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T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
May, 1935
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B y MARTHA SNELL NICHOLSON Wilmington, Calif. Dedicated to Christian parents everywhere
“ Because she was an orphan child.” Then “ Where will be The flow’rs that bloom ahundred years from now?” Then he Would sing to us about “ the Fountain filled with blood, Immanuel’s blood, and sinners, plunged beneath that flood Lose all their guilty stains.” I thought o f that when I (I wore this green dress then) had told that dreadful lie. Three days before I would confess, three anguished days O f torture, while I wandered blindly in a maze O f doubts and fears, and all befouled with guilty stains. And then at last—how clear the memory remains— My cheek against her shawl— this brown piece here— And her tears mingling with my own. How dear, how dear She seemed, how deep and sweet my peace, how light my heart, How sure I was that nevermore would I depart From off the straight and narrow path . . . Ah, m e ! . . . This shawl I just described, see here, the dearest piece o f all. At birth or death, or sudden grief or injury, From all around, the neighbors sent for her, and she Would fling the shawl about her shoulders and depart. I used to watch her down the street, and my small heart Would burst with pride and joy at her omnipotence, And think, When folks in other towns had accidents, And Mother wasn’t there, how did they get along ? I wonder y e t . .. My mother, brave and wise and strong! One day when she was gone, my sister broke her doll. Her heart broke too, and I was hushed and awed, and all Confused with sense o f tragedy, and knew not what To do. And then our older sister ran and got Our mother. Oh, that dear and shabby worn old shawl! My heart is bowed before it when I think o f all The tears it dried, the aches and pains it comforted. I pressed my cheek to it that day when she lay dead. Quite dimly I recall this miniature pink dress. My mother went down town, and left me, comfortless, . T o stay at our good neighbor’s house till she returned. But I, though but a baby, suffered so, and yearned For her. I ran away, and so our neighbor found [Continued on page 170]
A dear and honored guest is coming to my home Tomorrow, so today I have prepared her room, And swept and garnished it, and brought in blossoms fair, But was not satisfied, for still a lack was there. I stood in thought a moment; then I ran and spread My shabby, treasured patchwork quilt upon her bed. Beneath its multicolored mem’ries she will sleep, And o’er her dreams my vanished years will vigil keep. And then I let my baking go, and mused awhile And dreamed beside my worn old quilt. With tender smile I watched the dim-remembered days step from the mist O f half-forgotten years— faint pearl and amethyst-— And glow again with vivid beauty for an hour O f magic. Strange, how days long dead have yet the power To live again, as bitter-sweet as this salt taste O f lonely tears upon my lips. But I must haste And count my treasures over once again. Now here, This crimson patch, my little sister’s frock. The dear— I see her yet, with flaxen braids, and air half shy, Half proud, as who would say, “ A small red bird am I.” And this, “ pinked” all around the edge, is all that’s left O f her wee quaint old-fashioned baby coat. Ah, swift The passing years, and quickly, quickly, grown remote! Last week my sister’s fingers stitched a tiny coat For her own sunny, laughing lad. This piece was blue, And faded. Mother dyed it red. It turned a hue O f dreadful purple, and I hated it, but we- Were poor, and dared not waste good cloth. And always she, Our mother, sat in her low chair, and patched and sewed T o keep us clothed. So frail, yet carried such a load! , It hurts to see that great three-cornered gash I tore in this when I would climb our mountain-ash. I see her patient stitches through my blinding tears, Those stitches made by fingers quiet now for years. At family prayers our father prayed that we might meet, Our circle still unbroken, at His mercy seat. And here’s Dad’s smoking jacket, though he never smoked. He wore it when he held us in his lap, and joked, And sang o f “ Old Dan Tucker,” and o f one who “ swept The crossings o f the street” (poor child, we always wept)
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