provoke not your children to wrath."

Her worries and cares and the entertaining of friends so absorbed Mrs. Allan that she gave her little daughter but slight attention for the rest of the day. It was not until evening that she discovered Bessie to be in a burning fever, and complaining of sore throat. She remembered then with a pang that the usually amiable child had been irritable all day, which should have led her to suspect something wrong.

All through the night they watched the little one, while she tossed and moaned, murmuring words in delirium that pierced the mother's heart like a knife, for it was all about a little broom, pitiful pleadings—"Please, mamma, please don't;" then, drawing her white brow into frowns, would scream out, "It's mine, I say; you must not take my broom!"

The best medical skill and the tenderest nursing could not avail. For two days they fought with the terrible disease, and then they gathered about the darling to give her the last kiss. They thought she would never speak again, but the blue eyes suddenly opened; they looked lovingly into her mother's, and Bessie said: "Mamma, good-by. You may take my little broom—you may keep it forever—forgive me 'cause I was naughty;" and then the sweet mouth was put up for a kiss.

The next instant the mother's kiss fell on still lips. Do you wonder that for many years afterward the most torturing, heart-breaking sight to her in all the world was a little broom?

Oh, dear mothers, it is well to be fine housekeepers, and to entertain one's friends handsomely; but, as we go bustling about, let us not load ourselves with such a weight of harassing cares that we have no time to be just, and tender, and patient with even the little whims and fancies of our darlings. When we come to lay them down to their last sleep, our sorrow will be keen enough without the stabs which memory with cruel faithfulness will inflict. Not a harsh word or unjust action will be forgotten then.—Mrs. C. M. Livingston, in the Congregationalist.