"Tell mothers," said a lady to us a short time since, "who have
their little ones around them, that they are living their happiest
days; and the time will come when they will realize it. Tell them to
bend in thankfulness over the midnight lamp, to smile at their
ceaseless work and call it pleasure. I can but kneel in fancy by the
distant graves of my children; they are all gone. Could I but have
them beside me now, I would delve like a slave for them; I would
think no burden too hard, no denial beyond my strength, if I might
but labour for their good and be rewarded by their smiles and their
love."
Then in whatever situation we are, we should remember that even but
a door from our own dwelling there may be anguish, compared with
which ours is but as the whisper of a breath to the roll of the
thunder. We do not say then, let us _console_ ourselves by the
reflection that there are always those in the world who suffer
keener afflictions than ourselves, "but let us feel that though our
cup of sorrow may be almost full, there might be added many a drop
of bitterness;" and never, never should we breathe the expression,
"there is no sorrow like unto mine.
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