A Sewing-Girl's Diary.

FEBRUARY 1, 18 - .             Here - am I here?             Or is it fancy, born of fear?             Yes - O God, save me! - this is I,             And not some wretch of whom I've read,             In that bright girlhood, when the sky             Each night strewed star-dust o'er my head;             When each morn meant a gala-day,             And all my little world was gay.             I had not felt the touch of Care;             I'd heard of something called Despair,             But knew it only by its name.             (How far it seemed! - how soon it came!)             Yes, all the bright years hurried by;             Sorrow was near, and - this is I!             Is't the same girl that stood, one night,             There in the wide hall's thrilling light,             With all the costly robes astir             That love and pride had bought for her?             How the great crowd, 'mid their kind din,             Gazed with gaunt eyes and drank me in!             And then they hushed at each low word,             So Death himself might have been heard,             To hear me mournfully rehearse             The tender Hood's pathetic verse             About the woman who, half dead,             Stitched her frail life in every thread.             How little then I knew the need!             Yet for my own sex I did plead,             And my heart crept on each word's track             Till soft sobs from the crowd came back.             I saw my sister, streaming-eyed,             Yet bearing still a face of pride:             Oh, sister! when you looked at me             With that quick yearning glance of love,             Did you peer on, to what might be -             What is? - and is it known above?             When that great throng a shout did raise,             And gave me words of heart-felt praise,             And loving eyes their incense burned             Till my young girlish head was turned -             Did your clear eye see farther then             A moment past all mortal ken,             And in the dreary scene I drew             Did my own form appear to you?             It might have been; grief was o'er-nigh,             And - God, have pity! - this is I,             Treading a steep and dang'rous way,             And - earning twenty cents a day!                  *             *             *             *             *     FEBRUARY 5, 18 - .             Father, this is the time we hailed             As your bright birthday. We ne'er failed             To throng about with love's fond arts,             And bring you presents from our hearts;             Your pleasure filled our day with bliss;             Oh what a different one from this!             My love, my father! how you stood             'Twixt me and all that was not good!             How, each o'er-hurried breath I drew,             My girl-heart turned and clung to you!                  *             *             *             *             *             How near comes back that dismal day             You sat, sad-faced, with naught to say,             From morn till night! I did not dare             Even to ask to soothe your care;             I knew it was too sadly grand             To feel the light touch of my hand.             Ah! friends you loved had gone astray,             And swept our competence away;             And oh, I strove so hard to save             Your honored gray hairs from the grave!             Too late! your sun went down o'er-soon,             Clouded, in life's mid-afternoon.             You guarded me with patience rare             From e'en the shadow of a care;             You called me "Princess;" and my room             Was dressed as palaces might be;             And - here I am amid this gloom             That mocks, insults, and murders me,             Striving a garret's rent to pay,             And - earning twenty cents a day!                  *             *             *             *             *     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!                  *             *             *             *             *     FEBRUARY 22, 18 - .             He never loved me. For no one             Could love and do as he has done.             How my heart clung and clung to him,             E'en when respect and faith grew dim;             His lightest touch could thrill me so!             Weak girl, 'twas hard to bid him go.             Though wayward was his heart I knew,             I would have sworn that he was true!             Oh, how I loved him! or maybe             Loved some one that I thought was he.             They brought me - what? his mangled corse?             Would God they had! They brought me worse.             I saw one who should bear his name,             One whose pale face was fiercely grieved,             One whom he wantonly deceived,             And sentenced to a life of shame.             That was the end. I could not wed             A man whose nobler self was dead.             O, man! - a brave and god-like race,             But you can be so vile and base!             And when there is no urgent need,             You can protect us well indeed;             But when adversity is near,             When the wave breaks upon our head,             When we are crushed with want and dread,             Then we have most from you to fear.             Why do men strangely look me o'er             When I their mercy need the more?             Do they not know a girl may taste             The dregs of want and yet be chaste?             Should woman sell her soul away             To save its manacles of clay?                  *             *             *             *             *     FEBRUARY 23, 1885.             All honest means of life have failed.             The small accomplishments I've tried             That pleased friends in my days of pride,             Are naught; but vice has not prevailed,             And, thank Heaven, should not, though my heart             Were torn a thousand times apart.             But God shield helpless girls alway             Who live on twenty cents a day!     FEBRUARY 24, 1885.             Weak, weak, still weaker do I grow:             My mournful fate I can but know;             God, keep me not long here, I pray,             To toil - on twenty cents a day!                  *             *             *             *             *     FEBRUARY 26, 1885.             Oh, horrors! is it - is it true             What I have read? - if I but knew!             O, God, tell me where can I fly,             Not to be found when I shall die!             They say dead waifs are oft by night             Robbed of a decent burial's right;             That fiends the friendless bodies bear             To crowds of waiting students, where             Men tear them up for men to see.             O, God, sweet God, do pity me!             And I will humbly pray to men:             If this should come within the ken             Of one who lives a true-loved life,             Of one who sister has, or wife;             One who loves women for the best             That is in them, whose lips have pressed             Pure, genuine lips, whom women trust,             Whose heart is free from loathsome lust;             One whom I would have loved if he             Brother or husband were to me -             I ask you - nay, I do command             With that imperiousness you so             Like from a white and shapely hand -             I order you - but no, no, no;             I am past that - I humbly pray             That you will see that I unmarred             Have Christian burial. Guard, oh guard,             You men with manly hearts and souls,             My poor dead body from the ghouls!             I strove alway to keep it pure             As the soul in me; it has been             Type of the thoughts that lived within,             The white slave of what shall endure,             My spirit's loved though humble mate;             Let none its white limbs desecrate!                  *             *             *             *             *             Weaker - yet weaker - 'tis to die             This sharp pain bids me. Ah! good-bye,             World that I was too weak for -                  *             *             *             *             *     MARCH 10, 18 - .             Back from a journey; mournful, it is true,             But mingled with a deep-down sweetness, too.             After the law with that poor girl was done,             I found permission with the proper one,             And, though such things by law could not occur,             In my heart-family I adopted her.             (Help much too late to benefit her, living -             It's that way with a good share of our giving!)             But, with a father's love, "Poor girl!" I said,             "You shall have all that I can give you, dead!"             I found, by lightning inquiries I made,             The graveyard where her own loved ones were laid;             I had her body tenderly removed,             And placed among the dear ones that she loved,             With all the honor that the poor, sweet child             Would have if Fortune still upon her smiled.             And when once more the flowers of summer blow,             My wife and daughters and myself will go             And make the sad but grateful duty ours             To see her last earth-dwelling roofed with flowers.