The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1891-11-18
When the DAY Is Gone.

When the Day Is Gone.
How quiet the house is at midnight.
The people who talk and laugh and
sing in it every day are asleep, and the
people who fell asleep in 1T
long ago come back into it. Every
house has these two classes of tenants.
Do we love best those with whom we
can talk and laugh and sing, or the
dear silent les who come SO nOiseless-
ly to u side and whisper to us in
faint, sweet, far away whispers that
have nc sound, SO that we only hear
their very stiffness.
I am not tired but my pen is weary.
1t falls from my fingers and / raise my
head. I start to leave the table and
my eyes fall upon q little book lying
on the floor. 1t is q little "First Read
err" He left it there this afternoon.
I remember just how [ was impatient
because he could not read the simple
little lesson, such an easy lesson, and 1
told him it was q waste of my time to
teach him, and pushed him away
from me. l remember now. / see
the flush come into the little tired
, face, the brave, cheerful look in his
eyes, his mothers brave, patient
cheerfulness, struggling with his dis
appointment and balm 1 see him lie
down on the floor and the little face
bend over the troublesome lesson, such
a simple, easy lesson, any baby might
read it. Then, after a little struggle
alone it has to be given up, and the
baffled little soldier, with one more ap-
pealing look toward, me for reinforce
ments, signs and goes away from the
lesson he can not read to the play that
comforts him. And there lies the lit
tie book just as he left it. All, me, I
could kneel down and kiss it now, as
though it We're living and low
ing.
Why, what vas my time worth to
me to-day? What was there in the
book 1 wanted to read, one half so
precious to me rs M cooling word
from the prattling lips that quivered
when l turned away. I hate the book
I read. I will lever look at it
again.
Were it the last book in the world, l
would burn it. All it's gracious words
are lies. Isay to you, though all men
praise the book, and, though an hour
ago l thought it excellent, 1 say to you
there is poison in it's hateful pages
Why what can 1 learn from books
that baby lips can not teach me? Do
you know L want to 60 to the door of
his room and listen the house is so
still ; maybe he is not breathing.
Why, if between my book and my
boy l choose my book, why should not
God leave me with nv books? My
hateful books.
But I was not harsh. I was only a
little impatient. Because his lesson
was so easy, so simple. All me, there
were two of us trying to read this af-
ternoon. There were two easy, simple
lessons. Mine was such O very simple,
easy, pleasant, loving one to learn.
Just a line, just a throb of patience, OF
gentleness, of love, that would have
made my own heart glow and laugh
and sing. The letters were so large
and plain, the words so easy and the
sentences so short. And 1? Oh, pity
me. I missed every word. I did not
read one line Alright. See, here is my
copy now /; all blurred and blistered
with tears and heartache, all marred
and misspelled and blotted. I am
ashamed to show it to the Master.
And yet I know that he will be pa
tient with ME; I know how loving
and gentle he will be. Why, how pa.
tiently and loving all these years he
has been teaching me this simple les
son I failed to learn to day. But
when my pupil stumbled Oh u single
worlds my time, then, so much
more precious than the Masters that
1 can not teach the little lessons more
than once?
All, friends, we do not waste time
when we plat scourges for ourselves.
These hurrying days, these busy, anx-
ious, shrewd ambitious times of ours
are wasted when they take our hearts
away from patient g%entleness, and
give us fame for love and gold for kiss
es. Some day, then, when u hun
cry souls will seek for bread, U sell
fish god will give us a stone. Life is
not a deep, profound, perplexing prob
lem. 1t is u simple, easy lesson, such
as any child may read. You can not
find its solution in the ponderous
tones of the old fathers, the philoso'
pliers, the investigators, the theorists.
It is not on your hookshelves. But in
the warmest corner of the most inlet
tered heart it glows in letters that the
blindest may read q sweet, plain,
simple, easy, loving lesson. And
when you have learned it, brother of
mine, the world will he better and
happier.-R. J. Burdctte.