Cross Roads | Page 9

-- 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 VlOLIN-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 romance,
Hear the clatter of a sword, hear a broken lance
Falling from some
hero's hand, red with bloodstained
glory.
(Tenements on either side, light-flecked in the gloaming,
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 softlipped
kisses;
Think of all the little joys that a hard world
missesWhat
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.)
III. THE ORGAN MAN

He's very old, his music box is old and rusty, too,
And half the notes of it are harsh, and half of
them are slow;
One wonders if the coat he wears could ever have
been new --
And if the tune he plays was quite forgotten long
ago.
He finds a sunny place to stand, and lifts his bleary
eyes,
And smiles a bit -- a toothless smile half touched,
perhaps, with fear;
And though he cannot see them he is looking at
the
skies,
As if he prays, but silently, for hope and faith
and cheer.
The foreign women pass him by, their tarnished coins
held tight,
They toss their heads and will not hear his music's
wistful hum --
But through each alley way and street, like moths
that seek the light,
With eager eyes and laughing lips the little
children
come.
He plays his ancient, shaky song, his mouth moves to
its sway,
He does not know the tune of it is old and out of
key;
For, through his eyes, a soul stares out that wanders

far away,
In some fair land of youth and love -- some land
that used to be.
The little children cluster close, bareheaded, bare of
limb --
They hold their ragged frocks and dance, they do
not care -- or know,
That they are like a garden place, a fragrant
dream
to him,
Or