| |
| “WHICH shall it be? Which shall it be?” | |
| I looked at John—John looked at me | |
| (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet | |
| As well as though my locks were jet); | |
| And when I found that I must speak, | 5 |
| My voice seemed strangely low and weak: | |
| “Tell me again what Robert said,” | |
| And then I, listening, bent my head. | |
| “This is his letter: ‘I will give | |
| A house and land while you shall live, | 10 |
| If, in return, from out your seven, | |
| One child to me for aye is given.’” | |
| I looked at John’s old garments worn, | |
| I thought of all that John had borne | |
| Of poverty and work and care, | 15 |
| Which I, though willing, could not share; | |
| I thought of seven mouths to feed, | |
| Of seven little children’s need, | |
| And then of this. “Come, John,” said I, | |
| “We ’ll choose among them as they lie | 20 |
| Asleep;” so, walking hand in hand, | |
| Dear John and I surveyed our band. | |
| First to the cradle lightly stepped, | |
| Where Lilian, the baby, slept, | |
| A glory ’gainst the pillow white. | 25 |
| Softly the father stooped to lay | |
| His rough hand down in a gentle way, | |
| When dream or whisper made her stir, | |
| And huskily he said, “Not her, not her!” | |
| We stopped beside the trundle-bed, | 30 |
| And one long ray of lamplight shed | |
| Athwart the boyish faces there, | |
| In sleep so pitiful and fair; | |
| I saw on Jamie’s rough, red cheek | |
| A tear undried. Ere John could speak, | 35 |
| “He ’s but a baby, too,” said I, | |
| And kissed him as we hurried by. | |
| Pale, patient Robbie’s angel face | |
| Still in his sleep bore suffering’s trace. | |
| “No, for a thousand crowns, not him!” | 40 |
| He whispered, while our eyes were dim. | |
| Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son, | |
| Turbulent, reckless, idle one— | |
| Could he be spared? Nay; He who gave, | |
| Bid us befriend him to his grave; | 45 |
| Only a mother’s heart can be | |
| Patient enough for such as he; | |
| “And so,” said John, “I would not dare | |
| To send him from our bedside prayer.” | |
| Then stole we softly up above | 50 |
| And knelt by Mary, child of love. | |
| “Perhaps for her ’t would better be,” | |
| I said to John. Quite silently | |
| He lifted up a curl that lay | |
| Across her cheek in wilful way, | 55 |
| And shook his head: “Nay, love; not thee,” | |
| The while my heart beat audibly. | |
| Only one more, our eldest lad, | |
| Trusty and truthful, good and glad— | |
| So like his father. “No, John, no— | 60 |
| I cannot, will not, let him go.” | |
| |
| And so we wrote, in courteous way, | |
| We could not drive one child away; | |
| And afterward toil lighter seemed, | |
| Thinking of that of which we dreamed, | 65 |
| Happy in truth that not one face | |
| Was missed from its accustomed place; | |
| Thankful to work for all the seven, | |
| Trusting the rest to One in heaven. | |
| |
