University of Virginia Library

THE SEWING BIRD.

I.

A chimney's shadow, flung by the sun
As it sank in the west when the day was done,
Silent and dark as the noiseless bat
Crept through the room where the work-girl sat,—
Where she sat all day at her poor pine table,
Working, as long as her hands were able,
On shirt and collar and chemisette,
On gowns of silk and on veils of net,
Till her busy fingers seemed to be
A skeleton kind of machinery.
The table was strewn with threads of silk,
With pearly buttons that shone like milk,
With gaudy stuffs of a thousand dyes,
And beads that gleamed in the gloom like eyes;
While in the midst of these beautiful things
Glimmered a Sewing Bird's silver wings.
But the blankets that lay on her bed were poor,
And cracks were plain in the crazy door,
The roof was low and the floor was old,
And the work-girl shivered as if a-cold;
And to judge by the veins in her wan white hand,
She did not live on the fat of the land.

II.

Now when the shadow crept through the room,
Filling the place with a cheerless gloom,
So that the weary work was stopped,
Her thin, mechanical hands she dropped,
And gazed at the wall so bare and bald,
Where the shadowy feet of the twilight crawled.
If at that moment she dreamed at all,
Or peopled with visions the cold, white wall,
She thought perhaps of that one bright day,
In the month of June or the month of May,
When, rich with the savings of many a week,
She felt fresh winds blow over her cheek,
As, with friends as poor and lowly as she,
She caught her first glimpse of the calm, blue sea,
Or roamed by copses or sunny lea,
And learned how bright the world could be.
But I doubt if the poor are rich in dreams,
Or build fine castles by golden streams;
For want, like frost-bite, kills the grain
That Fancy sows in the teeming brain,
And it is not every dreamy stare
That is filling with fairies the twilight air.

III.

IV.

Then the work-girl rose from her rickety chair,
And opened the door that led on the stair,
While swift overhead the Sewing Bird flew,
And carolled and fluttered as if it knew
That it led her spirit in threads as strong
As the chains of love or the poet's song;
While ever there rang through the corridor hollow
The silvery strain of “Follow! Follow!”

V.

So down the avenue of Broadway,
Where the lamp-light shone like an amber day,
The Sewing Bird led the maiden along,
To the airy tune of its fairy song.
They came to a palace ornate and tall,
With marble pillars and marble wall,
And windows of glass so large and clear
That the panes seemed lucid as atmosphere.
The work-girl stopped as the crowd went by,
And gazed through the windows with wistful eye;
For the walls were splendid with paint and gold,
The couches were fit for the Sybarites old,
And the floor was soft with the Brussels woof,
And flowery frescos ran over the roof,
While a delicate radiance from globes of glass
Fell soft as sunlight upon the grass.

VI.

Who are the princes—the work-girl thought—
That dwell in this palace by Genii wrought?
She looked, and beheld some dozen or ten
Young and excessively nice young men;
Their faces were beardless, rosy, and fair,
An astonishing curl was in their hair,
Their feet were squeezed into shiny boots,
Their nails were pink, and white at the roots,
Their hands were as taper, their limbs as fine,
As an Arab maiden's in Palestine;
Their waistcoats were miracles to behold,
Ribbed with velvet and flecked with gold;
And perfect rivers of watch-chain ran
Over the breast of each nice young man.
But you could not see in a single face
Of courage or manhood the faintest trace;
Through every feature the sentiment ran,
“If you please, I would rather not be a man!”
One of them sat in an easy chair,
With smirking, impudent, indolent air,
Blandly explaining, with smile serene,
The merits of Cantator's sewing-machine;
While others lounged through the gorgeous room,
Diffusing the odors of Lubin's perfume,
Or gossiping over the last new play,
Or their “spree” last week—and “Was n't it gay?”
But the crowd at the windows thought them sublime
And wished that they had such an easy time.
As the work-girl gazed at this splendid array
Of Cantator's youths on show in Broadway,
She gathered her shawl round her wasted form,
While her breath congealed on the window-panes warm,
And sighed, “Ah me! ah me! ah me!
This is the place where I should be!”

VII.

Then the Sewing Bird swelled his silvery throat,
And trilled through the air his crystalline note:—
“Follow me up and follow me down,
Hither and thither, through all the town;
For there are still more splendid marts,
That never will warm the work-girls' hearts,
And the lesson is still to be fully learned
How woman's pittance by man is earned!”

VIII.

'T was a vast, majestic dry-goods store,
Into whose portals from every shore
Came cashmeres, satins, and silks, and shawls,
To flood the counters and fill the halls:
There Paris sent its delicate gloves,
With mantles, “Such beauties!” and bonnets, “Such loves!”
And China yielded from primitive looms
Its silks shot over with changeable blooms,
While India's golden tissues blent
With camel's-hair from the Syrian's tent.
At each counter was something,—not man, not boy,—
A sort of effeminate hobbledehoy,
And over the laces it simpered and smiled,
And blandly each feminine idiot beguiled
With “Charmingest fashion!” and “Is n't it sweet?”
“Just allow me to show you—remarkably neat!”
“No pattern is like it—on honor—in town,
Just becomes your complexion,—shall I put it down?”
And its frippery fingers went dabbling through tapes,
And its glozing discourse was of trimmings and capes,
And to see its expressionless eyes you 'd have thought
That its soul, like its tapes, had been long ago bought.
As the work-girl gazed on this muscleless crew,
Who were doing the things she was suited to do,
She sighed, “Ah me! ah me! ah me!
This is the place where I should be!”

IX.

Then the Sewing Bird swelled his silvery throat,
And uttered a piercing, reverberant note:—
“Follow me here, and follow me there,
Out through the free-blowing mountain air,
Up to the heart of the healthy hill,
Deep in the heart of the backwoods still;
For the lesson still remains for you—
To show you the labor that men should do.”

X.

XI.

She saw a region of mighty woods
Stretching away for millions of roods;
The odorous cedar and pine-tree tall,
And the live oak, the grandest among them all,
And the solemn hemlock, massive and grim,
Claiming broad space for each mighty limb.
Then she heard the clang of the woodman's axe
Booming along through the lumber-tracks,
And she heard the crack of the yielding trunk,
As deeper and deeper the keen axe sunk,
And the swishing fall—the sonorous thrill—
And the following stillness, more than still.
Then, moving among the avenues dim,
She saw the lumbermen, giant of limb;
The frankness of heaven was in each face,
And their forms were grand with untutored grace;
Their laugh was hearty, their blow was strong,
And sweet as the wood-notes their working song,
As they hewed the limbs from the giant tree,
And stripped off his leafy mystery;
They breathed the air with elastic lungs,
They trolled their ditties with mirthful tongues,
And to see it would do a citizen good,
With what unction they relished their homely food;
For their hunger was keen as their trenchant axe,
And their jokes as broad as their brawny backs.
Then the Sewing Bird sang, again and again,
As he soared o'er the sonorous woods of Maine,
“See, see, see, see!
This is the place where MEN should be!”
And he floated once more through the azure air,
And the work-girl followed him, wondering where.

XII.

XIII.

The work-girl sat in her attic room,
Cold and silent, and wrapped in gloom;
There was no longer a glimmer of day,
And the Sewing Bird still on the table lay.
The voice was silent that once had sung,
And silent forever the silver tongue;
But she pondered long on the strange decree
That she, wherever she turned, must see
Men in the places where women should be!