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Murmuring

Murmuring image
Parent Issue
Day
14
Month
November
Year
1873
Copyright
Public Domain
OCR Text

I was tired oí' washing dishes ; I was tired of drudgery. It had always been so, and I was dissatisfied. I never sat down a moment to read, that James didn't want a cake, or a piiree of paper to scribble on, or a bit of soap to make bubbles. " I'd ral her be in prison," I said one day, " than to have my life teased out so," as Jamie knoeked my elbow, when I was writing to a friend. But inornmg carne when I had one píate less to wash, one chair ]ess to set away by the wall in the drhing room, when Janiie's little crib was put away into the garret, and it has never come down since. I had been unusually fretf'ul and disoontented with hiin that damp May morning that he took the oroup, Glooniy weather gave me the headache, and I had less patienco then than at any other time. By-and-by he was singing in another room. " I want to be an angel ;" and preseutly rang out that metalic cough. I never hear that hymn since that it dori't cut me to the heart ; for the croup cough rings out with it. He grew worse towaid night, and when iny husband carne home he went for the doctor. At fint he seemed to help him, but it merged into inliamuiatory croup, and all was soon over. " I ought to have been called in sooner," said the doctor. I have a servant to wash the dishes now; and when a visitor eomes, I can sit down and entertain her without having to work all the tiine. There is no little boy worrying me to open his jack-knife, and there are no shavings over the floor. The magazines are not soiled with looking at tht piet ures, but stand prim and neat on the reading table, just as I leave them. " Your carpet never 'looks dirty," say weary-worn mothers to me. "Oh, no," I niutter to myself, "there are no little boots to dirty it now." But my face is as weary as theirs - weary with sitting in my lonesome parlor at twilight, weary with watching for the [ittle arms that used to twine around my neck, for the curls that brushed against my cheek, for the young laugh which rang out with mine, as we watched the blazing fire, or made rabbits with the shadow on the wall, waiting merrily tos;ether for papa coming home, I have the wealth and ease I longed for, but at what price ? And when I see other mothors with grown np sons( driving to town or church, and my hair silvered over with gray, I wish I had murinured less.

Article

Subjects
Old News
Michigan Argus