City Ballads Part 5

Want--want--want--want! it hung 'round everywhere; It threw its odors on the sickly air!

The room was somewhat smaller, to begin, Than I would put a span of horses in; The floor was rough and damp as floor could be; No picture on the walls but Poverty; The bed was ragged, scanty, hard, and drear; A rough-made, empty crib was standing near; The "window" 'd never felt the sun's warm stare, Or breathed a breath of good old-fas.h.i.+oned air;

[Ill.u.s.tration: "YES, IT'S STRAIGHT AND TRUE, GOOD PREACHER, EVERY WORD THAT YOU HAVE SAID."]

A little, worn-out doll some child had had, Looking, like its surroundings, rough and sad, And dressed in rags and pinched and famine-faced, But bearing still some marks of girlish taste; A gaunt, gray kitten, showing every sign That it was on the last life of its nine, Though trying hard to feel quite sleek and fat, And not a very care-worn, desolate cat; A man, so grieved my heart can see him now, With frightful sorrow printed on his brow;

A rough, wood coffin stood there near the bed, Looking uneasy even for the dead; A little, pallid face I saw therein-- A niceish-looking child she must have been, As sweet as ever need to feed a glance, If she had only had one-half a chance.

But still, she woke a thought I could not smother-- "That child was murdered in some way or other."[4]

And my opinion didn't seem much amiss When the man spoke up, something like to this:

[4] All this, above the shoulder, I could see, Of an old preacher who had come with me-- A man who, 'mongst those garrets, earns, they say, A house and lot in heaven every day.

[THAT SWAMP OF DEATH.]

Yes, it's straight and true, good Preacher, every word that you have said; Do not think these tears unmanly--they're the first ones I have shed!

But they kind o' beat and pounded 'gainst my aching heart and brain, And they would not be let go of, and they gave me extra pain.

I am just a laboring man, sir--work for food and rags and sleep, And I hardly know the meaning of the life I slave to keep; But I know when times are cheery, or my heart is made of lead; I know sorrow when I see it, and--I know my girl is dead!

No, she isn't much to look at--just a plainish bit of clay, Of the sort of perished children that die 'round here every day; And how _she_ could break a heart up you'd be slow to understand, But she held _mine_, Mr. Preacher, in that little withered hand!

There are lots of prettier children, with a face and form more fine-- Let their parents love and pet them--but _this_ little one was _mine_!

There was no one else to cling to when we two were torn apart, And it's death--this amputation of the strong arms of the heart!

I am just an ignorant man, sir, of the kind that digs and delves, But I've learned that human beings cannot stay in by themselves; They will reach out after something, be it good or be it bad, And my heart on hers had settled, and--the girl was all I had!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "CHOKED AND STRANGLED BY THE FOUL BREATH OF THE CHIMNEYS OVER THERE."]

Yes, it's solid, Mr. Preacher, every word that you have said-- G.o.d loves children while they're living, and adopts them when they're dead;

But I cannot help contriving, do the very best I can, That it wasn't G.o.d's mercy took her, but the selfishness of man!

Why, she lay here, faint and gasping, moaning for a bit of air, Choked and strangled by the foul breath of the chimneys over there; It climbed through every window, and crept under every door, And I tried to bar against it, and she only choked the more.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "OH, THE AIR IS PURE AND WHOLESOME WHERE SOME BABIES COO AND REST, AND THEY TRIM THEM OUT WITH RIBBONS, AND THEY FEED THEM WITH THE BEST."]

She would lie there, with the old look that poor children somehow get; She had learned to use her patience, and she did not cry or fret, But would lift her little face up, so piteous and so fair, And would whisper, "_I am dying for a little breath of air!_"

If she'd gone off through the sunlight, 'twouldn't have seemed so hard to me, Or among the fresh cool breezes that come sweeping from the sea; But it's nothing less than murder when my darling's every breath Chokes and strangles with the poison from that chimney swamp of death!

Oh, it's not enough those people own the very ground we tread, And the shelter that we crouch in, and the tools that earn our bread; They must place their blotted mortgage on the air and on the sky, And shut out our little heaven, till our children pine and die!

Oh, the air is pure and wholesome where _some_ babies coo and rest, And they trim them out with ribbons, and they feed them with the best; But the love they bear is mockery to the gracious G.o.d on high, If to give those children luxuries some one else's child must die!

Oh, we wear the cheapest clothing, and our meals are scant and brief, And perhaps those fellows fancy there's a cheaper grade of grief; But the people all around here, losing children, friends, and mates, Can inform them that _Affliction hasn't any under-rates_.

I'm no grumbler at the rulers of "this free and happy land,"

And I don't go 'round explaining things I do not understand; But I know there's something treacherous in the working of the law, _When we get a dose of poison out of every breath we draw_.

I have talked too much, good Preacher, and I hope you won't be vexed, But _I'm_ going to make a sermon with that white face for a text; And I'll preach it, and I'll preach it, till I set the people wild O'er the heartless, reckless grasping of the men who killed my child!

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

Still do I write--day-time and night-- That which I see in my leisurely flight.

What is this sign that is claiming the sight?-- "Lodgings within here, at five cents per night!"

Let me examine this cheap-entered nest, Pay my five cents, and go in with the rest; Let me jot down with sly pen, but sincere, What, in this garret, I see, smell, and hear.

Great, gloomy den! where, on close-cl.u.s.tered shelves, Shelterless wretches can shelter themselves; Pestilence-drugged is the murderous air, Full of the breathings of want and despair!

Horrible place!--where The Crushed Race Winces 'neath Poverty's dolefullest blight-- Bivouac of suffering, sin, and disgrace: What can you look for, at five cents per night?

Hustle them in, jostle them in, Many of nation, and divers of kin; Sallow, and yellow, and tawny of skin-- Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!

Handfuls of withered but suffering clay, Swept from the East by oppression away; Baffled adventurers, conquered and pressed Back from the gates of the glittering West; Men who with indolence, folly, and guile Carelessly slighted Prosperity's smile; Men who have struggled 'gainst Destiny's frown, Inch after inch, till she hunted them down.

Scores in a tier--pile them up here-- Many of peoples and divers of kin; Drift of the nations, from far and from near, Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!

Islands of green, mistily seen, Hover in visions these sleepers between; Beautiful memories, cozy and clean, Restfully precious, and sweetly serene.

Womanly kisses have softened the brow Lying in drunken bewilderment now; Infantile faces have cuddled for rest Here on this savage and rag-covered breast.

Lucky the wretch who, in Poverty's ways, Bears not the burden of "happier days:"

Many a midnight is gloomier yet By the remembrance of stars that have set!

Echoes of pain, drearily plain, Come of old melodies sweet and serene; Images sad to the heart and the brain Rise out of memories cozy and green.

Hustle them in, bustle them in, Fetid with squalor, and reeking with gin, Loaded with misery, folly, and sin-- Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!

Few are the sorrows so hopelessly drear But they have sad representatives here; Never a crime so complete and confessed But has come hither for one night of rest.

Seeds that the thorns of diseases may bear Float on the putrid and smoke-laden air; Ghosts of destruction are haunting each breath-- Soft-stepping agents, commissioned by Death.

Crowd them in rows, comrades or foes, Deadened with liquor and deafened with din, Fugitives out of the frosts and the snows, Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WEARY OLD MAN WITH THE SNOW-DRIFTED HAIR, NOT BY YOUR FAULT ARE YOU SUFFERING THERE."]

Guilt has not pressed unto its breast All who are taking this dingy unrest: Innocence often is Misery's guest; Sorrow may strike at the brightest and best.

You from whom hope, but not feeling, has fled, This is your refuge from pauperhood's bed; Timorous lad with a sensitive face, You have no record of crime and disgrace; Weary old man with the snow-drifted hair, Not by your fault are you suffering there, Never a child of your cheris.h.i.+ng nigh-- 'Tis not for sin you so drearily die.

Pain, in all lands, smites with two hands-- Guilty and good may encounter the test; Misery's cord is of different strands; Sorrow may strike at the brightest and best.

Sympathy's tear, warm and sincere, Cannot but glisten while lingering near.

Edge not away, sir, in horror of fear, These are your brothers--this family here!

What if Misfortune had made _you_ forlorn With her stiletto as well as her scorn?

What if some fiend had been making _you_ sure With more temptation than flesh could endure?

What if you deep in the slums had been born, Cradled in villany, christened in scorn?

What if your toys had been tainted with crime?

What if your baby hands dabbled in slime?

Judge them with ruth. Maybe, in truth, It is not they, but their luck, that is here.

Fancy _your_ growth from a sin-nurtured youth; Pity their weakness, and give them a tear.