SUCH IS LIFE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3566, 18 July 1922, Page 62

SUCH IS LIFE.

By

A. K. W.

In a bright, sunny farmhouse kitchen one peaceful autumn morning a young mother was bathing her baby, her whole adoring attention fixed on the naked, slippery body of the sweet little lad, as he splashed and squirmed in her grasp with the most intense enjoyment. The baby chuckled gleefully as the soap eluded his dimpled hands; the tiny legs kicked wildly as the mother enveloped his di:opmg little form in a soft, warm towel. My son,” she breathed, the light of ineffable mother-love in her eyes, as she s ° f % kissed the downy golden head. My little, little son, I thank God for you. , Over the fields on the still air came the souiid of a woman's voice raised in shrill querulous protest. A shadow darkened the girl's bright face. _ __T°u poor thing,” she murmured. Picture it, sweetheart,” addressing the baby who was now vigorously and contentedly imbibing the contents of liis morning bottle. '‘Six children, the eldest only a baby of six, and another one coming. And cows to milk in the mud, and hens and pigs. It's a cruel life fir a woman, my soil.” All the morning, as she flew round on light feet, performing the thousand and one tasks of a farmhouse, pausing now and then to tip toe quietly to the sunny verandah where her little son slept peacefully, the girl was thinking pitifully of her neighbour, the tired, over-worked wife of a day labourer. “Bobby,” she broke forth passionately to her husband when lie came in from the harvest field for bis mid-day meal, “It .can't be right. Why should such things be? Think of that poor woman's sordid life, with nothing but babies one after the other, and work, work, endless work.” “I don't know, lass,” replied her husband thoughtfully, “but, after all. it's mostly a matter of comparison. Now, I’l l warrant that wealthy sister of yours went back to Wellington and told her husband how she pitied you because you bad to live on a farm, and do all your own cooking, and washing, and baking, and ironing, not to mention looking after a youngster. Come along and let's see the little manling,’’ he went on, standing up, a clean-limbed, bronzed young giant. “Did you ever see such silly little hands and feet? Isn't it queer to think they will grow big enough to wear boots as big as daddy’s?” “Yes,” laughed the girl, “and before we can realise it, I'll be saying ‘Robert. Graham, go and wash those dirty knees,’ and I’ll be spanking him for being naughty and eating green apples. Our precious little manling.” * * ‘ * * Within the house a child lav dying. Beside his tiny cot. in very anguish of soul, knelt his mother. “It can’t be true. You must have made a mistake. He can't be dying.” The look of misery on the grief-stricken father’s face pierced the doctor’s sympathetic heart. “I’m afraid it’s only too true. Bear up, old fellow. Think of vour pool little wife.” “Dying! My son dying! Oh God, and only yesterday he was his bright, bonny self.” The man’s face worked convulsively. “I know, old man, I know,” said the doctor sadly. “God knows I would do anything in the world to save him, but I am absolutely helpless.” “Dying,” the father groaned, his eyes fixed on the little form, slipping, slipping back to the Home from whence he had so lately come, “my little only son ' Oil God, spare my son ! Give him back to us, dear God, give him back.” Within the house a little child lay dead. With bowed head, a heart-broken mother trudged across the dreary sodden fields, heedless of the bitter winter wind that moaned restlessly over the desolate landscape. No brace of autumn's gracious band now —over all lav the bleakness ot winter, and despair in the heart of the" childless mother. At her gentle knock, her neighbour led her into a warm, stale-smelling kitchen, seemin: ly crowded with grubby children and an array of unwashed dishes. From a pram in the corner came the hungry wail of a- baby. “See,” said the "white-faced woman. "T have brought you something for your little baby. I lost my baby”—the meiiful tears flowed now, and would not be restrained—“and I wonder if you, who are so fortunate, would let your baby wear these in memory of my sweet little son?” Softly the tired mother of seven children stroked the dainty fragrant dress of the baby who had died. Then swiftly she turned to the other and held out her arms. “You poor thing,” she ciied, “you poor, poor thing.”