The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1885-12-10
When the Day is Done.

How quiet the house is at midnight
The people who talk and laugh and sing
in it every day are asleep, aud the people
who fell asleep in it long ago como
silontly back into it. Every Louse has
these two classes of tenants. Do we
love best those with whom we can laugh
and talk and sing, or the dear silent one:
who eomc SO noiselessly to cur side and
whisper to us in faint, sweet, far away
whispers that have no sound, so that we
only hear their very stiffness.
sin not tired, but my pen is weary.
II falls from my fingers and raise my
head. start to leave the table, and my
eyes fall upon little book lying on the
floor. 1t is little "First Reader" He
left it there this afternoon. l remember
now. I remember just how I was i'm.
patiert because he could not read the
simple little lesson-such an easy lesson
and I told him it was a waste of my
time trying to teach him, aud pushed
him away from me. remember now.
see the flush come into the little tired
face, the brave, cheerful look in his eyes
his mothers brave, patient cheeriness
struggling with his disappointment
and pain. I see him lie down on the
floor and the little face bend over the
troublesome little lesson-such a simple,
easy lesson, any baby might read it.
Then, after little struggle alone, it has
TO be given up, and the baffled little
soldier, with one more appealing look
toward; me for reinforcemeuts, sighs and
goes sway from the lesson he cannot
read to the play that comforts him. And
there lies the little book, just as he left
it. Al me, I could kneel down and kiss
it now, as though it were alive and lov.
ing.
WIN, what was my time worth to me
to-day? What was there in the book /
wanted to read one.half so precious to
me as one cooing word from the prattling
lips that quivered when l turned away :?
/ hate the book l read, will never look
at it again; we're it the last book in the
world I think l would burn it. All its
gracious words are lies. I say to you,
though all men praise the book, and
though an hour ago l thought it excel
lent, I say to you that there is poison in
its hateful pages. Why, what can !
learn from books that baby lips cannot
teach me? Do you know | want to go
to The door of his room and listen; the
house is so still maybe he is not breath
ing. Why, if between my books and
my boy l choose my book why should
not God leave me with my books? My
hateful books.
But I was not harsh. / was only
little impatient. Because. you see, his
lesson was so easy. so simple. All me,
there were two of us trying to read this
afternoon. There were two easy, simple
lessons. Mine was such very simple,
easy, pleasant loving one to learn. Just
a line, just little throb of patience, of
gentleness, of love that would have
made my own heart glow and laugh and
sing. The letters were go large and
plain, the words so easy and the SEN
fences 40 short. And I? Oh, pity me,
I missed every word. l did not read one
line Alright. See, here is my copy now,
all blurred and blistered with tears and
heart ache, all, marred and misspelled
and blotted. am ashamed to show it
to the Master. And yet l know He will
be patient with me; I know how loving
and gertle He will be. Why, how pa
tiently and lovingly, aud these years,
He has been teaching me this simple
lesson failed upon to-day. But when
my little pupil stumbled on single
words my time, then, so much more
precious than the Masters that l can not
teach the little lesson more than once?
Ah, friend, we do waste time when we
plat scourges for ourselves. These bur
rying days, these busy, anxious, sbrewd,
ambitious times of ours are wasted when
they take our hearts away from patient
gentleuess, and give us fame for love and
gold for kisses. Some day, then, when
our hungry souls will ask for bread our
selfish god will give to Us stone. Life
is not deep, profound, perplexing prob
lem. IT. is simple, easy lesson, such as
any child may read. You cannot find
its solution in the ponderous tones of
the old fathers, the philosophers, the in
vestigators, the theorists. 1t is not on
your book shelves. But in the warmest
corner of the most unlettered heart it
glows in letters that the blndest may
read e sweet, plain, simple, easy, loving
lesson. And when you have learned it,
brother Of mine, the world will be better
and happier.