I wonder if that angel knew
That Christ these tools had laid down too.
O Columbkille! O Columbkille!
A saint like you must have his will,
But for myself I'd rather be
The common sinner that you see
Than make a crane ashamed of me,
And angels talk such idiocy.
E. J. V. HUIGINN
MISS DOANE
MISS Doane was sixty, probably;
She rented third floor room
That opened on an airshaft full
Of cooking smells and gloom.
She worked in philanthropic man's
Well-known department store;
Cashiered in basement, hot and close,
For forty years or more.
Each night when she came home she'd stand
A moment in the hall,
Before she went into her room
With low and tender call.
And often I would hear her voice
Repeat a childish prayer;
Or read some old, old fairy tale
Of Princess, grand and fair.
One night I went to visit her
And spied, in little chair
A great wax doll, in dainty dress,
And curls of flaxen hair.
I praised the doll; its prettiness;
Miss Doane said, "I'm alone.
She comforts me. I wanted so
A child to call my own."
Each night I heard her softly sing
A childish lullaby;
But once, and just before she died,
I heard her cry and cry!
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
FALLEN FENCES
THE woods grew dark; black shadows
rocked
And I could scarcely see
My way along the old tote road,
That long had seemed to me
To wind on aimlessly; but now
Came full to life; the rain
Would soon strike down; ahead I saw
A clearing, and a lane
Between gray, fallen fences and
Wide, grayer, grim stone walls;
So grim and gray I shrank from thought
Of weary, aching spalles.
Pages:
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56