Poems Teachers Ask For - Various

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But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass— A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Grass. The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur. Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her! Constance F. Woolson.

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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,