The Press., 1894-05-17
THE BABY SHOES.
BY HELEN JOSEPHINE BAKER.

Twas last month in camp; us fellers
 Had been haulin' logs fer days, When there came a roarin' blizzard
 Not with 'commodatin' ways But regular ole timer.
 'Twarn't no use to try to haul, So we settled down an fingered
 On program we called s'tall.'' So that night, as darkness gathered, We drew up around the fire; Gracious" Tom said, "hear 1t blowin'
 Can't ye pile the logs up higher?" And we did, then watched it blowin',
 Toastin' our bestockin'ed feet. Then tossed pennies to determine Who should tell a story. Pete Got heads. "Come on, old feller,
 Tell us somethin' pretty bright, For the kerosenes clean petered An this fire don't give much light" But he said he couldn't. Gracious!
 When us fellers spot man He has got to make showin' Whether he jes' can't or can! "Well," said he, five just one story,
 And that isn't funny, pards; But if you are bound to have it, can talk without regards To the fine point of a story. Twas last winter, boys, and somehow
 Times was pretty hard with me Couldn't get a thing to work at,
 With family of three. Well, you mind that camp up-river- 1 got work up there at last Tell ye, fellers, was happy,
 Fer says I, hard times is past Came the day we got our silver;
 Not moment would lose Fer it was the baby's birthday, And I'd made some little shoes Out O some soft buckskin leather.
 Oh, I'd seen those baby eyes Lightin' up fer months-in fancy
 She had eyes jes' like the skies When there isn't any blizzard
 But the blue is all ye see. Boys, thought we'd have party,
 Jes' with wife and babe and me. Came the day we got our silver,
 And I started honeywell, boys, got off fer miles up-country
 So't I wouldn't hear the noise Of them fellers when they landed
 Where the winehouse stands close by, For when logmen get their silver
 They do carry things so high. So went in on cross street
 Just to scape their jolly hold. Twas stormy night like this one
 Never saw night so cold. Suddenly-or was l dreaming?-
 Came that well-remembered smell Of the wine that draws and chains one
 While it leads him on to hell. Came the rattling, clicking, spinning
 Of the cue upon the balls Then the wild notes of fiddle Now the music rises, fells. Tempted, overcome with passion
 For I ceased to be a man I rushed in; think of the horror
 Of that action if you can. When I sobered down next morning
 Or next night it might have been I had spent my last log silver.
 Started out for home again. Yes, twas night, now remembers 1 Just the cold light of the moon Lighted up our little kitchen. Oh, how cold it made the room! And it fell upon the brown hair Of my wife, and her white face, And the little frozen baby She had tried to keep in place At her frozen breast. Pm sure, boys, If I'd got there when l tried, Life would still be worth the Twin; Wife and baby had not died. Here's one shoe; the others somewhere Lost-and this is very cold; | Tried it on my baby some way | It's so chilly now to hold. i Of that freezin' winter evening Often do think, ye see, | For it was the baby's birthday, I And my wife expected me-" No one spoke as Pete had finished | Just the snow against the pane Tapped and moaned; the embers bright ened And then died away again. Night was setting darkly earthward, | 1t was late: but no one knew. ] Just one picture filled our fancy
 q'Twas that little baby shoe.