City Ballads Part 7

O mother! I to G.o.d shall pray This tale in heaven may ne'er be told; For you are where whole streets are gold, And I--earn twenty cents a day!

FEBRUARY 22, 18--.

He never loved me. For no one Could love and do as he has done.

How my heart clung and clung to him, E'en when respect and faith grew dim; His lightest touch could thrill me so!

Weak girl, 'twas hard to bid him go.

Though wayward was his heart I knew, I would have sworn that he was true!

Oh, how I loved him! or maybe Loved some one that I thought was he.

They brought me--what? his mangled corse?

Would G.o.d they had! They brought me worse.

I saw one who should bear his name, One whose pale face was fiercely grieved, One whom he wantonly deceived, And sentenced to a life of shame.

That was the end. I could not wed A man whose n.o.bler self was dead.

O, man!--a brave and G.o.d-like race, But you can be so vile and base!

And when there is no urgent need, You can protect us well indeed; But when adversity is near, When the wave breaks upon our head, When we are crushed with want and dread, Then we have most from you to fear.

Why do men strangely look me o'er When I their mercy need the more?

Do they not know a girl may taste The dregs of want and yet be chaste?

Should woman sell her soul away To save its manacles of clay?

FEBRUARY 23, 1885.

All honest means of life have failed.

The small accomplishments I've tried That pleased friends in my days of pride, Are naught; but vice has not prevailed, And, thank Heaven, should not, though my heart Were torn a thousand times apart.

But G.o.d shield helpless girls alway Who live on twenty cents a day!

FEBRUARY 24, 1885.

Weak, weak, still weaker do I grow: My mournful fate I can but know; G.o.d, keep me not long here, I pray, To toil--on twenty cents a day!

FEBRUARY 26, 1885.

Oh, horrors! is it--is it true What I have read?--if I but knew!

O, G.o.d, tell me where can I fly, Not to be found when I shall die!

They say dead waifs are oft by night Robbed of a decent burial's right; That fiends the friendless bodies bear To crowds of waiting students, where Men tear them up for men to see.

O, G.o.d, sweet G.o.d, do pity me!

And I will humbly pray to men: If this should come within the ken Of one who lives a true-loved life, Of one who sister has, or wife; One who loves women for the best That is in them, whose lips have pressed Pure, genuine lips, whom women trust, Whose heart is free from loathsome l.u.s.t; One whom I would have loved if he Brother or husband were to me-- I ask you--nay, I do command With that imperiousness you so Like from a white and shapely hand-- I _order_ you--but no, no, no; I am past that--I humbly pray That you will see that I unmarred Have Christian burial. Guard, oh guard, You men with manly hearts and souls, My poor dead body from the ghouls!

I strove alway to keep it pure As the soul in me; it has been Type of the thoughts that lived within, The white slave of what shall endure, My spirit's loved though humble mate; Let none its white limbs desecrate!

Weaker--yet weaker--'tis to die This sharp pain bids me. Ah! good-bye, World that I was too weak for--

MARCH 10, 18--.

Back from a journey; mournful, it is true, But mingled with a deep-down sweetness, too.

After the law with that poor girl was done, I found permission with the proper one, And, though such things by law could not occur, In my heart-family I adopted her.

(Help much too late to benefit her, living-- It's that way with a good share of our giving!) But, with a father's love, "Poor girl!" I said, "You shall have all that I can give you, dead!"

I found, by lightning inquiries I made, The graveyard where her own loved ones were laid; I had her body tenderly removed, And placed among the dear ones that she loved, With all the honor that the poor, sweet child Would have if Fortune still upon her smiled.

And when once more the flowers of summer blow, My wife and daughters and myself will go And make the sad but grateful duty ours To see her last earth-dwelling roofed with flowers.

FIRE.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

MARCH 15, 18--.

Fire!--fire!--fire!--fire!--it sets me in a craze To see a first-cla.s.s building all ablaze; A burning house resembles, when I'm nigh, Some old acquaintance just about to die; For structures that a person often sees Look some like human beings--same as trees.

(There used to be some trees on my old place That I'd know anywhere--just by their face.) And when, last night, some bells began to cry, And big fire-engines rushed and rattled by, In just three minutes down the stairs I strode, And hurried--somewhat dressed--into the road (Partly to help a bit, if so might be, And partly, I suppose, to hear and see).

It was a dark and thunder-stormy night; There wasn't one inch of honest sky in sight; Great black-finned clouds were swimming through the air, And now and then their lightning-eyes would glare, And, like a lot of cannon far away, Some peals of thunder came from o'er the bay.

'Twas one of those strange nights I can't explain, That make you think they're just a-going to rain, But never do--save now and then a trace Of a small drop comes dashing on your face; One of those nights that try to keep you vexed And wondering as to what will happen next.

I like such times: they kind of draw me nearer To things unseen, and make all mystery clearer.

I ran like sin, and reached the fire at last: A good-sized church was going, pretty fast.

(I'd noticed it a hundred times or more, And several times had stepped inside the door.) The burglar flames within had prowled around A long time previous to their being found, Till they had gained such foothold and such might They'd turned to robbers--stealing plain in sight.

The dome and spires had on them flags of red; They soon came thundering down from overhead.

It looked as if infernal spirits came, To take this church away, in smoke and flame!

I wondered, in that wild, expensive glare, How many of the home-robbed flock were there To see the shelter where their souls had fed Swept from existence by that broom of red.

Here was the family pew, so long time prized; There was the font where they had been baptized; Here was the altar, where one day they stood, Started for Heaven, and promised to be good; Or where they'd wept around some cherished love Who'd "taken a letter" to The Church above.

And still I thought, as my eyes soulward turned, How many things there are that can't be burned; But still we cling, and cling, and hate to part With the place where we found them on the start.

A sneerish sort of fellow stood by me, And said, "To such extent as I can see, When churches get afire, by night or day, The Lord stands still and lets 'em burn away.

If this is His abode beyond a doubt, Why doesn't He raise his hand and put it out?"

Said I, "Young man, please do not try to aid With your advice the mighty Power that made What little there is of you. There are still Schemes you don't comprehend, and never will.

You're talented, I think; but no one cares To have you help the Lord in His affairs.

Why, probably, right where that church has stood, There'll soon be built another, twice as good; And some mean, tight insurance company will Perhaps be made to pay more'n half the bill.

The Lord knows, in these fool-confounding scenes, When to rebuild, and where to get the means."

He turned away his head exceeding far, And lit a little bit of white cigar; But gave, "to such extent as I could see,"

No more of his theology to me.

I'm none too good; but when men jeer and flout, I like to have them know what they're about.

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]