Jean’s Mother

She hastened down the narrow street, a figure slight and small,

Her wages in her stocking and her hand within her shawl.

‘Twas pay-night at the factory, and Jean, her boy of five,

Was waiting for his supper in the gloomy human hive.

The husband, now a drunken wretch, for months had not been seen,

And so she toiled from morn till night to keep her home and Jean.

Tonight her heart was beating high, the owners of the mill

Had put in every envelope a crisp two-dollar bill.

And tomorrow would be Christmas, she lived upon the scene

When she should bring a Christmas tree and sweets to little Jean.

She reached the darkened alley when a rough hand seized her dress

And two strong arms enclosed her form to vulgarly caress.

Two blood-shot eyes peered into hers, and tones she knew of old,

Awoke the stillness of the night and turned her warm blood cold.

“It’sh pay night, darlin’,” sneered the wretch, “I’ve got to have shome dough;

Jesh give me half o’ w’at yer’ve got an’ den I’ll let yer go.

Yer know me, Mag, yer know me tricks, it hain’t no ush ter squall,

W’y cuss yer, ef Ish mean enough I’d take it from ye all!

Fork over now – w’y damn ye, Mag, I’ll have ter help yer, shee?

W’at’sh ‘at? Yer warn’t paid off? O, ho! So yer would lie ter me!’

He seized her hands, but found them bare, then snatched her faded dress

And tore the pocket from its place with crazy eagerness.

“Yer lie!” he cried, with lifted hand, “Yer’ve got it shomers round!

Han’ over now or sure ash God I’ll strike yer to the ground!’

She screamed – a badge flashed by the lamp, but not until too late –

She sank upon the filthy street and lay there stiff and straight.

The brute was hurried to his cell – she to her little bed

Where Jean and kindly neighbors watched until she raised her head.

And then she seized her stocking leg, and cried with childless glee,

“Thank God it’s safe, my little Jean shall have his Christmas tree!”

Dec. 5, ‘99