| I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life, |
| That I can't believe it was years ago—it doesn't seem true at all; |
| Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife, |
| And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage wall. |
| |
| We were happy? Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged to Joe, |
| And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay; |
| And our cup was full when Joey came,—our baby-boy, you know; |
| So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away. |
| |
| It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same,— |
| Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet |
| He fell to inventin' some machine—I don't recall the name, |
| But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the street,— |
| |
| Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about. |
| I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor, |
| But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out; |
| Even the baby—bless the child!—learned never to slam that door! |
| |
| People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came |
| To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success; |
| And Joe would say, "Little woman,"—for that was my old pet-name,— |
| "If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk dress!" |
| |
| I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start |
| To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away |
| To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart |
| When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day. |
| |
| Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man, |
| The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe, |
| For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan, |
| As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro. |
| |
| Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went |
| For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen; |
| And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!" |
| When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great machine. |
| |
| I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool, |
| When we wanted our boy to learn to read—he was five years old, you know; |
| He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from school |
| And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!" |
| |
| I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed |
| He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side; |
| And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad |
| Driving me almost to despair—the little baby died. |
| |
| Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white; |
| "Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you! |
| I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night |
| He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew. |
| |
| I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I, |
| Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild. |
| I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky, |
| And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried child. |
| |
| Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate; |
| A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor, |
| But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate, |
| Till I heard—the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop door. |
| |
| That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak, |
| But I snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread, |
| And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak, |
| Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head; |
| |
| The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in, |
| Fearing—what? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a jagged hole. |
| In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin |
| Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul. |
| |
| But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad |
| I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and wild, |
| "How can you dare to rob us so?"—and I seized the little lad; |
| "How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?" |
| |
| All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand |
| That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall. |
| "Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand |
| A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all." |
| |
| Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death; |
| Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er; |
| But no;—there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath; |
| As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door. |
| |
| I shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise; |
| He must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see |
| There was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes |
| Told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to Joe and me. |
|
| |
| He was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say |
| That one of Joe's inventions was a great, successful thing; |
| And which do you think? His window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day; |
| And we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring. |
| |
| And then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream. |
| My man bent down his head and said, "Little woman, you've saved my life!" |
| The worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam |
| From the sun that has shone so brightly since, on Joe and his happy wife! |
| |
| Jeannie Pendleton Ewing. |
| There sat two glasses filled to the brim |
| On a rich man's table, rim to rim, |
| One was ruddy and red as blood, |
| And one was clear as the crystal flood. |
| |
| Said the Glass of Wine to his paler brother: |
| "Let us tell tales of the past to each other; |
| I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth, |
| Where I was king, for I ruled in might; |
| For the proudest and grandest souls of earth |
| Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. |
| From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; |
| From the heights of fame I have hurled men down. |
| I have blasted many an honored name; |
| I have taken virtue and given shame; |
| I have tempted youth with a sip, a taste, |
| That has made his future a barren waste. |
| Far greater than any king am I, |
| Or than any army beneath the sky. |
| I have made the arm of the driver fail, |
| And sent the train from the iron rail. |
| I have made good ships go down at sea. |
| And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. |
| Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; |
| And my might and power are over all! |
| Ho, ho, pale brother," said the Wine, |
| "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" |
| |
| Said the Water Glass: "I cannot boast |
| Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host; |
| But I can tell of hearts that were sad, |
| By my crystal drops made bright and glad; |
| Of thirsts I have quenched and brows I have laved, |
| Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved. |
| I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain, |
| Slipped from the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain, |
| I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, |
| And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; |
| I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, |
| I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. |
| I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, |
| That ground out the flour, and turned at my will. |
| I can tell of manhood debased by you |
| That I have uplifted and crowned anew; |
| I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, |
| I gladden the heart of man and maid; |
|
| I set the wine-chained captive free, |
| And all are better for knowing me." |
| |
| These are the tales they told each other, |
| The Glass of Wine, and its paler brother, |
| As they sat together, filled to the brim, |
| On a rich man's table, rim to rim. |
| |
| Ella Wheeler Wilcox. |
| You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier! |
| You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, |
| Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, |
| His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, |
| |
| His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, |
| His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, |
| His lack of all we prize as debonair, |
| Of power or will to shine, of art to please! |
| |
| You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, |
| Judging each step, as though the way were plain; |
| Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, |
| Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain! |
| |
| Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet |
| The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, |
| Between the mourners at his head and feet— |
| Say, scurril jester, is there room for you? |
| |
| Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer— |
| To lame my pencil and confute my pen— |
| To make me own this hind, of princes peer, |
| This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. |
| |
| My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, |
| Noting how to occasion's height he rose; |
| How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, |
| How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows; |
| |
| How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; |
| How in good fortune and in ill the same; |
| Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, |
| Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. |
| |
| He went about his work—such work as few |
| Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand— |
| As one who knows where there's a task to do, |
| Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; |
| |
| Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, |
| That God makes instruments to work His will, |
| If but that will we can arrive to know, |
| Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. |
| |
|
| So he went forth to battle, on the side |
| That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, |
| As in his peasant boyhood he had plied |
| His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;— |
| |
| The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, |
| The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, |
| The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, |
| The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, |
| |
| The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear— |
| Such were the needs that helped his youth to train: |
| Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear, |
| If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. |
| |
| So he grew up, a destined work to do, |
| And lived to do it: four long, suffering years |
| Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, |
| And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, |
| |
| The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, |
| And took both with the same unwavering mood; |
| Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, |
| And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, |
| |
| A felon hand, between the goal and him, |
| Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest— |
| And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, |
| Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! |
| |
| The words of mercy were upon his lips, |
| Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, |
| When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse |
| To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men. |
| |
| The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, |
| Utter one voice of sympathy and shame! |
| Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high; |
| Sad life, cut short as its triumph came! |