EIGHT HOURS.
"Sign the petition!" "Write my name!"
"She said, ask me!"—oh, she's fooling;
Where do you think a girl like me
Could find the time for so much schooling?
Why, I've been here since I was eight or so—
That's ten years now—and it seems like longer;
The hours are from eight till six—you see
It wears one out—I once was stronger.
"A bad cough!" oh, that's nothing, sir;
It comes from the dust, and bending over.
It hurts me sometimes—no, not now.
"This!" why, a flower, a bit of clover.
I picked it up as I came to work—
It grew in the grass in some one's airy,
Where it stood, and nodded all alone
Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.
"Fond of flowers!" I like them—yes—
Though, goodness knows, I don't see many—
I'd have to buy them—they cost so much—
And I never can spare a single penny.
"Go to the park!"—how can I, sir?
The only day that I have is Sunday;
And then there's always so much to do
That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.
Like it sir, like it!—why, when I think
Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking—
I was country-bred, sir—my heart swells so
That I—there, there, what's the use of thinking!
If I could write, sir—"make a cross,
And let you write my name below it"—
No, please; I'm ashamed I can't, sometimes,—
I don't want all the girls to know it.
And what's the use of it, anyway?
They'll just say shortly, with careless faces,
"If you're not suited, you'd better leave"—
There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt—
Our head just worships his own young daughter,
Just my age, sir—she's gone away
To spend the Summer across the water.
But us—oh, well, we're only "hands,"
Do you think to please us they'll bear losses?
No, not a cent's worth—ah, you'll see—
I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
SLEEPING BEAUTY.
a parable.
You remember the nursery legend—
We heard in the early days,
Ere we knew of the world's deception
Or walked in its dusty ways,
And dwelt in a land of the fairies
Where the air was golden haze—
Of the maid, o'er whom the Summers
Of youth passed, like a swell
Of melody all unbroken,
Till evil wrought its spell,
And dream-embroidered curtains
Of slumber round her fell.
The wood grew up round her castle,
The centuries o'er it rolled,
Wrapping its slumb'rous turrets
In clinging robes of mould,
And her name became a legend
By Winter fire-sides told.
Till the Prince came over the mountains
In the morning-glow of youth;
The forest sank before him
Like wrong before the truth,
And he passed the dim old portal,
With its warders so uncouth,