EIGHT HOURS.

“Sign the petition!” “Write my name!”

“She said, ask me!” — oh, she's fooling;

Where do you think a girl like me

Could find the time for so much schooling?

Why, I've been here since I was eight or so —

That's ten years now — and it seems like longer;

The hours are from eight till six — you see

It wears one out — I once was stronger.

“A bad cough!” oh, that's nothing, sir;

It comes from the dust, and bending over.

It hurts me sometimes — no, not now.

“This!” why, a flower, a bit of clover.

I picked it up as I came to work —

It grew in the grass in some one's airy,

Where it stood, and nodded all alone

Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.

“Fond of flowers!” I like them — yes —

Though, goodness knows, I do n't see many —

I'd have to buy them — they cost so much —

And I never can spare a single penny.

“Go to the park!” — how can I, sir?

The only day that I have is Sunday;

And then there's always so much to do

That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.

Like it sir, like it!— why, when I think

Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking —

I was country-bred, sir — my heart swells so

That I — there, there, what's the use of thinking!

If I could write, sir — “make a cross,

And let you write my name below it” —

No, please; I'm ashamed I can n't, sometimes,—

I do n't want all the girls to know it.

And what's the use of it, anyway?

They'll just say shortly, with careless faces,

“If you're not suited, you'd better leave” —

There's plenty of girls to fill our places.

They're kind enough to their own, no doubt —

Our head just worships his own young daughter,

Just my age, sir — she's gone away

To spend the Summer across the water.

But us — oh, well, we're only “hands,”

Do you think to please us they'll bear losses?

No, not a cent's worth — ah, you'll see —

I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.