The Labor enquirer., 1883-09-01
IA. tskx1rr or DlsArH.
4 BIZ WILL oAR1Eros.

Yes, It's straIxht and true, good preacher,
every word that you have said;
Do mot think these tears unmaaly; they're
the first hat1 have shed.
But they KIND % 9f pressed ssS nsa;a and pounded on
And they would not be let 20 Of, and they
gave me extra pain
Pm an ignorant day-worker-work fol. food
and ra0 and sleep.
And hardly know the object Of the life We
slave to keep;
But know when days are CHEEKY, or my
heart is made Of lead.
know sorrow when I SEQ it, and I know
No, she isn't much to look at Just planish
bit of clay
OF the sort of perished children you are SEQ
Ing every day.
slow to understand;
But she held mine, Mr.. Preacher, in that
little withered hand.
| am Just laboring man, sir, of the Ind
that digs and delves;
But Pve learned that human natures carr t
stay In by themselves.
They viii wander out for something, belt
u
And my heart with hers had settled and I'd
girl was all had.
There are lots of pretty children with form
and face 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 cut apart,
And it's rough, this ampatation OF the strong
aims of the heart.
'Tis consoling, Mr.. Preacher, and it's maybe
as you've said;
God loves children while they're living and
adopts them when they're dead,
But my brain won't quit eontriying, do the
That twas not Gods mercy took her, but the
selfshness OF man.
Why, she lay here faint and gasping, moan
ing for bit Of air,
Choked and strangled by the foul breath OF
the chimneys over there,
For It climbed through every window and 1t
crept beneath the door, :,
And I tried to bar against it, and she only
choked the more.
She would lie here with the old look that
poor children somehow get;
! She had learned to use her patience, and she
But would lift her pale, pinched face up, full
of early grief and care,
And would whisper, II am dying for little
;. breath Of air." 70
If she'd gone out with the zephyrs 'twouldn't
have seemed hard to me,
Or among the cool, fresh bree7es that comes
rushing from the Sc;
But it's nothing less than murder, when my
s-darling's every breath
Chokcs and strangles with the poison from
that cursed swamp OF death.
O, tits not enough that such men own the
very ground we tread,
And the shelter that we crouch In and the
tools that earn our bread. -
They must put their blotted mortgage on the
air and on the sky,
And shut out our little heaven till our child
fren pine and die!
Yes, 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 child
rem, friends apd mates,
;, Can inform them that aff1iction hasn't any
underrater
o, the air is pure and wholesome where
SOlIc UdDltS CIOW anu TcSl,
And they trim them out with ribbons and
they feed 'em with the best;
But the love they gets an insult to the God
of love on high,
If to earn those children's living some one
else's child must die. .
Pm NO grumbler at the rulers of ''this free
and happy land,"
And 1 do not 70 round explaining things do
not understand;
But there must be something teacherouS in
the steering of the law, II.
When we get dose of poison out of every
breath we draw. a.f Il.
Ihaye talked too much, good preacher, and I
hope you won't be yexed;
But Pm going to make sermon, with that
white face for text.
And I'll preach it, and I'll preach it, till
set our people wild
'Gainst the heart1ess, reckless grasping Of the
men who killed my child.