City Ballads Part 6

Help them get out; help them keep out!

Labor to teach them what life is about; Give them a hand unenc.u.mbered with doubt; Feed them and clothe them, but pilot them out!

Mortals depraved, whatsoe'er they have been, Soonest can mend from a.s.sistance _within_.

Warm them and feed them--they're beasts, even then; Teach them and love them--they grow into men.

You who 'mid luxuries costly and grand Decorate homes with munificent hand, Use, in some measure, your exquisite arts For the improvement of minds and of hearts.

Lilies must grow up from below, Where the strong rootlets are twining about; Goodness and honesty ever must flow From the heart-centres--to blossom without.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

FEBRUARY 28, 18--.

Wind in the west; no symptoms of a thaw; The coldest, bleakest day I ever saw.

And I'm housed up, with nothing much to do Except to read the papers through and through.

"Died of starvation!"--what does this all mean?

Stores of provisions everywhere are seen.

"Died of starvation!"--here's the place and name Right in the paper; let us blush for shame!

This city _wastes_ what any one would call Nine hundred times enough to feed us all; And yet folks die in garret, hut, and street, Simply because there isn't enough to eat!

Oh, heavens! there runs a great big Norway rat, Sleek as a banker, and almost as fat; He daily breakfasts, dines, and sups, and thrives On what would save a pair of human lives; He rears a family with his own fat features, On food we lock up from our fellow-creatures; And human beings fall down by the way, And die for want of food, this very day!

"Frozen to death!"--the worse than useless moth May feed, this year, on bales and bales of cloth; Untouched, ten million tons of coal can lie, While G.o.d's own human beings freeze and die!

"Died of starvation!"--waves of golden wheat All summer dashed and glistened at our feet; Dull, senseless grain is stored in buildings high, And G.o.d's own human beings starve and die!

I would not rob from rich men what they earn, But I would have them sweet compa.s.sion learn; Oh, do not Pity's gentle voice defy, While G.o.d's own human beings starve and die!

MARCH 5, 18--.

Died of starvation!--yes, it has been done; To-day I've seen a hunger-murdered one, Who had a perfect right, it seemed to me, The mistress of a happy home to be; And yet we found her on a ragged bed, One white arm underneath a shapely head; Her long, bright hair was lying, fold on fold, Like finest threads spun from a bar of gold; Her face was chiselled after beauty's style, And want had not hewn out its witching smile; 'Twas like white marble half endowed with breath-- The face of this sweet maiden--starved to death!

Not far from where she lay, so sadly lone, Her calendar, or "diary," was thrown; They let me have it when the law had read This plaintive, girlish message from the dead.

It doesn't look well among these notes to stay, Of one who feeds on blessings every day; But I will put it in here, for my heart To look at when I feel too proud and smart!

A SEWING-GIRL'S DIARY.

FEBRUARY 1, 18--.

Here--am I here?

Or is it fancy, born of fear?

Yes--O G.o.d, save me!--this is I, And not some wretch of whom I've read, In that bright girlhood, when the sky Each night strewed star-dust o'er my head; When each morn meant a gala-day, And all my little world was gay.

I had not felt the touch of Care; I'd heard of something called Despair, But knew it only by its name.

(How far it seemed!--how soon it came!) Yes, all the bright years hurried by; Sorrow was near, and--this is I!

Is't the same girl that stood, one night, There in the wide hall's thrilling light, With all the costly robes astir That love and pride had bought for her?

How the great crowd, 'mid their kind din, Gazed with gaunt eyes and drank me in!

And then they hushed at each low word, So Death himself might have been heard, To hear me mournfully rehea.r.s.e The tender Hood's pathetic verse About the woman who, half dead, St.i.tched her frail life in every thread.

How little then I knew the need!

Yet for my own s.e.x I did plead, And my heart crept on each word's track Till soft sobs from the crowd came back.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "IS'T THE SAME GIRL THAT STOOD, ONE NIGHT, THERE IN THE WIDE HALL'S THRILLING LIGHT?"]

I saw my sister, streaming-eyed, Yet bearing still a face of pride: Oh, sister! when you looked at me With that quick yearning glance of love, Did you peer on, to what might be-- _What is?_--and is it known above?

When that great throng a shout did raise, And gave me words of heart-felt praise, And loving eyes their incense burned Till my young girlish head was turned-- Did your clear eye see farther then A moment past all mortal ken, And in the dreary scene I drew Did my own form appear to you?

It might have been; grief was o'er-nigh, And--G.o.d, have pity!--this is I, Treading a steep and dang'rous way, And--earning twenty cents a day!

FEBRUARY 5, 18--.

Father, this is the time we hailed As your bright birthday. We ne'er failed To throng about with love's fond arts, And bring you presents from our hearts; Your pleasure filled our day with bliss; Oh what a different one from this!

My love, my father! how you stood 'Twixt me and all that was not good!

How, each o'er-hurried breath I drew, My girl-heart turned and clung to you!

How near comes back that dismal day You sat, sad-faced, with naught to say, From morn till night! I did not dare Even to ask to soothe your care; I knew it was too sadly grand To feel the light touch of my hand.

Ah! friends you loved had gone astray, And swept our competence away; And oh, I strove so hard to save Your honored gray hairs from the grave!

Too late! your sun went down o'er-soon, Clouded, in life's mid-afternoon.

You guarded me with patience rare From e'en the shadow of a care; You called me "Princess;" and my room Was dressed as palaces might be; And--here I am amid this gloom That mocks, insults, and murders me, Striving a garret's rent to pay, And--earning twenty cents a day!

FEBRUARY 20, 18--.

I cannot well afford to write-- My fingers are in call elsewhere; But I must voice my black despair, Or I should die before 'twas night.

I have no mother now to call, And seek her heart, and tell her all.

O, Mother! well I know you rest In yonder heaven, serene and blest: How sadly, strangely sweet 'twould be To know you knew and pitied me!

And yet I would not have you dream E'en of the dagger's faintest gleam That's pointing at my maiden breast.

Rest on, sweet mother, sweetly rest!

And still I feel your loving art, Sometimes upon my aching heart.

That night I stood upon the pier, And the gray river swept so near, And glanced up at me in a way Some one with friendly voice might say, "Come to my arms and rest, poor girl."

And I leaned down with head awhirl, And heart so heavy it might sink Me underneath the river's brink, A hand I could not feel or see Drew me away and fondled me; A voice I felt, unheard, though near, Said, "Wait! you must not enter here, And press against me with one stain.

Poor girl, not long you need remain!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AND HATEFUL HUNGER HAS COME IN."]

But, O sweet mother! I must write The words that would be said to-night, If you could hold my tired head here!

I cannot see one gleam of cheer; This is a garret room, so bleak The cold air stings my fading cheek; Fireless my room, my garb is thin, And hateful Hunger has come in, And says, "Toil on, you foolish one!

You shall be mine when all is done."

Two days and nights of pain and dread I've gnawed upon a crust of bread (For what scant nourishment 'twould give) So hard, I could not eat and live!