I'M HURRIED, CHILD! by Emma Burt

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · May 18, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 20.

"I'M HURRIED, CHILD!"

By Emma Burt

BY EMMA BURT.

"O MOTHER, look! I've found a butterfly Hanging upon a leaf. Do tell me why There was no butter? O, do see its wings! I never, never saw such pretty things— All streaked and striped with blue and brown and gold. Where is its house when all the days are cold?" "Yes, yes," she said in absent accents mild, "I'm hurried, child!"

"Last night my dolly quite forgot her prayers; And when she thought that you had gone down- stairs, Then dolly was afraid, and so I said: 'Just don't you mind, but say 'em in the bed, Because I think that God is just as near.' When dolls are 'fraid, do you s'pose He can hear?" The mother spoke from out the ruffles piled, "I'm hurried, child!"

"O, come and see the flowers in the sky— The sun has left; and won't you, by-and-by, Dear mother, take me in your arms and tell Me all about the pussy in the well? Then tell me of the babies in the wood? And then, perhaps, about Red Riding Hood?" "Too much to do! Hush, hush, you drive me wild! I'm hurried, child!"

The little one grew very quiet, now, And grieved and puzzled was the childish brow; And then it queried: "Mother, do you know The reason cause you must be hurried so? I guess the hours are littler than I, So I will take my pennies, and will buy A big clock! O, as big as it can be, For you and me."

The mother now has leisure infinite; She sits with folded hands, and face as white As winter. In her heart is winter's chill. She sits at leisure, questioning God's will. "My child has ceased to breathe, and all is night! Is heaven so dark that Thou dost grudge my light? O life! O God! I must discover why The time drags by."

O mothers, sweet, if cares must ever fall, Pray do not make them stones to build a wall Between thee and thine own; and miss thy right, O blessedness, so swift to take its flight! While answering baby questions, you are But entertaining angels unaware; And richest gifts are gathered by the way For darkest day. —Michigan Farmer.