"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look yet keen,
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir,"
"And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen."
"Well, Mary," and then from a paper
He slowly and gravely read,
"You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it--
With stealing three loaves of bread."
"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply,
But she dried her tears in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.
"I will tell you just how it was, sir,
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brother and sisters
Were hungry and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them
By working hard all day,
But somehow times were bad, sir,
And the work all fell away.
"I could get no more employment;
The weather was bitter cold,
The young ones cried and shivered--
(Little Johnny's but four years old;)--
So, what was I to do, sir?
I am guilty, but do not condemn,
I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?--
The bread to give to them.
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