LXXIX.IF WE KNEW!

LXXIX.IF WE KNEW!

“If we knew the baby fingersPressed against the window-paneWould be cold and stiff to-morrow,Never trouble us again,Would the bright eyes of our darlingCatch the frown upon our brow?Would the print of rosy fingersVex us then as they do now?“Ah! those little, ice-cold fingers,How they point our memories backTo the hasty words and actionsStrewn along our backward track!How those little hands remind us,As in snowy grace they lie,Not to scatter thorns, but roses,For our reaping by and by!“Strange we never prize the musicTill the sweet-voiced bird has flown!Strange that we should slight the violetsTill the lovely flowers are gone!Strange that summer skies and sunshineNever seemed one half so fairAs when winter’s snowy pinionsShake the white down in the air!“Lips from which the seal of silenceNone but God can roll away,Never blossomed in such beautyAs adorns the mouth to-day;And sweet words that freight our memoryWith their beautiful perfumeCome to us in sweeter accentsThrough the portals of the tomb!“Let us gather up the sunbeamsLying all around our path;Let us keep the wheat and roses,Casting out the thorns and chaff;Let us find our sweetest comfortIn the blessings of to-day;With a patient hand removingAll the briers from our way.”

“If we knew the baby fingersPressed against the window-paneWould be cold and stiff to-morrow,Never trouble us again,Would the bright eyes of our darlingCatch the frown upon our brow?Would the print of rosy fingersVex us then as they do now?“Ah! those little, ice-cold fingers,How they point our memories backTo the hasty words and actionsStrewn along our backward track!How those little hands remind us,As in snowy grace they lie,Not to scatter thorns, but roses,For our reaping by and by!“Strange we never prize the musicTill the sweet-voiced bird has flown!Strange that we should slight the violetsTill the lovely flowers are gone!Strange that summer skies and sunshineNever seemed one half so fairAs when winter’s snowy pinionsShake the white down in the air!“Lips from which the seal of silenceNone but God can roll away,Never blossomed in such beautyAs adorns the mouth to-day;And sweet words that freight our memoryWith their beautiful perfumeCome to us in sweeter accentsThrough the portals of the tomb!“Let us gather up the sunbeamsLying all around our path;Let us keep the wheat and roses,Casting out the thorns and chaff;Let us find our sweetest comfortIn the blessings of to-day;With a patient hand removingAll the briers from our way.”

“If we knew the baby fingersPressed against the window-paneWould be cold and stiff to-morrow,Never trouble us again,Would the bright eyes of our darlingCatch the frown upon our brow?Would the print of rosy fingersVex us then as they do now?

“If we knew the baby fingers

Pressed against the window-pane

Would be cold and stiff to-morrow,

Never trouble us again,

Would the bright eyes of our darling

Catch the frown upon our brow?

Would the print of rosy fingers

Vex us then as they do now?

“Ah! those little, ice-cold fingers,How they point our memories backTo the hasty words and actionsStrewn along our backward track!How those little hands remind us,As in snowy grace they lie,Not to scatter thorns, but roses,For our reaping by and by!

“Ah! those little, ice-cold fingers,

How they point our memories back

To the hasty words and actions

Strewn along our backward track!

How those little hands remind us,

As in snowy grace they lie,

Not to scatter thorns, but roses,

For our reaping by and by!

“Strange we never prize the musicTill the sweet-voiced bird has flown!Strange that we should slight the violetsTill the lovely flowers are gone!Strange that summer skies and sunshineNever seemed one half so fairAs when winter’s snowy pinionsShake the white down in the air!

“Strange we never prize the music

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown!

Strange that we should slight the violets

Till the lovely flowers are gone!

Strange that summer skies and sunshine

Never seemed one half so fair

As when winter’s snowy pinions

Shake the white down in the air!

“Lips from which the seal of silenceNone but God can roll away,Never blossomed in such beautyAs adorns the mouth to-day;And sweet words that freight our memoryWith their beautiful perfumeCome to us in sweeter accentsThrough the portals of the tomb!

“Lips from which the seal of silence

None but God can roll away,

Never blossomed in such beauty

As adorns the mouth to-day;

And sweet words that freight our memory

With their beautiful perfume

Come to us in sweeter accents

Through the portals of the tomb!

“Let us gather up the sunbeamsLying all around our path;Let us keep the wheat and roses,Casting out the thorns and chaff;Let us find our sweetest comfortIn the blessings of to-day;With a patient hand removingAll the briers from our way.”

“Let us gather up the sunbeams

Lying all around our path;

Let us keep the wheat and roses,

Casting out the thorns and chaff;

Let us find our sweetest comfort

In the blessings of to-day;

With a patient hand removing

All the briers from our way.”

THE wind is playing with the long gray beard on the grand old live-oak over our heads; the air, soft and balmy, brings the slightest intimation of perfume from the orange-trees around us; the golden fruit, half hidden in the rich, glossy leaves, and here and there a bud just opening into the delicate blossom, give promise of another harvest before the first is fully gathered. Before us lies the beautiful St. John’s river, smooth and tranquil as a summer sea; but a steamer in the distance, like a graceful swan, approaches the wharf, and will soon disturb its calm, and toss the placid waters into merry ripples or foaming, sparkling waves. Only for a moment she touches the wharf, then glides away, and the river subsides into its wonted calm. Her coming and going have no interest for us, save that which a glimpse, however transient, of beauty, strength, and grace must always awaken. She brings none to greet us and claim the welcome, so gladly given by one far from home.

Everything around us is quiet. The inmates of the cottage are mostly out sailing. The gentle provider for the household comforts, “on hospitable thoughts intent,” is preparing for their return from this “toil of pleasure,” tired and ravenously hungry. We are entirely alone; and as we sit in this wonderful quiet, the little poem quoted above, “If We Knew,” stirs our heart with strange and solemn power.

Lives there one who does not, in moments of retirement or solitude, look back to the earliest hours of childhood, and recall times when, if he could have known the results, his actions would have been far different?

If all could in youth look along the map of life clear to theend, seeing all the breakers and quicksands, which by patience and self-control could have been avoided, how much more comforting would be the view they might take, in after years, of the “backward track”! No doubt it is well, for many reasons, that we cannot read the future. Trials and sorrows, which no skill or forethought could have turned aside, would have been doubled by anticipation and foreknowledge. And yet we doubt if there are many who, looking back from the “half-way house,” would not willingly endure all the additional pain if they might have possessed the power to foresee the inevitable results of certain courses, and, profiting by this foreknowledge, have avoided the danger or the sin.

Brother, sister, “if you knew” that soon “those little baby fingers” would “never trouble you again,” would you be impatient or cross to your little playmates for their childish, willful ways?

Two little boys were playing together. Both wanted the rocking-chair for a horse. Full of health and animal spirits, their dispute ran high, and ended in a blow. Only a few days passed, and the baby hands of the younger were folded in “snowy grace” upon the cold and quiet heart, and laid in the grave. A short time after, hearing bitter sobs in the garden, the mother found the lonely brother—himself but just past babyhood—lying under the peach-trees, watching with eager eyes some birds flying over his head, and calling, between his sobs: “O birdies! little birdies! Fly up! fly higher! and tell Jesus if he will only let little brother come down to me, he shall have the rocking-chair all the time, and I never, never will strike him again! O,never, never!”

Ah! how many brothers and sisters look back upon little disputes and sharp, childish quarrels, that would hardly have been remembered had both been spared to grow up together; but one having been taken away, that dispute, or the wrongdone, remains through life a sore spot in the heart of the survivor.

Father, be not harsh with your son. He disobeyed your commands, has done wrong, and for his own good deserves rebuke; but remember he is “only a little one.” Let your censure be tempered with gentleness. It was but the overflow of exuberant life, not willful disobedience. If you could look forward to what soon may be, how leniently would you judge, how tenderly chide, and by your gentleness secure obedience much more effectually!

Ah, poor, tired mother! you are very weary and wellnigh sick. Your eyes are heavy for want of sleep, and your head throbbing with the noise and shouts and wild frolics of your little ones. It is often very hard to bear; but it is health and strength and life overflowing in their yet untried, undisciplined hearts. Be patient! If soon, with hot and tearless eyes, you watch by the little crib where fever may conquer that life but late so joyous and full of activity, can you endure what God may see best to bring upon you, if, by impatience, you have “scattered thorns, not roses, for your reaping by and by”?

“I have asked you twenty times to mend this coat, and it is not done yet. ‘No time’! How long would it have taken, I should like to know? But—well—I can go ragged, I suppose. You give little heed to my wishes or comfort. You must take your own time and way, without regard to my convenience, or you will not be satisfied.”

Husband! why do you say such ugly, biting things? You love your wife. You would be indignant if a looker-on should hint that you misjudged her or were exacting. Your heart—or that silent monitor, your conscience—tells you that she did not intend to disregard your wishes or advice. She was tired, overtaxed with many cares and frequent interruptions, or perhaps sickness is creeping upon her unawares.Whatever the reason, the offense was but a “little thing.” Or even if she was self-willed or irritable, be patient with her. You are fully aware that one mode of speaking makes her indignant, and stirs up all the offensive, opposing elements in her character; while, on the contrary, a certain tone of your voice, a love-look from your eye, would have brought her to your side in an instant, sorry, self-upbraiding, loving and honoring you with all her heart. Ah, “if you knew”! These first morose, fault-finding words are, perhaps, “leaving on her heart a shadow, leaving on your heart a stain,” which may be the beginning of coldness, mistrust, and defiance, or perhaps a darker sin, when but for them you could have secured joy and gladness in your house, growing sweeter and purer day by day. Deal gently. You, her husband, can make her happy, loving, and good, or you can make her irritable, unloving, and evil, thereby destroying your own happiness as well as hers. You are thehouse-bondorhome-bond. See that you sever it not by your own folly.

“John, why do you alwayswait, andwait, and hinder me so? You can come at once, just as well as to keep me waiting, if you only choose to!”

Wife, it is just such little, impatient, waspish words that will tempt your husband to seek quiet, comfort, and appreciation away from your side. No matter ifhedoes “speak just as impatiently as you have done, fifty times a day,” show him a better way. Why retort, or increase the “little shadows,” which you can by gentleness dispel? Yield a little; it is not hard, and you will reap a glorious reward. Is not your husband’s love and confidence worth keeping, by the exercise of a little patience and forbearance? But if not for present joy, to ward off future misery at least, “set a guard over the door of your mouth, that you sin not with your lips”; and so tread life’s pathway with him to whom you have vowed a wife’s fealty that, if called to sit in the desolation of widowhood,there shall not be added to that sorrow the anguish of self-upbraiding for little services impatiently rendered, or love requited by coldness or irritability.

When we have passed through all the labors and trials of early life, and in full maturity or just on the decline pause a moment to recall the friends of our youth now gone, and the sweet family ties now broken, how the heart aches with the memory of hasty words or actions, and vainly yearns for one more opportunity for the better performance of our whole duty, in all love, fidelity, and patience! But

“God ... pity us allWho vainly the dreams of youth recall;For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these:It might have been!”

“God ... pity us allWho vainly the dreams of youth recall;For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these:It might have been!”

“God ... pity us allWho vainly the dreams of youth recall;For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these:It might have been!”

“God ... pity us all

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these:It might have been!”

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