 | The Triangular Society |  |
333
NED.
Who knew of little Ned?
Who cared a straw for him, alive or dead?
Ned, with his ebon face,
A wretched scion of a wretched race,
A worthless life gone down
Unnoticed, in an over-crowded town.
Who cared a straw for him, alive or dead?
Ned, with his ebon face,
A wretched scion of a wretched race,
A worthless life gone down
Unnoticed, in an over-crowded town.
Scanty and poor the food
His mother's labor gave her hungry brood,
Windowless, dingy, dim,
Was the poor hovel which was home to him;
Improvidence and chance
Ruled there, with poverty and ignorance.
His mother's labor gave her hungry brood,
Windowless, dingy, dim,
Was the poor hovel which was home to him;
Improvidence and chance
Ruled there, with poverty and ignorance.
334
Often, as he passed by,
I smiled again into his smiling eye,
Or gave, to his delight,
String for his ball, or paper for his kite,
And oftentimes, poor Ned!
That which he needed more than playthings,—bread.
I smiled again into his smiling eye,
Or gave, to his delight,
String for his ball, or paper for his kite,
And oftentimes, poor Ned!
That which he needed more than playthings,—bread.
His poor pretence of dress
Was worn and rent to utter raggedness,
Yet in the summer street,
He played with children gaily dressed and neat,
Who did not keep in sight
The bridgeless gulf dividing black and white.
Was worn and rent to utter raggedness,
Yet in the summer street,
He played with children gaily dressed and neat,
Who did not keep in sight
The bridgeless gulf dividing black and white.
They shared the self-same plays,
Bounding and shouting through the sunny days,
Nor ever seemed to care
Which dingy hand, if washed, would be most fair;
Until the fall of night
Ended the games which only ceased with light.
Bounding and shouting through the sunny days,
Nor ever seemed to care
Which dingy hand, if washed, would be most fair;
Until the fall of night
Ended the games which only ceased with light.
They used to find their rest
In pleasant homes, with love and plenty blest,
Where, all refreshed and soothed,
Their tired limbs bathed, their tangled tresses smoothed,
They nestled, all the night,
In cool, soft beds, with pillows dainty white.
In pleasant homes, with love and plenty blest,
Where, all refreshed and soothed,
Their tired limbs bathed, their tangled tresses smoothed,
They nestled, all the night,
In cool, soft beds, with pillows dainty white.
But he, poor little Ned,
A heap of tattered rags was all his bed;
And want and squalor kept
Watch in the crowded chamber while he slept,—
The atmosphere defiled
Poisoning the slumbers of the hapless child.
A heap of tattered rags was all his bed;
And want and squalor kept
Watch in the crowded chamber while he slept,—
The atmosphere defiled
Poisoning the slumbers of the hapless child.
335
He played the summer through,
And autumn came; November rain-storms blew,
And in the blasts unkind,
Shivering, half-clad, the child grew ill and pined,
Forgot his wonted mirth,
And cowered all day beside the cheerless hearth.
And autumn came; November rain-storms blew,
And in the blasts unkind,
Shivering, half-clad, the child grew ill and pined,
Forgot his wonted mirth,
And cowered all day beside the cheerless hearth.
Roundness and smiles forsook
His thinning cheek; a suffering, patient look
Touched with a piteous grace
His wide and wistful eyes, his small, dark face;
As ever asking, “Why?
Does life mean only to endure—and die?”
His thinning cheek; a suffering, patient look
Touched with a piteous grace
His wide and wistful eyes, his small, dark face;
As ever asking, “Why?
Does life mean only to endure—and die?”
Days passed; and now no more
He joined the noisy group around the door,
Yet ever kept in sight
His sorry playthings—ball and hoop and kite—
Sighing, “Another day
I shall be well enough to go and play.”
He joined the noisy group around the door,
Yet ever kept in sight
His sorry playthings—ball and hoop and kite—
Sighing, “Another day
I shall be well enough to go and play.”
Alas, poor stricken Ned!
All night he shivered in his meagre bed,
And weary day by day
The fever came and burned his strength away;
Fate left him naught to choose;
A life so wretched was not much to lose.
All night he shivered in his meagre bed,
And weary day by day
The fever came and burned his strength away;
Fate left him naught to choose;
A life so wretched was not much to lose.
Even at his poor life's end,
He asked for me,—for I had been his friend;
And with the uttered name,
His trembling soul went—whither?—whence it came;
Some happier sphere to find,
Where angels, let us hope, are color-blind.
He asked for me,—for I had been his friend;
And with the uttered name,
His trembling soul went—whither?—whence it came;
Some happier sphere to find,
Where angels, let us hope, are color-blind.
336
Small is the meed I claim
Of worldly gratitude, or praise, or fame,
Yet it is something worth,
That he, the poorest, humblest of the earth,
Passed through death's brief eclipse,
Bearing my name upon his grateful lips.
Of worldly gratitude, or praise, or fame,
Yet it is something worth,
That he, the poorest, humblest of the earth,
Passed through death's brief eclipse,
Bearing my name upon his grateful lips.
Ah, well, what mattered it?
This poor, pinched soul which no one prized a whit?
One more small life gone down
Uncounted, in a sickly southern town;
Ah, me! I wonder why
A being so forlorn should live and die?
This poor, pinched soul which no one prized a whit?
One more small life gone down
Uncounted, in a sickly southern town;
Ah, me! I wonder why
A being so forlorn should live and die?
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