But there sings the kettle![36]
Saturday, September 7.—To-morrow is Sunday, and my sermons? O, the recklessness of it! I had determined to set aside this afternoon for preparation.
Morning very busy.
Mrs. Mentz' child dead.
Hospitals; hysterical girl very bad; fear she won't pull through; others betterish; except the fever one; very weak.
In men's ward, old Mr. Petersen dying; quite conscious; waiting on God; Ps. 23.
Another youth also very bad.
Arrangements upset; funerals this morning (seven); had to rush to overtake procession; Ps. 39, "Handbreed" (an hand-breadth).
Found I was burying Mrs. De Lint's infant and also "she of the gnashing teeth."