STEEL
They think that we're just animals, almost,
We men who work with steel.
A lady visitor was here th' other day,
She looked at me, an' I could hear her say,
"My, what a life! I s'pose his only boast
"Is muscles!"
She's wrong. We feel
A certain pride, a certain sort o' joy,
When some great blazin' mass is tamed an' turned
Into an engine wheel. Our hands get burned,
An' sometimes half our hair is scorched away—
But, well, it's fun!
Perhaps you've seen a boy,
Who did hard work he loved, an' called it play?
Know what I mean? Well, that's the way we feel,
We men who work with steel.
A lady visitor was here th' other day;
She held her skirts right dainty in her hand,
An' as she passed me by, I heard her say,
"I wonder what he THINKS—or if his head
"Is just a piece o' metal, too!" She said
It laughin'-like.
She didn't understand,
She couldn't know that we have dreams as grand,
As any SHE could have. We wonder where
Th' rivets that we make are goin' to,
An' if th' engine wheels we turn, will go
Through tropic heat, or if they'll plow through snow;
An' as we watch, we sorter grow to care
About th' steel. Why it's as shiny blue
As j'ew'ls! An' every bit is, well, a part
Of life to us. Sometimes my very heart
Thanks God that I've a man-sized job to do!
MUSIC OF THE SLUMS
I. THE VIOLIN-MAKER
Over a slum his sign swings out,
Over a street where the city's shout
Is deadened into a sob of pain—
Where even joy has a minor strain.
"Violins made," read the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings;
Over a street where people give
Their right to laugh for a chance to live.
He works alone with his head bent low
And all the sorrow and all the woe,
And all the pride of a banished race,
Stare from the eyes that light his face.
But he never sighs and his slender hand,
Fastens the cat-gut, strand by strand—
Fastens it tight, but tenderly
As if he dreams of some melody.
Some melody of his yesterday....
Will it, I wonder, find its way
Out to the world, when fingers creep
Over the strings that lie asleep?
Or will the city's misery
Mould the song in a tragic key—
Making its sweetest, faintest breath
Thrill with sorrow, and throb with death?
Maker of music—who can know
Where the work of his hand shall go?
Maybe its slightest phrase will bring,
Comfort to ease the suffering—
Maybe his dreams will have their part
Buried deep in the music's heart....
Out of a chain of dreary days,
Joy may come as some master plays!
Over a slum his sign hangs out,
Over a street where dread meets doubt—
"Violins made," reads the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings.
II. THE PARK BAND
(Side by side and silent—eagerly they stand—
Souls look out of tired eyes, hands are clasped
together,
Through the thrilling softness of the late spring
weather,
All a city slum is out to listen to the band.)
Young love and Maytime, hear the joyous strain,
Listen to a serenade written long ago!
You will recognize the song—you who care must
know
Fear that blends with happiness, joy that touches
pain.
Rabbi with the grizzled beard hear adventure's story!
Hear the tale the music tells, thrilling with ro-
mance,
Hear the clatter of a sword, hear a broken lance
Falling from some hero's hand, red with blood-
stained glory.
(Tenements on either side, light-flecked in the gloam-
ing,
Tenements on either side, stark and tall and gray—
Ah, the folk who line your halls wander far away,
All a crowded city slum is a-gypsie roaming!)
Woman with the brooding gaze, hear the lilting
laughter
Of the children that you loved, feel their soft-
lipped kisses;
Think of all the little joys that a hard world
misses-
What though bitter loneliness always follows after?
Gangster with the shifty eyes, listen to the sighing
Of the hymn tune that you heard at your mother's
knee;
Listen to the restless ghost of the used-to-be,
Listen to a wistful ghost's empty-hearted crying.
(Tenements on either side—menacing they stand—
Light-flecked in the softness of the late spring
weather....
But young love and broken life are standing close
together,
And all a city slum is out to listen to the band.)