A LESSON | AdventAI

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Feb 7, 1900

A LESSON.

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee, that has so much to bear. A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a tangled thatch of hair. Perhaps you do not heed the touch Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight; You do not prize your 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 till 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 the elbow from your tired knee, This restless, curly head from off your breast, This lisping tongue, that chatters constantly; If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again, If the white feet into the grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then.

I wonder now 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 muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket on my chamber floor, If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its patter 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 is 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 boy I used to kiss is dead. —Anon.