The Arizona sentinel., 1907-05-08
Voices in the Night.
Ails. Annie Reeves Gist.

1 dark. The wind rises from a moan to wild shriek, rattling the shutters and grumbling down the chimney, fans the dying em bers into flame while the sparks dance gaily about. The batter of the cold March rain upon my window is congenial with my spirit tonight. 1 am weary; and the whole world seems weary, as out into the storm and darkness the hour of midnight is tolled. Another twenty-four hours add ed to the years of yesterday.
 As the days pile up into the building of our lives, they stand, not as individual days but as a part of the structure. Some add strength and, pity us-some weaken.
 How still the house is! The snapping song of the flame, ac, companied by the mournful night sounds, is all that breaks the silence. All day it's walls echoed with merry childish voices; but now they are hushed, for sleep has closed the weary eyelids.
 The tranquility of a child asleep! No breeding care or guilty conscience, fretting itself far into the night, struggling to solve life's problems or making cowardly efforts to forget, dis turbs his slumbers.
 "As yet time is no fast hurry ing stream, but sportful, sun lit ocean; years to the child are as ages; ah. the secret of vicis situde is yet unknown, and in a motionlesS universe we taste what, afterward, in this quick whirling universe, is forever de- nied us-the balm of rest. '"
 But what is that in the corner? Two pairs of little boots! What story of long marches and ire euent tumblings those scuffed toes tell.
 What a tale of tramping- and climbing the worn heels portray What numberless trips of adven- taEe through the boundless waste of the back yard, where the little owners stare over the fence at the busy, huTrying throng, and wonder as we do when we gaze into the infinite blue of the heav- ems, "Where does it all end?"
 Ah me. I remember, 1 thought they found too much mud today-those little boots they tracked my carpet! I won der tonight if I wouldn't kiss those footprints as things too precious to lose if 1 knew the  little boots had completed their journey and tomorrow's sun would find them empty.
 Today the childish voices seemed nOisy-the wee feet pat tered constantly about and the wee hands were deep into mis- chief. A sweet baby face looked up into mine with an oft,repeat- ed question; 1 was disturbed T was about to enjoy a book or have a conversation with friend-'Run away, baby, not now" An, yes! into the busy past, that once we held too cheap, shall baby feet run-and not all the yearning of our inmost hearts can avail, not all the outstretch- ed hands shall fill our empty arms.
 Death may not rob us of our babies-God grant it may not but Time surely will.
 What, then, was my time worth? What would 1 learn from printed page or lip of friend that baby voices could not teach me? 1 have learned more Of good from my children than they ever learned from me. A little child is a strong prop; a grown man or woman, @ weak ling. By holding myself in sub jection to these innocent beings, for the objective purpose of helping them, selhshness has been eliminated and in their stead have come patience, self sacrifice. self-control and solici- tude for others. Who was the