Not far from where she lay, so sadly lone, Her calendar, or "diary," was thrown; They let me have it when the law had read This plaintive, girlish message from the dead. It doesn't look well among these notes to stay, Of one who feeds on blessings every day; But I will put it in here, for my heart To look at when I feel too proud and smart! A SEWING-GIRL'S DIARY. FEBRUARY 1, 18--. Here--am I here? Or is it fancy, born of fear? Yes--O God, save me!--this is I, And not some wretch of whom I've read, In that bright girlhood, when the sky Each night strewed star-dust o'er my head; When each morn meant a gala-day, And all my little world was gay. I had not felt the touch of Care; I'd heard of something called Despair, But knew it only by its name. (How far it seemed!--how soon it came!) Yes, all the bright years hurried by; Sorrow was near, and--this is I! Is't the same girl that stood, one night, There in the wide hall's thrilling light, With all the costly robes astir That love and pride had bought for her? How the great crowd, 'mid their kind din, Gazed with gaunt eyes and drank me in! And then they hushed at each low word, So Death himself might have been heard, To hear me mournfully rehearse The tender Hood's pathetic verse About the woman who, half dead, Stitched her frail life in every thread. How little then I knew the need! Yet for my own sex I did plead, And my heart crept on each word's track Till soft sobs from the crowd came back. [Illustration: "IS'T THE SAME GIRL THAT STOOD, ONE NIGHT, THERE IN THE WIDE HALL'S THRILLING LIGHT?"] I saw my sister, streaming-eyed, Yet bearing still a face of pride: Oh, sister! when you looked at me With that quick yearning glance of love, Did you peer on, to what might be-- _What is?_--and is it known above? When that great throng a shout did raise, And gave me words of heart-felt praise, And loving eyes their incense burned Till my young girlish head was turned-- Did your clear eye see farther then A moment past all mortal ken, And in the dreary scene I drew Did my own form appear to you? It might have been; grief was o'er-nigh, And--God, have pity!--this is I, Treading a steep and dang'rous way, And--earning twenty cents a day! * * * * * FEBRUARY 5, 18--. Father, this is the time we hailed As your bright birthday. We ne'er failed To throng about with love's fond arts, And bring you presents from our hearts; Your pleasure filled our day with bliss; Oh what a different one from this! My love, my father! how you stood 'Twixt me and all that was not good! How, each o'er-hurried breath I drew, My girl-heart turned and clung to you! * * * * *