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I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life,
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That I can't believe it was years ago—it doesn't seem true at all;
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Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife,
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And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage wall.
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We were happy? Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged to Joe,
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And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay;
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And our cup was full when Joey came—our baby-boy, you know;
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So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away.
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It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same—
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Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet
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He fell to inventin' some machine—I don't recall the name,
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But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the street—
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Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about.
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I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor,
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But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out;
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Even the baby—bless the child!—learned never to slam that door!
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People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came
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To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success;
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And Joe would say, "Little woman,"—for that was my old pet-name—
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"If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk dress!"
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I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start
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To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away
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To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart
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When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day.
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Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man,
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The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe,
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For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan,
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As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro.
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Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went
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For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen;
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And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!"
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When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great machine.
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I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool,
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When we wanted our boy to learn to read—he was five years old, you know;
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He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from school
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And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!"
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I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed
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He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side;
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And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad
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Driving me almost to despair—the little baby died.
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Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white;
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"Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you!
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I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night
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He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew.
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I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I,
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Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild.
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I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky,
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And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried child.
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Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate;
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A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor,
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But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate,
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