Chimneys Over There."]

Yes, it's solid, Mr. Preacher, every word that you have said-- God loves children while they're living, and adopts them when they're dead;

But I cannot help contriving, do the very best I can, That it wasn't God's mercy took her, but the selfishness of man!

Why, she lay here, faint and gasping, moaning for a bit of air, Choked and strangled by the foul breath of the chimneys over there; It climbed through every window, and crept under every door, And I tried to bar against it, and she only choked the more.

"OH, THE AIR IS PURE AND WHOLESOME WHERE SOME BABIES COO AND REST, AND THEY TRIM THEM OUT WITH RIBBONS, AND THEY FEED THEM WITH THE BEST."]

She would lie there, with the old look that poor children somehow get; She had learned to use her patience, and she did not cry or fret, But would lift her little face up, so piteous and so fair, And would whisper, "I am dying for a little breath of air!"

If she'd gone off through the sunlight, 'twouldn't have seemed so hard to me, Or among the fresh cool breezes that come sweeping from the sea; But it's nothing less than murder when my darling's every breath Chokes and strangles with the poison from that chimney swamp of death!

Oh, it's not enough those people own the very ground we tread, And the shelter that we crouch in, and the tools that earn our bread; They must place their blotted mortgage on the air and on the sky, And shut out our little heaven, till our children pine and die!

Oh, the air is pure and wholesome where some babies coo and rest, And they trim them out with ribbons, and they feed them with the best; But the love they bear is mockery to the gracious God on high, If to give those children luxuries some one else's child must die!

Oh, we wear the cheapest clothing, and our meals are scant and brief, And perhaps those fellows fancy there's a cheaper grade of grief; But the people all around here, losing children, friends, and mates, Can inform them that Affliction hasn't any under-rates.

I'm no grumbler at the rulers of "this free and happy land," And I don't go 'round explaining things I do not understand; But I know there's something treacherous in the working of the law, When we get a dose of poison out of every breath we draw.

I have talked too much, good Preacher, and I hope you won't be vexed, But I'm going to make a sermon with that white face for a text; And I'll preach it, and I'll preach it, till I set the people wild O'er the heartless, reckless grasping of the men who killed my child!

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

Still do I write--day-time and night-- That which I see in my leisurely flight. What is this sign that is claiming the sight?-- "Lodgings within here, at five cents per night!"

Let me examine this cheap-entered nest, Pay my five cents, and go in with the rest; Let me jot down with sly pen, but sincere, What, in this garret, I see, smell, and hear. Great, gloomy den! where, on close-clustered shelves, Shelterless wretches can shelter themselves; Pestilence-drugged is the murderous air, Full of the breathings of want and despair! Horrible place!--where The Crushed Race Winces 'neath Poverty's dolefullest blight-- Bivouac of suffering, sin, and disgrace: What can you look for, at five cents per night?

Hustle them in, jostle them in, Many of nation, and divers of kin; Sallow, and yellow, and tawny of skin-- Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in! Handfuls of withered but suffering clay, Swept from the East by oppression away; Baffled adventurers, conquered and pressed Back from the gates of the glittering West; Men who with indolence, folly, and guile Carelessly slighted Prosperity's smile; Men who have struggled 'gainst Destiny's frown, Inch after inch, till she hunted them down. Scores in a tier--pile them up here-- Many of peoples and divers of kin; Drift of the nations, from far and from near, Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!

Islands of green, mistily seen, Hover in visions these sleepers between; Beautiful memories, cozy and clean, Restfully precious, and sweetly serene. Womanly kisses have softened the brow Lying in drunken bewilderment now; Infantile faces have cuddled for rest Here on this savage and rag-covered breast. Lucky the wretch who, in Poverty's ways, Bears not the burden of "happier days:" Many a midnight is gloomier yet By the remembrance of stars that have set! Echoes of pain, drearily plain, Come of old melodies sweet and serene; Images sad to the heart and the brain Rise out of memories cozy and green.

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Hustle them in, bustle them in, Fetid with squalor, and reeking with gin, Loaded with misery, folly, and sin-- Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in! Few are the sorrows so hopelessly drear But they have sad representatives here; Never a crime so complete and confessed But has come hither for one night of rest. Seeds that the thorns of diseases may bear Float on the putrid and smoke-laden air; Ghosts of destruction are haunting each breath-- Soft-stepping agents, commissioned by Death. Crowd them in rows, comrades or foes, Deadened with liquor and deafened with din, Fugitives out of the frosts and the snows, Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!

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