FEBRUARY 20, 18 —.

I cannot well afford to write —

My fingers are in call elsewhere;

But I must voice my black despair,

Or I should die before‘ twas night.

I have no mother now to call,

And seek her heart, and tell her all.

O, Mother! well I know you rest

In yonder heaven, serene and blest:

How sadly, strangely sweet‘ twould be

To know you knew and pitied me!

And yet I would not have you dream

E'en of the dagger's faintest gleam

That's pointing at my maiden breast.

Rest on, sweet mother, sweetly rest!

And still I feel your loving art,

Sometimes upon my aching heart.

That night I stood upon the pier,

And the gray river swept so near,

And glanced up at me in a way

Some one with friendly voice might say,

“Come to my arms and rest, poor girl.”

And I leaned down with head awhirl,

And heart so heavy it might sink

Me underneath the river's brink,

A hand I could not feel or see

Drew me away and fondled me;

A voice I felt, unheard, though near,

Said, “Wait! you must not enter here,

And press against me with one stain.

Poor girl, not long you need remain!”

But, O sweet mother! I must write

The words that would be said to-night,

If you could hold my tired head here!

I cannot see one gleam of cheer;

This is a garret room, so bleak

The cold air stings my fading cheek;

Fireless my room, my garb is thin,

And hateful Hunger has come in,

And says, “Toil on, you foolish one!

You shall be mine when all is done.”

Two days and nights of pain and dread

I've gnawed upon a crust of bread

( For what scant nourishment‘ twould give )

So hard, I could not eat and live!

O mother! I to God shall pray

This tale in heaven may ne'er be told;

For you are where whole streets are gold,

And I — earn twenty cents a day!