Cross Roads | Page 8

blazing orange of it at twilight.
I love color.
I love the drowsy blue of the fringed gentian,
And the
yellow of the goldenrod,
And the rich russet of the leaves
That turn
at autumn-time. . . .
I love rainbows,
And prisms,
And the tinsel
glitter
Of every shop-window.
I love color.
And yet today,
I saw a brown little bird
Perched on
the dull-gray fence
Of a weed-filled city yard.
And as I watched
him
The little bird
Threw back his head
Defiantly, almost,
And
sang a song
That was full of gay ripples,
And poignant sweetness,

And half-hidden melody.
1 love color. ...
I love crimson, and azure,
And the glowing purity
of white.
And yet today,
I saw a living bit of brown,
A vague
oasis on a streak of gray,
That brought heaven
Very near to me.
POSSESSION
(A TENEMENT MOTHER SPEAKS)
Y' ain't as pretty as some babies are --
But, oh, yer mine!
Yer lil'
fingers sorter seem t' twine
Aroun' my soul.
Yer eyes are bright, t'
me, as any star,
Yer hair's like gol'.
Some people say yer hair is sandy-red,
An' that yer eyes is sorter wan
an' pale,
An' that yer lil' body looks, well, frail. . ..
Y' ain't been fed

Like rich folks children are. . . .
It takes fresh air
Ter keep a baby
fat an' strong an' pink!
It takes more care,
'N I have time ter give. . . .

An' yet, if God'll only let yer live --

When yer first came,
An' when I seen yer face, deep down inside

My heart I felt -- well, sorter broke an' tore,
'Cause when yer came ter
me I like ter died,
An' I had lost my job, there at th' store.
I looked
at you, an' oh, it wasn't pride
I felt, but bitterness an' shame!
An' then yer gropin' fingers touched my hand,
As helpless as a
snow-flake in the air,
Yer didn't know, yer couldn't understand,

('Cause yer was new t' this cold-hearted land),
That life ain't fair!

Yer didn't know if I was good, 'r bad,
'R much ter see --
Y' only
knew that I belonged, an' oh,
Yer trusted me!
Somehow, right there, I didn't stop ter think
That yer was white an'
thin -- instead o' pink,
An' that yer lips, an' not yer eyes, was blue. . .

I got t' thinkin' how, when work was through
I'd sing t' yer, an' rock
yer off t' rest.
I got t' thinkin' that I had been blessed,
More than th'
richest girl I'd ever knew!
An' oh, I held yer tight against my breast,

An', lookin' far ahead, I dreamed an' planned
That I would work th'
fingers off my hand
Fer you!
An' mother-love swept on me like a
tide,
An', oh, I cried!
Some people say yer hair is sandy-red,
But they don't know;
They
say yer eyes is sorter pale an' weak,
But it ain't so!
It's jus' because
yer never been well fed,
An' never had a lil' cribby bed;
It's jus'
because yer never had a peek
At th' blue sky --
That's why!
Yer ain't so pretty as some babies are,
But, oh, t' me yer like a silver
star
That, through th' darkest night can smile an'
shine. . . .
Yer ain't as pretty as some babies are,
But, God, yer
mine!
LIGHTS OF THE CITY
He was young,

And his mind
Was filled with the science of
economics
That he had studied in college.
And as we talked about

the food riots,
And high prices,
And jobless men,
He said:
"It's
all stupid and wrong,
"This newspaper talk!
"Folk have no business
to starve.
"The price of labor always advances,
"Proportionally,

"With the price of food!"
"Any man," he said,
A moment later,
"Can earn at least two dollars
a day
"By working on a railroad,
"Or in the street cleaning
department!
"What if potatoes DO cost
"Eight cents a pound?

"Wages are high, too. . . .
"People have no reason to starve."
I listened to him prayerfully
(More or less),
For I had never been to
college,
And I didn't know much about economics.
But --
As I walked to the window,
And looked out over the veiled,
mysterious lights
Of the city,
I couldn't help thinking
Of a little
baby
That I had seen a few days ago;
A baby of the slums -- thin,
and joyless,
And old of face,
But with eyes
Like the eyes of the
Christ Child. . . .
A baby -- crying for bread --
And. . . . I wondered. . . .
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