Cross Roads by Margaret E. Sangster (read the beginning after the end novel .txt) 📕

shine. . . .
Yer ain't as pretty as some babies are,
But, God, yer mine!


LIGHTS OF THE CITY

He was young,
And his mind
Was filled with the science of economics
That he had studied in college.
And as we talked about the food riots,
And high prices,
And jobless men,
He said:
"It's all stupid and wrong,
"This newspaper talk!
"Folk have no business to starve.
"The price of labor always advances,
"Proportionally,
"With the price of food!"

"Any man," he said,
A moment later,
"Can earn at least two dollars a day
"By working on a railroad,
"Or in the street cleaning department!
"What if potatoes DO cost
"Eight cents a pound?
"Wages are high, too. . . .
"People have no reason to starve."

I listened to him prayerfully
(More or less),
For I had never been to college,
And I didn't know much about economics.

But -
As I walked to the window,
And looked out over the veiled, mysterious lights
Of the city,
I couldn't help thinking
Of a little baby
That I had seen a few days ago;
A baby of the slums - thin, and joyless,
And old of face,
But with eyes
Like the eyes of the Christ Child. . . .
A baby - crying for bread -

And. . . . I wondered. . . .


STEEL

They think that we're just animals, almost,
We men who work with steel.
A lady visitor was here th' other day,
She looked at me, an' I could hear her say,
"My, what a life! I s'pose his only boast
"Is muscles!"
She's wrong. We feel
A certain pride, a certain sort o' joy,
When some great blazin' mass is tamed an' turned
Into an engine wheel. Our hands get burned,
An' sometimes half our hair is scorched away -
But, well, it's fun!
Perhaps you've seen a boy,
Who did hard work he loved, an' called it play?
Know what I mean? Well, that's the way we feel,
We men who work with steel.

A lady visitor was here th' other day;
She held her skirts right dainty in her hand,
An' as she passed me by, I heard her say,
"I wonder what he THINKS - or if his head
"Is just a piece o' metal, too!" She said
It laughin'-like.
She didn't understand,
She couldn't know that we have dreams as grand,
As any SHE could have. We wonder where
Th' rivets that we make are goin' to,
An' if th' engine wheels we turn, will go
Through tropic heat, or if they'll plow through snow;
An' as we watch, we sorter grow to care
About th' steel. Why it's as shiny blue
As j'ew'ls! An' every bit is, well, a part
Of life to us. Sometimes my very heart
Thanks God that I've a man-sized job to do!


MUSIC OF THE SLUMS

I. THE VlOLIN-MAKER

Over a slum his sign swings out,
Over a street where the city's shout
Is deadened into a sob of pain -
Where even joy has a minor strain.

"Violins made," read the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings;
Over a street where people give
Their right to laugh for a chance to live.

He works alone with his head bent low
And all the sorrow and all the woe,
And all the pride of a banished race,
Stare from the eyes that light his face.

But he never sighs and his slender hand,
Fastens the cat-gut, strand by strand -
Fastens it tight, but tenderly
As if he dreams of some melody.

Some melody of his yesterday. . . .
Will it, I wonder, find its way
Out to the world, when fingers creep
Over the strings that lie asleep?

Or will the city's misery
Mould the song in a tragic key -
Making its sweetest, faintest breath
Thrill with sorrow, and throb with death?

Maker of music - who can know
Where the work of his hand shall go?
Maybe its slightest phrase will bring,
Comfort to ease the suffering -

Maybe his dreams will have their part
Buried deep in the music's heart. . . .
Out of a chain of dreary days,
Joy may come as some master plays!

Over a slum his sign hangs out,
Over a street where dread meets doubt -
"Violins made," reads the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings.


II. THE PARK BAND

(Side by side and silent - eagerly they stand -
Souls look out of tired eyes, hands are clasped
together,
Through the thrilling softness of the late spring
weather,
All a city slum is out to listen to the band.)

Young love and Maytime, hear the joyous strain,
Listen to a serenade written long ago!
You will recognize the song - you who care must
know
Fear that blends with happiness, joy that touches
pain.

Rabbi with the grizzled beard hear adventure's story!
Hear the tale the music tells, thrilling with ro-
mance,
Hear the clatter of a sword, hear a broken lance
Falling from some hero's hand, red with blood-
stained glory.

(Tenements on either side, light-flecked in the gloam-
ing,
Tenements on either side, stark and tall and gray -
Ah, the folk who line your halls wander far away,
All a crowded city slum is a-gypsie roaming!)

Woman with the brooding gaze, hear the lilting
laughter
Of the children that you loved, feel their soft-
lipped kisses;
Think of all the little joys that a hard world
misses-
What though bitter loneliness always follows after?

Gangster with the shifty eyes, listen to the sighing
Of the hymn tune that you heard at your mother's
knee;
Listen to the restless ghost of the used-to-be,
Listen to a wistful ghost's empty-hearted crying.

(Tenements on either side - menacing they stand -
Light-flecked in the softness of the late spring
weather. . . .
But young love and broken life are standing close
together,
And all a city slum is out to listen to the band.)


III. THE ORGAN MAN

He's very old, his music box is old and rusty, too,
And half the notes of it are harsh, and half of
them are slow;
One wonders if the coat he wears could ever have
been new -
And if the tune he plays was quite forgotten long
ago.

He finds a sunny place to stand, and lifts his bleary
eyes,
And smiles a bit - a toothless smile half touched,
perhaps, with fear;
And though he cannot see them he is looking at the
skies,
As if he prays, but silently, for hope and faith
and cheer.

The foreign women pass him by, their tarnished coins
held tight,
They toss their heads and will not hear his music's
wistful hum -
But through each alley way and street, like moths
that seek the light,
With eager eyes and laughing lips the little chil-
dren come.

He plays his ancient, shaky song, his mouth moves to
its sway,
He does not know the tune of it is old and out of
key;
For, through his eyes, a soul stares out that wanders
far away,
In some fair land of youth and love - some land
that used to be.

The little children cluster close, bareheaded, bare of
limb -
They hold their ragged frocks and dance, they do
not care - or know,
That they are like a garden place, a fragrant dream
to him,
Or that the tune he plays was quite forgotten long
ago.


"BE OF GOOD CHEER!"

Temptation came to me today,
And oh, I felt that I must stray
Down primrose paths, forgetting all. . . .
The city's fevered, siren call
Spoke to my soul, its whispered cry
Said, "Live, for Youth, too soon, will die!"

So all alone, when work was done,
I sought the park. The setting sun
Had left a bit of warmth for me -
I found a bench beneath a tree,
And sat and thought.
My life is hard,
Sometimes my heart seems battle-scarred,
With longings keen, and bitter fears,
And want, and suffering, and tears.

Temptation spoke, and Youth spoke back;
The night seemed cold and grimly black,
And every light was like a star
That cleft the sky - they were so far,
So very far away! And I
Was lonely, there, beneath the sky. . . .

There used to be a little farm
A tiny place, remote from harm;
There used to be a mother frail
And sweet, with hair as silver-pale
As the faint moon. She heard me say
The words when first I learned to pray. . . .

Above me in the silent trees,
I heard the rustles of the breeze,
It sounded like her step, as light
As dreams across an endless night.
My mother -
Ah, the name so sweet,
Brought memories on noiseless feet,
And softly in the darkness, there,
I breathed my little childhood prayer. . . .


Do prayers have answers? As I prayed
A Presence came, and gently laid
A Hand upon my arm. I knew
That Someone kind, and good, and true
Was very near. Upon my