The night was dark and bitter cold.
The wind across the prairie swept,
While I in comforts warm enrolled
Snored softly on and soundly slept.
When suddenly my door bell rang —
Infernal sound! It pierced my ears.
As on the creaking floor I sprang,
My heart athrob with direst fears,
Lest one had come to call me out
Into the cruel biting blast. —
I for my garments cast about
Wishing this night-call were my last.
But oh, the best thought of my life!
It calms me now as oft before,
I ‘ll send my thoughtful, faithful wife
To meet the stranger at the door.
She goes and oh, the sweetest lies
That ever mortal tongue has told.
As in her artless way she tries
To say, — that I ‘m out in the cold.
” He won ‘t be home till break of day
And then he ‘ll come, poor tired man,
I ‘m awful sorry he ‘s away.
He ‘ll come as promptly as he can.”
I go to bed, but not to sleep,
I ponder long on doctor’s wives,
The only ones who ever think
Of our rest-broken, weary lives.
I somehow think God don’t record
Those little white-lies often told
To give a way-worn doctor sleep,
Or save him from the winter’s cold.
And if He does, I ‘m sure His pen
Writes very near, in letters bright,
A tender thought of her who thinks
Of doctors, toiling in the night.
By: Dr. W. J. Bell
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