N T^Reo AoTMei^j 
 
Zixi^ QUot^ere 
 
 MAY RILEY SMITH 
 Author of ''Sometime^' ''A Gift of Ge?itians,'" Etc. '^^^ 
 
 ^3 W}\}^^ 
 
 NEW YORK -N^^SHISS: 
 
 Anson D. F. Randolph & Company 
 
 West Twenty-third Street 
 
 OOPYHIGHT, 1887. BY ANSON D F. RANDOLPH i CO. 
 
1^^ / 
 
I 
 
 Ojy LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, 
 ^ Your tired knee, that has so much to bear ; 
 A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
 From underneath a thatch of shining hair. 
 
 Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 
 
 Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight ; 
 
 You do not prize this blessing overmuch. 
 You almost are too tired to pray, to-night ! 
 
II 
 
 rjprUT it is blessedness ! A year ago 
 ^-^ I did not see it as I do to-day. 
 We are so dull and thankless, and too slow 
 To catch the sunshine ere it slips away. 
 
 And now it seems surpassing strange to me, 
 That while I wore the badge of motherhood, 
 
 I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 
 
 The little child that brought me only good ! 
 3 
 
Ill 
 
 PQ^ND if some night when you sit down to rest, 
 ^ You miss this elbow from your tired knee; 
 This restless, curling head from off your breast, 
 This lisping tongue that chitters constantly : 
 
 If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped. 
 And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; 
 
 If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 
 I could not blame you for your heart-ache then ! 
 4 
 
IV 
 
 3 
 
 WONDER so that mothers ever fret 
 At Httle children clinging to their gown ; 
 Or that the footprints when the days are wet, 
 Are ever black enough to make them frown ! 
 
 If I could find a little muddy boot, 
 
 Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor ; 
 
 If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 
 
 And hear its music in my home once more ; 
 
 5 
 
V 
 
 3F I could mend a broken cart to-day, 
 To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 
 There is no woman in God's world could say, 
 She was more blissfully content than I ! 
 
 But, ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 
 Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
 
 My singing birdling from its nest is flown ; 
 The little boy I used to kiss, is dead / 
 6 
 
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