I hastened to mother’s protecting arms, And asked if a poor girl must be on guard, Who claims neither beauty, nor loving charms, And whose dress cost only five cents a yard. “I’ll tell you, my dear, for I understand, Why that bold bad man set your head awhirl. He saw that poverty held you in hand, And you were only a poor working girl.” “But tell me, mother, have the poor no rights, Must one be rich to command respect? Our minister tells us that God delights, In the honest and poor of ev’ry sect.” “I know, my dear, what the ministers preach, But I state the fact so well as I can, Tho Christ has proclaimed what his priests shall teach, They have not overcome the sin in man. “Some men are good as they know how to be, While others repel life’s chastening rod, The rich meet temptations we never see, The good honest poor are nearest to God.” Thanks, my dear mother, your life is my guide, I will work night and day just as you do, When temptation comes I’ll thrust it aside, Grow nearer to God and nearer to you. When my work in this life has all been done, I will wend my way to the gates of pearl, And present this plea to the Holy One: “Dear Lord, I am only a working girl.” THE WAYWARD GIRL. Suggested by reading the testimony of the severe whippings given with the “cat o’ eight tails” in the Industrial School for Girls at Adrian, Michigan. Written May, 1899. Strip off my clothes, expose my back, From shoulder to the hip, Hold fast my hands in vise like rack, Nor once let go the grip. Now raise your weapon high in air, And strike with all your might, On my poor back now white and fair, Nor hide the brutal sight. A single lash is not enough To bring the color quick, A “cat o’ eight tails” strong and tough, Will sooner make me sick. Rain down the blows nor halt to rest, Till you are out of breath, Another brute with equal zest, Will whip me most to death. See now the color pinky bright, But just over my heart, There still remain some streaks of white, Don’t miss this vital part. Measure your blows and deal them straight, Bring out the redder hue, Nor let your cruel strokes abate, Till all is black and blue. Now burns my back as if by fire, Red roasted in a flame, What more can cruel fate require, Of my poor trembling frame? I shrink with fear, I scream with pain, I pray “O spare my life,” So squeals the pig and squeals in vain, For deeper goes the knife. My voice is hushed, I faint, I choke, Death hovers closely by, Down falls another last hard stroke, “Take that, you wretch, and die.”