"Scant and small the booty proved"—more's the pity!
When will I find time to prepare myself decently?
Anyhow, comfort myself with thought that if hearers knew (and no doubt they do) how pressed I am for time, they will deal gently with my scanty productions. For myself, whole subject very unsatisfactory and unsatisfying.
Immediately after service; funerals; Mr. Becker unable; seven or eight, all children; huge crowd; splendid opportunity; "Gij dwaas hetgeen gij zaait wordt niet levend tenzij dat het gestorven is" (Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die).
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
Who with his sickle keen,
Cuts the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
After funerals, girls' prayer meeting.
Last and best of all—Service of Song, evening. Now what on earth can be more beautiful than our meeting this evening? Such a crowd, and such singing! Ten minutes, John iii., 16. And now the day is over.
And the sick? And the hospital? All neglected; too pitiable to contemplate. And Mrs. Grobelaar dying; when, two days ago, visited her, said as I drew napkin from face, "Ach Minheer L., het min. dan vir mij vergeet?" (O, Mr. L., have you then forgotten me?); she was delirious most of day, but when I spoke to her she was quite conscious. And how inwardly thankful when I prayed with her; poor mother; her days on earth are numbered; both lungs gone.
Little babe, Van Huyssteen, also dead this morning (mother shot on their flight by English; babe pined away out of sheer lack of nourishment).