| I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life, |
| That I can't believe it was years ago—it doesn't seem true at all; |
| Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife, |
| And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage wall. |
| |
| We were happy? Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged to Joe, |
| And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay; |
| And our cup was full when Joey came—our baby-boy, you know; |
| So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away. |
| |
| It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same— |
| Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet |
| He fell to inventin' some machine—I don't recall the name, |
| But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the street— |
| |
| Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about. |
| I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor, |
| But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out; |
| Even the baby—bless the child!—learned never to slam that door! |
| |
| People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came |
| To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success; |
| And Joe would say, "Little woman,"—for that was my old pet-name— |
| "If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk dress!" |
| |
| I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start |
| To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away |
| To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart |
| When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day. |
| |
| Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man, |
| The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe, |
| For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan, |
| As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro. |
| |
| Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went |
| For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen; |
| And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!" |
| When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great machine. |
| |
| I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool, |
| When we wanted our boy to learn to read—he was five years old, you know; |
| He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from school |
| And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!" |
| |
| I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed |
| He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side; |
| And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad |
| Driving me almost to despair—the little baby died. |
| |
| Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white; |
| "Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you! |
| I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night |
| He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew. |
| |
| I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I, |
| Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild. |
| I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky, |
| And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried child. |
| |
| Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate; |
| A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor, |
| But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate, |
| Till I heard—the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop door. |
| |
| That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak, |
| But I snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread, |
| And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak, |
| Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head; |
| |
| The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in, |
| Fearing—what? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a jagged hole. |
| In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin |
| Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul. |
| |
| But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad |
| I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and wild, |
| "How can you dare to rob us so?"—and I seized the little lad; |
| "How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?" |
| |
| All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand |
| That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall. |
| "Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand |
| A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all." |
| |
| Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death; |
| Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er; |
| But no;—there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath; |
| As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door. |
| |
| I shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise; |
| He must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see |
| There was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes |
| Told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to Joe and me. |
| |
| |
| He was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say |
| That one of Joe's inventions was a great, successful thing; |
| And which do you think? His window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day; |
| And we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring. |
| |
| And then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream. |
| My man bent down his head and said, "Little woman, you've saved my life!" |
| The worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam |
| From the sun that has shone so brightly since, on Joe and his happy wife! |
| |
| Jeannie Pendleton Ewing. |
