The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill :: :: University of Virginia Library

149

THE NEWS-GIRL

A tiny, blue-eyed, elfin lass
Meets me upon the street I pass
In going to the ferry;
Barefooted, scantly clothed, and thin,
With little weazen cheeks and chin,
Yet always chirk and merry:
Ever merry, however pale,
I always hear her, as I draw near her:
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”

With that same piping little tune,
She waits there every afternoon,
Selling her bunch of papers;
She scarcely looks aside to see
What 's passing by, of grief or glee—
No childish tricks or capers;
Her pattering bare feet never fail
To run and meet me, and chirping greet me,
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”

Her dingy frock is scant and torn;
Her old, old face looks wan and worn,
Yet always sweet and sunny;
Week in, week out, she is the same—

150

I asked her once what was her name,
And, jingling all her money,
Holding a paper up for sale,
The little midget answered, “Bridget!
Want the Mail, sir?—Mail?—Mail?”

I wonder where she goes at night,
And in what nook the poor young sprite
Finds room for rest and sleeping;
I wonder if her little bones
Go home to blows and cuffs, and tones
That roughly set her weeping—
When, rainy days, the pennies fail
And few are buying, for all her crying,
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”

O rich and happy people! you
Whose ways are smooth, and woes are few,
Whose life brims o'er with blisses,
Pity the little patient face,
That never knows the tender grace
Of kind caress or kisses.
For you, the blessings never fail;
For her 't is only to wait there lonely
And cry, “The Mail, sir?—Mail?—Mail?”