University of Virginia Library


104

THE GIRL AT THE CROSSING.

She was just sixteen, that night, as she stood
In her ragged dress and her rusty hood.
She had swept the crossing the same old way
You have seen the beggars do, any day,
With first a rush to the passer's side,
Then a dash ahead, and the broom well plied,
And then, as she gained the curb, you know,
The ancient professional moan of woe.
But now she is tired; the night grows late;
She leaves the crossing with laggard gait.
And as she passes the street lamp's glare,
You catch the sheen of her unkempt hair,
Falling to meet, with its tangled flow,
The two great weary black eyes below.

105

She goes from haunts of the rich and sleek
To dull-lit regions of murk and reek;
And under a lamp that flickers frail,
In the sudden breath of the autumn gale,
Pausing she searches her dress, to drag
From its pocket a dingy twisted rag,—
Her pennies, earned through the long day, all
Lumped into this unsightly ball.
With a feeble smile she counts them o'er,
And is slipping them out of sight once more,
When a hand from the dimness, quick and bold,
Tears the rag from her careless hold.
She cries out sharply; a form shoots fleet,
Yards beyond, through the vague void street.
[OMITTED]
She stands in the doorway; she does not stir;
While her drunken father scowls at her.
He has wondered long that she still should stay,
For he craved her earnings to drink away.

106

With trembling voice, in her words uncouth,
She tells him simply the simple truth.
He lifts his hand, while his dull eyes glow,
And strikes her down with a brutal blow!
[OMITTED]
You may see her now, any night that 's fair,
In a certain street, by a certain square. ...
See her well, if you wait for a little while,
In her silken dress, with her brazen smile! ...