Wind in the South; a fresh, sweet, winter day; 'Twould have been sad to see it go away, If 'twere not that the sunset's signal-lights Glimmered awhile across the Jersey heights, Then, lightly dancing o'er the river, came And set some New York windows all aflame. (From a clear sunset I can always borrow God's sweet half promise of a fair to-morrow.) But, while I gazed upon that splendid sight, My mind _would_ take a heavy, care-winged flight Up to a small back garret, far away, Where I had stood at two o'clock to-day. Want--want--want--want! it hung 'round everywhere; It threw its odors on the sickly air! The room was somewhat smaller, to begin, Than I would put a span of horses in; The floor was rough and damp as floor could be; No picture on the walls but Poverty; The bed was ragged, scanty, hard, and drear; A rough-made, empty crib was standing near; The "window" 'd never felt the sun's warm stare, Or breathed a breath of good old-fashioned air; [Illustration: "YES, IT'S STRAIGHT AND TRUE, GOOD PREACHER, EVERY WORD THAT YOU HAVE SAID."] A little, worn-out doll some child had had, Looking, like its surroundings, rough and sad, And dressed in rags and pinched and famine-faced, But bearing still some marks of girlish taste; A gaunt, gray kitten, showing every sign That it was on the last life of its nine, Though trying hard to feel quite sleek and fat, And not a very care-worn, desolate cat; A man, so grieved my heart can see him now, With frightful sorrow printed on his brow; A rough, wood coffin stood there near the bed, Looking uneasy even for the dead; A little, pallid face I saw therein-- A niceish-looking child she must have been, As sweet as ever need to feed a glance, If she had only had one-half a chance. But still, she woke a thought I could not smother-- "That child was murdered in some way or other."[4] And my opinion didn't seem much amiss When the man spoke up, something like to this: [4] All this, above the shoulder, I could see, Of an old preacher who had come with me-- A man who, 'mongst those garrets, earns, they say, A house and lot in heaven every day. [THAT SWAMP OF DEATH.] Yes, it's straight and true, good Preacher, every word that you have said; Do not think these tears unmanly--they're the first ones I have shed! But they kind o' beat and pounded 'gainst my aching heart and brain, And they would not be let go of, and they gave me extra pain. I am just a laboring man, sir--work for food and rags and sleep, And I hardly know the meaning of the life I slave to keep; But I know when times are cheery, or my heart is made of lead; I know sorrow when I see it, and--I know my girl is dead!