Cross Roads | Page 8

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 -- 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