"Sign the petition!" "Write my name!"
"She said, ask me!"—oh, she's fooling;
Where do you think a girl like me
Could find the time for so much schooling?
Why, I've been here since I was eight or so—
That's ten years now—and it seems like longer;
The hours are from eight till six—you see
It wears one out—I once was stronger.
"A bad cough!" oh, that's nothing, sir;
It comes from the dust, and bending over.
It hurts me sometimes—no, not now.
"This!" why, a flower, a bit of clover.
I picked it up as I came to work—
It grew in the grass in some one's airy,
Where it stood, and nodded all alone
Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.
"Fond of flowers!" I like them—yes—
Though, goodness knows, I don't see many—
I'd have to buy them—they cost so much—
And I never can spare a single penny.
"Go to the park!"—how can I, sir?
The only day that I have is Sunday;
And then there's always so much to do
That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.
Like it sir, like it!—why, when I think
Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking—
I was country-bred, sir—my heart swells so
That I—there, there, what's the use of thinking!
If I could write, sir—"make a cross,
And let you write my name below it"—
No, please; I'm ashamed I can't, sometimes,—
I don't want all the girls to know it.
And what's the use of it, anyway?
They'll just say shortly, with careless faces,
"If you're not suited, you'd better leave"—
There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt—
Our head just worships his own young daughter,
Just my age, sir—she's gone away
To spend the Summer across the water.
But us—oh, well, we're only "hands,"
Do you think to please us they'll bear losses?
No, not a cent's worth—ah, you'll see—
I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.