The examiner., 1886-07-17


trip this time of year, and they're nearly all child
The hot weather has had fearful effect |
house and crowded districts of New York, where |
occur more than twothirds of the total death iist
IN. Y. Sun.
BY WILL CARLETON.
Yes, it's straight and true, good preacher,
every word that you have said:
Do not think those tears unmanly-they're
the first that I have shed.
But they kind of pressed and pounded on
my aching heart and brain,
And they would not let go of, and they
gave me extra pain.
and rags 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;
I know sorrow when see it-and I know
my child is dead.
No, she isn't much to look at, just a
plainish bit of clay,
Of the sort of persisted children you are
seeing every day;
And how she could break life up you'd be
slow to understands;
But she held mine, Mr.. Preacher, in that
little Withered hand.
Pm just laboring man, sir, the kind that
digs and delves,
But I've learned that human natures can
not stay in by themselves;
They will wander out for something, be it
good or be it bad,
And my heart with her had settled, and the
girl was all had.
There are lots Of pretty children, with a
form and face more fine
Let their parents love and pet them-but
this little one was mine:
two were cut apart,
And it's rough-this amputation of the
strong arms of the heart.
IT'S consoling, Mr.. Preacher, and it may be
| as you've said
God loves children while they're living,
| and adopts them when they're dead;
But my brain won't quit contriying, do the
very best can,
That twas not Gods mercy took her, but
| the selfishness of man.
Why, she lay here faint and gasping, moan
ing for bit of air,
Choaked and strangled by the foul breath
of the chimneys over there;
For it climbed through every window, and
it crept in meath the door,
And tried to bar against il, but she only
choked the more.
She would lie here with the old look that
poor children sometimes get;
She had learned to use her patience, and
she did not cry or fret,
But would lift her pale, pinched face up,
full of early grief and care,
But would whisper, 81 am dying for little
breath of air.
If she'd gone out with the zephyrs,
4-.stxets4esls t,-a,s.se-seD..ol liaftl 20 me;
Or among the cool, fresh breezes that come
rushing from the sea;
But it's nothing less than murder when
my darling's every breath
Clicked and strangled with the poison from
that cursed swamp of death.
Oh, 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 OIL the sky,
And shut out our little heaven, till our
children pine and die.
Yes, we wear the cheapest clothing, and
| our meals are scant and brief,
And perhaps these fellows fancy there's a
cheaper grade of grief;
But the people all around here, losing
children, friends and mates,
Can inform them that affection hasn't any
under rates. s a
Oh, the air is pure and wholesome where
some babies grow and rest,
And they trim them out with ribbons, and
they feed them 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.
I'm no grumbler at the rulers of ''this free
and happy land,''
And / don't go round explaining things l
| do not understand:
But there must be something treacherous
| in the steering of the law,
When we get dose of poison out of every
breath we draw.
I've talked too much, good preacher, and
hope you wont be vexed,
But Pm going to make sermon with
that white face for a. text.
I'll preach it and I'll preach it, till / set
| our people wild,
'Gainst the heartless, reckless grasping of
the men who killed my child.