Kitabı oku: «Continental Monthly , Vol. 6, No. 1, July, 1864», sayfa 9
Of course, in a System of Competitive Industry thus carried on, the wealth of the world would fall into the hands of those of superior powers; while the feeble, the stolid, and the ignorant would be left poor and helpless. And, as the different classes of the community would be no longer directly associated with each other in their labors and interests, but would be, on the contrary, competitors—and as the fact that there had been free competition would be held by all classes to absolve them from any responsibility as to each other's welfare—it would inevitably result that the weaker orders should fall into indigence, degradation, wretchedness, starvation, and premature death.
Such has been the case. With the advent of Competitive Industry in Europe and America—to confine ourselves to these countries—with the disintegration of the Social System in which the different classes were associated in mutually dependent and coöperative efforts; with the abrogation, on the part of the superior body of citizens, of all responsibility for, and direct interest in, the affairs and comfort of the lower orders, has come Pauperism, Social Instability, and a degree of misery and depravity among the poorest of the masses, never before known in the history of the world, all things being taken into consideration. It is a well-known saying of Political Economists, that the rich are daily growing richer, and the poor poorer. It might be added with truth: and more degraded and dangerous.
The effects of this method of Competitive Industry upon the higher classes have been scarcely less injurious, though in a different direction. It has bred an intense selfishness and an apathy in respect to the sufferings of others which no lover of his race can contemplate without emotions of anguish. Not only is the idea of any effort for the permanent relief of the poorer classes, for taking them under special care and making their welfare the business of Society, not entertained by any large number of persons; but those who do feel keenly the necessity of such a step, and whose sympathies are aroused by the sufferings of the masses around them, are too deeply imbued with the ease-loving spirit of the age, too much wedded to their own comfort, to take any active measures for the realization of their desires, or to forego their momentary interests to secure them.
The rich heap up riches by the iniquitous trade-system which drifts the earnings of the laborers into their net, and are dead to the call of those whom they are, unconsciously in most cases, defrauding. Nay! they even struggle to wring from them the largest possible amount of work for the smallest possible pay! Day by day they grow more exacting as they grow wealthier; day by day the laboring orders sink into more harassing and hopeless conditions. Had the functions of Government in our own country and in England been those only of protection to persons and property; had not the general and local authorities in some degree assisted the oppressed toilers; had not the Church by her admonitions and pleadings kept some sparks of feeling alive in the breast of the people of this money-getting age, and stimulated somewhat their benevolence, the laboring classes of England and America would long since have sunk to utter destitution. Nor would this have been all. For when the mass of the people reach such a point; when they are driven to despair, as they are now fast being driven, and would long ago have been driven but for the circumstances stated, then comes the terrible reaction, the frightful revolution, the upheaval of all order, anarchy, and—who shall tell what else? The Riot of July is still ringing its solemn warning—all unheeded—in the ears of this people. Society has yet and speedily to lift the masses out of their ignorance, poverty, squalor, and accompanying brutality, or to sink awfully beneath their maddened retaliation.
In thus criticizing the Industrial Polity of modern times as, in the respects indicated, inferior to that of the Feudal System, the writer does not wish to be understood as affirming any more than is really said. The idea which it is desired to express is this: that the plan upon which this system was founded—the mutual interdependence of classes and their reciprocally coöperative labor—was far superior to the method of Competitive Industry now in vogue; and the true type—when rightly carried out, without the drawbacks and the evils of the Feudal System—of Social organization. That there are compensations in our modern mode, and that, on the whole, Society advances in adopting it, is true. But it will take a further step in advance when it reverts to that plan on the footing above indicated; when it adopts the plan without the evils which in an ignorant and undeveloped age necessarily accompanied it.
It has not been forgotten that the Church has arrayed itself, to no small extent, against the advent of new knowledge; that the State has suppressed the enlarging tendencies of individual liberty; and that both have been, in this way and in other ways, as Mr. Buckle and Professor Draper have clearly shown, clogs upon the hurrying wheels of the nations. It is precisely because they have been and are still so, that they served and do serve the cause of progress.
It has been previously stated that new truths come from the body of advanced Thinkers, who constitute a fourth and comparatively small class in the community. The discoverer of a new truth sees the immense advantages which would accrue to Society from a knowledge of it, and is eager for its immediate promulgation and acceptance; and, if it be of a practical nature, for its incorporation into the working principles of the Social polity. This may be true. But there is another verity of equal importance, which ordinarily he does not take into consideration, namely: that the great mass of the people who form Society are not prepared for the change which he contemplates. They comprehend and act more slowly than the Thinkers. The novelty must be brought home to their understandings gradually, and assimilated. Old forms of thought, old associations, encrusted prejudices, the deep-seated opinions of years must be modified before the new will find a lodgment in their convictions.
It is well that the Thinker should urge with impetuous and ardent zeal his side of the case; that he should insist upon the immediate adjustment of thought or activity in accordance with advanced right. It is true that he will not instantly succeed. It is equally true that, with human nature and Society as they now are, he would destroy all order if he did. Men can live only in that portion of truth which they are competent to appreciate. Place the Indian in the heated city, and make him conform to the usages of city life, he pines and dies. If it were possible to take away from the ignorant and child-minded races of the earth or portions of community their superstitious faith, and substitute the higher truths of a more spiritual interpretation, yet would they not subserve their religious purposes. So, when the new verity is held up to view, to the great mass who cannot understand it, it is no truth, but a lie. They oppose it. Thus the discovery becomes known. Discussion excites new thought. The Thinkers array themselves upon one side, urging forward; the State and the Church, representing the body of Society, take the other, standing sturdily still, or hesitating, doubting either the validity of the alleged truth or its uses. Between the clash of contending opinions the new ideas take shape in the awakened minds which are prepared for them. These come shortly to be the majority. The State and the Church gradually and imperceptibly modify their methods or their creeds; and so, safely and without disaster, humanity takes a step in advance.
It would be better, indeed, if this slow process were not necessary. When the whole scope of Fundamental Truths is apprehended; when a Science of the Universe is known; when truth is no longer fragmentary; and when there is mutual confidence and coöperation among the different classes of community, it will not be necessary. But until then, any attempt to force an instantaneous acceptance of new truths or an immediate inauguration of new methods upon the mass of the people will only serve, if successful, to overthrow order in Society, and introduce Social anarchy in its stead. From such an attempt came the chaos of the French Revolution;—from an endeavor to inaugurate ideas essentially correct among a people noway ready to comprehend them rightly. The Conservative Element is as essential to the well-being of society as the Progressive. To eliminate either is to destroy its balanced action; and to give it over to stagnation on the one hand, or to frenzy on the other. The Thinkers of the past have done, and those of the present are doing, good work for humanity, on the Progressive side. The Church and the State of the past have done, the Church and the State of the present are doing, good work for humanity, on the Conservative side. Through the instrumentality of the Thinkers, the Church, and the State, the world has been brought slowly, steadily, and safely along the path of progress, now gaining in one way, and now in another; at times abandoning one line of advance, only to go ahead upon a different one; yet always moving onward, and standing to-day, in spite of its seeming retrogressions, at the highest point of development which it has ever touched.
The Church and the State of the future will be the subject of subsequent consideration.
LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN
For months that followed the triumph the rebels had boasted they wrought,
But which lost to them Chattanooga, thus bringing their triumph to nought;
The mountain-walled citadel city, with its outposts in billowy crowds,
Grand soarers among the lightnings, stern conquerors of the clouds!
For months, I say, had the rebels, with the eyes of their cannon, looked down
From the high-crested forehead of Lookout, from the Mission's long sinuous crown
Till Grant, our invincible hero, the winner of every fight!
Who joys in the strife, like the eagle that drinks from the storm delight!
Marshalled his war-worn legions, and, pointing to them the foe,
Kindled their hearts with the tidings that now should be stricken the blow,
The rebel to sweep from old Lookout, that cloud-post dizzily high,
Whence the taunt of his cannon and banner had affronted so long the sky.
Brave Thomas the foeman had brushed from his summit the nearest, and now
The balm of the midnight's quiet soothed Nature's agonized brow:
A midnight of murkiest darkness, and Lookout's dark undefined mass
Heaved grandly a frown on the welkin, a barricade nothing might pass.
Its breast was sprinkled with sparkles, its crest was dotted in gold,
Telling the camps of the rebels secure as they deemed in their hold.
Where glimmered the creek of the Lookout, it seemed the black dome of the night
Had dropped all its stars in the valley, it glittered so over with light:
There were voices and clashings of weapons, and drum beat and bugle and tramp,
Quick flittings athwart the broad watchfires that spotted the grays of the camp:
Dark columns would glimmer and vanish, a rider flit by like a ghost;
There was movement all over the valley, the movement and din of a host.
'Twas the legion so famed of the 'White Star,' and led on by Geary the brave,
That was chosen to gather the laurel or find on the mountain a grave.
They crossed the dim creek of the Lookout, and toiled up the sable ascent,
Till the atoms black crawling and struggling in the dense upper darkness were blent.
Mists, fitful in rain, came at daydawn, they spread in one mantle the skies,
And we that were posted below stood and watched with our hearts in our eyes;
We watched as the mists broke and joined, the quick flits and the blanks of the fray;
There was thunder, but not of the clouds; there was lightning, but redder in ray;
Oh, warm rose our hopes to the 'White Star,' oh, wild went our pleadings to heaven;
We knew, and we shuddered to know it, how fierce oft the rebels had striven;
We saw, and we shuddered to see it, the rebel flag still in the air;
Shall our boys be hurled back? God of Battles! oh, bring not such bitter despair!
But the battle is rolling still up, it has plunged in the mantle o'erhead,
We hear the low hum of the volley, we see the fierce bomb-burst of red;
Still the rock in the forehead of Lookout through the rents of the windy mist shows
The horrible flag of the Crossbar, the counterfeit rag of our foes:
Portentous it looks through the vapor, then melts to the eye, but it tells
That the rebels still cling to their stronghold, and hope for the moment dispels.
But the roll of the thunder seems louder, flame angrier smites on the eye,
The scene from the fog is laid open—a battle field fought in the sky!
Eye to eye, hand to hand, all are struggling;—ha, traitors! ha, rebels, ye know
Now the might in the arm of our heroes! dare ye bide their roused terrible blow?
They drive them, our braves drive the rebels! they flee, and our heroes pursue!
We scale rock and trunk—from their breastworks they run! oh, the joy of the view!
Hurrah, how they drive them! hurrah, how they drive the fierce rebels along!
One more cheer, still another! each lip seems as ready to burst into song.
On, on, ye bold blue-coated heroes! thrust, strike, pour your shots in amain!
Banners fly, columns rush, seen and lost in the quick, fitful gauzes of rain.
Oh, boys, how your young blood is streaming! but falter not, drive them to rout!
From barricade, breastwork, and riflepit, how the scourged rebels pour out!
We see the swift plunge of the caisson within the dim background of haze,
With the shreds of platoons inward scudding, and fainter their batteries blaze;
As the mist curtain falls all is blank; as it lifts, a wild picture out glares,
A wild shifting picture of battle, and dread our warm hopefulness shares;
But never the braves of the 'White Star' have sullied their fame in defeat,
And they will not to-day see the triumph pass by them the foeman to greet!
No, no, for the battle is ending; the ranks on the slope of the crest
Are the true Union blue, and our banners alone catch the gleams of the west,
Though the Crossbar still flies from the summit, we roll out our cheering of pride!
Not in vain, O ye heroes of Lookout! O brave Union boys! have ye died!
One brief struggle more sees the banner, that blot on the sky, brushed away,
When the broad moon now basking upon us shall yield her rich lustre to-day:
She brings out the black hulk of Lookout, its outlines traced sharp in the skies,
All alive with the camps of our braves glancing down with their numberless eyes.
See, the darkness below the red dottings is twinkling with many a spark!
Sergeant Teague thinks them souls of the rebels red fleeing from ours in the dark;
But the light shocks of sound tell the tale, they are battle's fierce fireworks at play!
It is slaughter's wild carnival revel bequeathed to the night by the day.
Dawn breaks, the sky clears—ha! the shape upon Lookout's tall crest that we see,
Is the bright beaming flag of the 'White Star,' the beautiful Flag of the Free!
How it waves its rich folds in the zenith, and looks in the dawn's open eye,
With its starred breast of pearl and of crimson, as if with heaven's colors to vie!
'Hurrah!' rolls from Moccasin Point, and 'Hurrah!' from bold Cameron's Hill!
'Hurrah!' peals from glad Chattanooga! bliss seems every bosom to fill!
Thanks, thanks, O ye heroes of Lookout! O brave Union boys! during Time
Shall stand this, your column of glory, shall shine this, your triumph sublime!
To the deep mountain den of the panther the hunter climbed, drove him to bay,
Then fought the fierce foe till he turned and fled, bleeding and gnashing, away!
Fled away from the scene where so late broke his growls and he shot down his glare,
As he paced to and fro, for the hunter his wild craggy cavern to dare!
Thanks, thanks, O ye heroes of Lookout! ye girded your souls to the fight,
Drew the sword, dropped the scabbard, and went in the full conscious strength of your might!
Now climbing o'er rock and o'er tree mound, up, up, by the hemlock ye swung!
Now plunging through thicket and swamp, on the edge of the hollow ye hung!
One hand grasped the musket, the other clutched ladder of root and of bough:
The trunk the tornado had shivered, the landmark pale glimmering now,
And now the mad torrent's white lightning;—no drum tapped, no bugle was blown—
To the words that encouraged each other, and quick breaths, ye toiled up alone!
Oh, long as the mountains shall rise o'er the waters of bright Tennessee,
Shall be told the proud deeds of the 'White Star,' the cloud-treading host of the free!
The camp-fire shall blaze to the chorus, the picket-post peal it on high,
How was fought the fierce battle of Lookout—how won the Grand Fight of the Sky!
ONE NIGHT
I
From the window at which I write, in these November days, I see a muddy, swollen river, spread over the meadows into a dingy lake; it is not a picturesque or a pretty stream, in spite of its Indian name. Beyond it the land slopes away into a range of long, low hills, which the autumn has browned; the long swaths of fog stretching between river and hill are so like to them and to the dissolving gray sky that they all blend in one general gloom. This picture filling my eye narrows and shapes itself into the beginning of my story: I see a lazy, dirty river on the outskirts of a manufacturing city; where the stream has broadened into a sort of pond it is cut short by the dam, and there is a little cluster of mills. They all belong to one work, however, and they look as if they had been set down there for a few months only; 'contract' seems written all over them, and very properly, for they are running on a Government order for small arms. There is no noise but an underhum of revolving shafts and the smothered thud of trip hammers. Ore dust blackens everything, and is scattered everywhere, so that the whole ground is a patchwork of black and gray; elsewhere there is snow, but here the snow is turned to the dingy color of the place. It is very quiet outside, being early morning yet; a cold mist hides the dawn, and the water falls with a winter hiss; the paths are indistinct, for the sky is only just enough lightening to show the east.
The coal dust around one door shows that the fires are there; a cavernous place, suddenly letting a lurid glow out upon the night, and then black again. It is only a narrow alley through the building, making sure of a good draft; on one side are the piles of coal, and on the other a row of furnace doors. The stoker is sitting on a heap of cinder. He is only an old man, a little stooping, with a head that is turning ashes color; his eye is faded, and his face nearly expressionless, while he sits perfectly still on the heap, as if he were a part of the engine which turns slowly in a shed adjoining and pants through its vent in the roof. He has been sitting there so long that he has a vague notion that his mind has somehow gone out of him into the iron doors and the rough coal, and he only goes round and round like the engine. Yet he never considered the matter at all, any more than the engine wanted to use its own wheel, which it turned month after month in the same place, to propel itself through the world; just so often he opened and shut each door in its turn, fed the fires, and then sat down and sat still.
He was looking at a boy of six, asleep at his feet on a pile of ashes and cinder, which was not so bad a bed, for the gentle heat left in it was as good as a lullaby, and Shakspeare long ago told us that sleep has a preference for sitting by hard pillows. The child was an odd bit of humanity. An accident at an early age had given it a hump, though otherwise it was fair enough; and now perhaps society would have seen there only an animal watching its sleeping cub. Presently the boy woke and got on his feet, and began to walk toward the cold air with short, uncertain steps, almost falling against a furnace door. The old man jumped and caught him.
'Ta, ta, Nobby,' he said, 'what's thou doin'? Them's hotter nor cender. Burnt child dreads fire—did knowst 'twas fire?'
He had a sort of language of his own, and his voice was singularly harsh, as if breathing in that grimy place so long had roughened his throat.
'There, go, Nobby, look thee out an' see howst black she is. Ta, but it's hawt,' and he rubbed his forehead with his sleeve; 'it's a deal pity this hot can nawt go out where's cold, an' people needin' it. Here's hot, there's cold, but 'twill stay here, as it loved the place 'twas born—home, like. Why, Net, that thee?'
There was no door to the place to knock at or open, but the craunch of a foot was heard on the coal outside, and a girl came in, moist and shivering. The stoker set her down in a warm corner, and looked at her now.
'Is thee, my little Net?' he repeated.
'Yes, and I've brought your breakfast, father; 'twas striking six before I come in.'
'Too early, my girl, sleep her sleep out. Here's hot an' cosey like, an' time goes, an' I could wait for breakfast, till I'm home. I'll nawt let my little girl's sleep.'
'No, father, I couldn't sleep after five, anyway; and I thought I must bring your breakfast to-day. You'll walk back through the cold easier after something hot to eat.'
'That's my dear little girl. Shiverin' yet, she is. There, lay down on this,' raking out a heap of fresh ashes, 'them warm an' soft like, an' go ye to sleep till I go.'
'No, I must heat your coffee,' she answered, steadying the pot before one of the furnaces with bits of coal.
''Ware that door doan' fly back an' hurt ye; them does so sometimes.'
'Yes, I'll be careful. Why, you've got Whitney here!'
'He come down to-night, Net. By himself, somehow, though I doan' knaw how Lord kep' his short feet from the river bank an' the floom. An' he couldn't go back, nor I couldn't go with him. He's slep' on the cender, nice; all's a cradle to Nobby.'
'Yes, cinder's a good bed, when the eyes are shut,' said the girl, bitterly. 'The coffee was smoking hot when I started, but it's cold out this morning, so there's all this to be done over.'
'Yes, outdoors has cooled it. The world was hungry, like, an' wanted to eat it. Small nubbin' for all the world, but it stole the hot an' the smell o' the meat.'
The girl did not reply to this bit of pleasantry. She was about eighteen, and her face would have been strikingly pretty except for the eager, hungering look of the eye; but in every motion, every look, and even the way in which she wore her neat and simple clothing, there was the word 'unsatisfied.'
Finally, she brought coffee and meat to him.
'Here, Net, take ye a sip,' said he; ''twill warm ye nice. Shiverin' yet she is; 'deed the mornin's clammy cold; there's naw love in thet. Drink! I cawnt take ye home so, an' my time's most up; it's gettin' light.'
But she refused it, and sat and watched him as he ate, never taking her eyes from his face.
'Father,' she presently said, 'what do you do here?'
The old stoker laughed: 'Do, my girl? Why, keep up the fires. It's like I'm a spoke in a wheel or summut. I keeps the fires, an' the fires makes the angeen go, an' thet turns the works thet makes the pistols, so't folks may kill theirsel's. There's naw peace anywheres in the world.'
'I didn't mean that; but what do you do the rest of the time? Don't you think? Aren't you tired of this place, father?'
'Sometimes it's like I think so; but how's the use, my Net? Here's rough, an' here's rough too,' touching his chest. 'On smooth floors, such as I couldn't work, if we could get there. How's the use o' bein' tired? We've got to keep steady at summut. It's best to be content, like Nobby there; cender's as good a bed as the king's got.'
'Well, if you were tired, you're going to rest now, so I wish you were.'
'What's that mean?'
'You've got through here, that's all,' cried the girl, with a smothered sob.
He set down his pot of coffee and his pail: 'Who told ye so?' he demanded.
'Margery Eames.'
Catching the girl's hand, the old man half dragged her through the opening into a yard devoted to coal storage. Picking their way through the spotted mire, they entered a shed where trip hammers were pounding in showers of sparks, stepped over a great revolving shaft, and came to a stairway; up, up, to the fifth floor, where the finishing rooms were.
Faint daylight was straggling through the narrow windows, and most of the lamps were out, those that were burning being very sickly, as if they did it under protest. A number of women were employed here, because much of the work was merely automatic, and just now men were scarce and women would work cheaper. The women were coarse and rough, rather the scum of the city—perhaps some might have fallen; but the place was noisome and grimy, with a sickening smell of oil everywhere, repulsive enough to be fit for any workers.
The stoker and his daughter walked to the farther end, and came to where a little group of women were sitting round a bench; one of the group tipped a wink to the rest.
'How's coal an' fires now, Adam?' she said.
'Did ye tell my girl anythin'?' he demanded.
'Of course I did.'
'What was't then?'
'Well,' said she, wiping her greasy hands on the bosom of her dress, 'I watched on the road for her this morning, an' I told her.'
'What?'
'I told her she needn't try to put on airs, she was only a stoker's daughter, an' he'll not have that place any more.'
'Did ye knaw she didn't knaw't?'
'Yes. What do you care, old dusty? She's got a good place.'
'Yes, she has, Lord's good for't.'
'Shall we fight it out, Adam? Hold on till I wipe my hands.'
'Nawt till one can fight by hersel', Margery. I forgive yer spite, an' hope Lord woan' bring it back to ye ever. What's said can nawt be helped. Come, Net.'
'You're a mean creature, Margery, to tell him that,' said one, after they were gone. 'I expected to hear you tell him about the place his girl's got. Lord! he's innocent as a baby about it, an' thinks she's on the way up, while everybody else knows it, an' knows it's the way down.'
''Tis that,' said Margery, 'but I've that much decency that I didn't say it. Let the old man take one thing at a time; he'll know it soon enough when she fetches up at the bottom.'
'What did you want to trouble old Adam for?'
'Because I did!' cried the woman, with a sudden flash; 'because I like to hurt people. I've been struck, an' stabbed, an' bruised, an' seared, an' people pointin' fingers at me, whose heart wasn't fouler'n theirs, if my lips were. It's all cut an' slash in the world, an' the only way to get on with pain when you're hit, is to hit somebody else. I'd rather find a soft spot in somebody than have a dollar give me, sure's my name's Margery. What business has he to have any feelin's, workin' year after year down there in the coal? Why haven't people been good to me? I never come up here into this grease; people sent me; an' when hit's the game I'll do my part. I hope his girl's a comfort to him; he'll be proud enough of her some time, you see.'
Adam seated his girl again, opened the doors one after another, and raked and fed the fires; then he shut them, and stood his rake in the corner, and seated himself.
'Well, it's come out,' he said; 'but I didn't mean ye should know, yet. Margery's ill willed, but it's like she didn't think.'
'I oughtn't to have told you till after to-morrow, father.'
'There's how't seems hard, thet it must come to Christmas. An' when I've been here so long, twenty year noo, Net.'
'Oh, don't call me that any more, father; I don't like it.'
'Why nawt, little girl? What should I call her? You used to love to hear it.'
'Not now, not now,' said the girl, in a choking voice, 'not to-day, not till Christmas is over. Call me Jane.'
'Yes, twenty year ago I come here, an' I've been settin' on them piles o' cender ever sence. 'Deed I most love them doors an' the rake an' poker. I've hed my frets about it sometimes, but I doan' want to go though.'
'And I say it's a shame in them to use you so!' cried the girl. 'Making their money hand over hand, and to go and grudge you this ash hole, for the sake of saving! They'll get no good from such reckoning. I wish their cruel old mill would burn down!'
'No, Jane, hold hersel'! Here's fire—should I do it?'
'It's Cowles's work. I hate him.'
'The mill's their own, Jane; they gev me what they liked; I've no claim. Mr. Cowles do as he think best for t'mill.'
'Then to do it just now! I hope his dinner'll be sweet.'
'I nawt meant my girl to knaw't till Christmas wor done. But ye'll nawt mind it, Jane, ye'll nawt! We'll nawt lose Christmas, too, for it come for us. Mr. Cowles doan' own thet. We'll hev thet anyhow, an' keep it. She'll nawt fret hersel', my little girl!'
Jane did not answer.
'We'll get on somehoo, Lord knaws hoo. We never starved yet, an' you've got a good place. It'll all be right, an' Christmas day to-morrow!'
'I got a good place! Oh, father!'
'Why, Jane, I thought so. Doan' they use her well?'
'Yes, they do,' quickly answered the girl; 'I don't know why I spoke so. I'm a bit discontented, perhaps, but don't you fear for me, father; and we mustn't fret—anyway, till after to-morrow.'
'She's nawt content, is she?' said the stoker, settling his head into his hands. 'I've hed my frets, too, alone here, thinkin' summut like I should liked to knaw books, an' been defferent, but it's like I'd nawt been content. Lord knows. 'Deed I loves them doors an' the old place here, but seems as if summut was sayin' there's better things; it's like there is, but nawt for such as me. I doan' care for mysel', but I'd like to hev more to gev my little girl.'
'You give me all you've got, father, and I ought to be satisfied. But I'm not—it's not your blame, father, but I know I'm not,' she said, with sudden energy. 'I don't know what I want; it's something—it seems as if I was hungry.'
'Nawt hungry, Jane! She's nawt starvin'!'
