I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor,
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But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out;
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Even the baby—bless the child!—learned never to slam that door!
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People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came
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To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success;
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And Joe would say, "Little woman,"—for that was my old pet-name—
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"If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk dress!"
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I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start
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To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away
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To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart
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When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day.
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Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man,
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The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe,
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For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan,
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As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro.
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Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went
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For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen;
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And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!"
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When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great machine.
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I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool,
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When we wanted our boy to learn to read—he was five years old, you know;
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He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from school
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And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!"
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I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed
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He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side;
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And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad
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Driving me almost to despair—the little baby died.
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Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white;
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"Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you!
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I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night
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He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew.
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I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I,
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Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild.
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I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky,
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And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried child.
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Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate;
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A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor,
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But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate,
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Till I heard—the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop door.
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That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak,
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But I snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread,
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And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak,
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Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head;
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The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in,
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Fearing—what? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a jagged hole.
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In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin
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Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul.
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But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad
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I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and wild,
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"How can you dare to rob us so?"—and I seized the little lad;
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"How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?"
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All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand
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That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall.
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"Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand
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A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all."
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Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death;
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Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er;
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But no;—there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath;
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As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door.
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