Want.

[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]

FEBRUARY 5, 18 - .

        Want - want - want - want! O God! forgive the crime,
        If I, asleep, awake, at any time,
        Upon my bended knees, my back, my feet,
        In church, on bed, on treasure-lighted street,
        Have ever hinted, or, much less, have pleaded
        That I hadn't ten times over all I needed!
        Lord save my soul! I never knew the way
        That people starve along from day to day;
        May gracious Heaven forgive me, o'er and o'er,
        That I have never found these folks before!

        Of course some news of it has come my way,
        Like a faint echo on a drowsy day;
        At home I "gave," whene'er by suffering grieved,
        And called it "Charity," and felt relieved;
        And thought that I was never undertasked,
        If I bestowed when with due deference asked.
        But no one finds the poorest poor, I doubt,
        Unless he goes himself and hunts them out;
        And when you get real suffering among,
        Be thankful if your heart-strings are not wrung!

        These thoughts sobbed through me this cold, snowy day,
        As carefully I picked a dubious way
        'Mongst nakedness and want on every side,
        And a rough, masculine angel for my guide,
        Who goes about among affliction's heirs,
        And gives his life to piece out some of theirs.
        Up - up - up - up! and yet, I am afraid,
        Farther from Heaven at every step we made!
        Gaunt, hungry creatures stood on every side
        With cheeks drawn close and sad eyes opened wide,
        Filled to the brim with greedy, starving prayers,
        As we went past them up the creaking stairs.

        And I peeped into rooms 'twas death to see
        (Or, rather, they peeped darkly out at me) -
        Such as I wouldn't have had the cheek to 've shown
        To any swine I've ever chanced to own.
        'Twas sad to see, in this great misery-cup,
        How guilt and innocence were all mixed up:
        Here lay a fellow, stupid, dull, and dumb,
        Whose breath was like a broken keg of rum;
        And there a baby, looking scared and odd,
        Who had not been a week away from God.
        Here a clean woman, toiling for her bread;
        And there a wretch whose dirty heart was dead.
        Here a sound rascal, lazy, loud, and bold;
        And there the helpless, weak and sick and old.

        Want - want! O Lord! forgive me, o'er and o'er,
        That I haven't found these suffering folks before!
        We had a decent poor-house in our town,
        And I would often drive my spare horse down,
        And take a little stroll among them there,
        And try to cheer their every-day despair,
        And with their little wants and worries join,
        And chink round 'mongst them with small bits of coin
        (Done up in good advice, somewhat severe),
        And send them Christmas turkeys every year;
        Then, in my cosy home, think, with a grin,
        What a fine, liberal angel I had been.
        But here, O heavens! I find them, high and low,
        Hundreds of pauper-houses in a row!
        And suffering - suffering - in a shape, I vow,
        That makes my poor old tears run even now!

        For city trouble, any one will find,
        Is more ingenious than the country kind,
        And has a thousand cute-invented ways
        To torture men and shorten off their days.
        And while we wonder that God made it so,
        He doesn't seem very anxious we should know;
        But He is willing we should search His plan,
        And pry around and find out all we can;
        And I suspect, when pains and troubles fall,
        That every one is useful, after all.

        At any rate, the miseries that I see
        Are useful in their good effects on me;
        And though that isn't a great thing, on the whole
        (Though Heaven does put a premium on each soul),
        Yet there are several people, I suspect,
        Who need a little of that same effect;
        And if they do not get it, old and young,
        'Twill be because I've lost my poor old tongue.

        One more small portion of God's plan I see
        Concerning its effect on "even me:"
        And that's its leading me, by methods queer,
        To be some help to these poor people here.
        For now I promise, from this very night,
        And hereby put it down in black and white,
        That out of every day that's given me yet,
        And out of every dollar I can get,
        And out of every talent, small or large,
        That God sees fit to put into my charge,
        A part shall be devoted - square and sure -
        To God's own suffering, struggling, dying poor!



[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

        Poverty, why wast thou born
        In the world's earliest morn?
        Why hast thou lived all the years,
        Sowing thy pains and thy tears?
        Roaming about thou art seen,
        Crooked, decrepit, and lean;
        Travelling all the world through -
        Suffering's "wandering Jew."
        Thin and unkempt is thy hair,
        Fleshless as parchment thy cheek,
        Sad and ungainly thine air,
        Hollow the words thou dost speak,
        Bony and grasping thy hand,
        Dreary thy days in the land.
        Poverty, why wast thou born
        Under the world's quiet scorn?

            *            *            *            *            *

        Poverty, thou hast been seen
        Clad in a comelier mien.
        Oft, to the clear-seeing eyes,
        Thou art a saint in disguise.
        Discipline rich thou hast brought,
        Lessons of labor and thought.
        Oft, in thy dreariest night,
        Virtue gleams sturdy and bright;
        Oft, from thy scantiest hour,
        Grow the beginnings of power;
        Oft, 'mongst thy squalors and needs
        Live such magnificent deeds
        As the proud angels will crown
        There in their gold-streeted town;
        Oft, from thy high garrets, throng
        Notes of magnificent song,
        That, from sad day unto day,
        Float through the ages away.
        Poverty - brave or forlorn -
        God knoweth why thou wast born.



[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]

FEBRUARY 12, 18 - .

        Wind in the South; a fresh, sweet, winter day;
        'Twould have been sad to see it go away,
        If 'twere not that the sunset's signal-lights
        Glimmered awhile across the Jersey heights,
        Then, lightly dancing o'er the river, came
        And set some New York windows all aflame.
        (From a clear sunset I can always borrow
        God's sweet half promise of a fair to-morrow.)

        But, while I gazed upon that splendid sight,
        My mind would take a heavy, care-winged flight
        Up to a small back garret, far away,
        Where I had stood at two o'clock to-day.

        Want - want - want - want! it hung 'round everywhere;
        It threw its odors on the sickly air!
        The room was somewhat smaller, to begin,
        Than I would put a span of horses in;
        The floor was rough and damp as floor could be;
        No picture on the walls but Poverty;
        The bed was ragged, scanty, hard, and drear;
        A rough-made, empty crib was standing near;
        The "window" 'd never felt the sun's warm stare,
        Or breathed a breath of good old-fashioned air;



        A little, worn-out doll some child had had,
        Looking, like its surroundings, rough and sad,
        And dressed in rags and pinched and famine-faced,
        But bearing still some marks of girlish taste;
        A gaunt, gray kitten, showing every sign
        That it was on the last life of its nine,
        Though trying hard to feel quite sleek and fat,
        And not a very care-worn, desolate cat;
        A man, so grieved my heart can see him now,
        With frightful sorrow printed on his brow;

        A rough, wood coffin stood there near the bed,
        Looking uneasy even for the dead;
        A little, pallid face I saw therein -
        A niceish-looking child she must have been,
        As sweet as ever need to feed a glance,
        If she had only had one-half a chance.
        But still, she woke a thought I could not smother -
        "That child was murdered in some way or other."[4]

        And my opinion didn't seem much amiss
        When the man spoke up, something like to this:

        [4]    All this, above the shoulder, I could see,
                Of an old preacher who had come with me -
                A man who, 'mongst those garrets, earns, they say,
                A house and lot in heaven every day.