TIRED MOTHERS by May Riley Smith

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jan 8, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 10.

TIRED MOTHERS.

By May Riley Smith

A LITTLE elbow rests upon your knee, Your tired knee, that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of shining hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight, You do not prize this blessing overmuch— You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day; We are so dull and thankless, and too slow To catch the sunshine as it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me That while I wore the badge of motherhood I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good.

And if some night, when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired knee, This restless, curling head from off your breast, This lisping tongue that chatters constantly, If from your own this dimpled hand has slipped And ne'er will nestle in your palm again, If the white feet into the grave have tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then.

I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown, Or that the footsteps, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little moldy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor, If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its music in my home once more,

If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I. But, ah! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head; My singing birdling from its nest has flown— The little one I used to kiss is dead.

—May Riley Smith.