And oh! if ever their grace and goodness meet Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all The latent evil yet undisciplined In their young, timid souls forgiveness find? Forgiveness and forbearance, and soft chidings, Which I, their mother, learn'd of love, to give. Ah! let me stay! albeit my heart is weary, Weary and worn, _tired of its own sad beat_, _That finds no echo in this busy world_ _Which cannot pause to answer_--tired, alike, Of joy and sorrow--of the day and night! Ah! _take them_ FIRST, _my Father! and then me_; And for their sakes--for their sweet sakes, my Father! Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet.
I have a horror of "best" things, come they in the shape of shoes, garments, bonnets or rooms. In such a harness my soul peers restlessly out, asking "if I be I." I'm puzzled to find myself. I become stiff and formal and artificial as my surroundings.
But of all the best things, spare me the infliction of a "best room." Out upon a carpet too fine to tread upon, books too dainty to handle, sofas that but mock your weary limbs, and curtains that dare not face a ray of sunlight!
Had I a house, there should be no "best room" in it. No upholsterer should exorcise comfort, or children, from my door-sill. The free, fresh air should be welcome to play through it; the bright, glad sunshine to lighten and warm it; while fresh mantel-flowers should woo us visits from humming-bird and drowsy bee.
For pictures, I'd look from out my windows, upon a landscape painted by the Great Master--ever fresh, ever varied, and never marred by envious "cross lights;" now, wreathed in morning's silvery mist; now, basking in noon's broad beam; now, flushed with sunset's golden glow; now, sleeping in dreamy moonlight.
For statuary, fill my house with children--rosy, dimpled, laughing children; now, tossing their sunny ringlets from open brows; now, vailing their merry eyes in slumberous dreams, 'neath snow-white lids; now, sweetly grave, on bended knee, with clasped hands, and lisped words of holy prayer.
Did I say I'd have nothing "_best_?" Pardon me. Sunday should be the best day of all the seven--not ushered in with ascetic form, or lengthened face, or stiff and rigid manners. Sweetly upon the still Sabbath air should float the matin hymn of happy childhood; blending with early song of birds, and wafted upward, with flowers' incense, to Him whose very name is LOVE. It should be no day for puzzling the half-developed brain of childhood with gloomy creeds, to shake the simple faith that prompts the innocent lips to say, "Our Father." It should be no day to sit upright on stiff-backed chairs, till the golden sun should set. No; the birds should not be more welcome to warble, the flowers to drink in the air and sunlight, or the trees to toss their lithe limbs, free and fetterless.