SOME OF THE POOR
So many have no roofs or doors, no sheets to cuddle under! You hire some men to do your chores, and then you cease to wonder. Alas, he is so hard to find—he takes so much pursuing—the worker who will keep his mind on what he may be doing. I hire a man to saw some sticks, to keep the fire a-going, and he discusses politics, in language smooth and flowing; the saw grows rusty while he stands, the welkin shrinks and totters, as he, with swinging jaws and hands, denounces Wall Street plotters. When I go home, as dusk grows dense, I hear his windy rages, and kick him sadly through the fence, when I have paid his wages. I hire a man to paint the churn and hoe the morning glories, and when at evening I return he’s busy telling stories. “That toiler is no good, I fear,” remarks the hausfrau, Sally; I take him gently by the ear and lead him to the alley. I hire a man the stove to black, and fix the kitchen table, and when at evening I come back, he’s sleeping in the stable. And thus we suffer and endure the trifler’s vain endeavor; we do not wonder that the poor are with us here forever.