Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/701

 I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast (For a coin, for the weaving of my children's lace and lawn), Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot rest, How can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone? I who took no heed of her, starved and labor-worn, I against whose placid heart my sleepy gold heads lie, Round my path they cry to me, little souls unborn, ''God of Life—Creator! It was I! It was I!''

God and the Flowers

(From "My Lady of the Chimney-Corner")

(A tender and loving picture of the author's mother, an Irish peasant-woman. See page 385)

That night there was an unusual atmosphere in her corner. She had a newly tallied cap on her head and her little Sunday shawl over her shoulders. Her candle was burning and the hearth stones had an extra coat of whitewash. She drew me up close beside her and told me a story.

"Once, a long, long time ago, God, feelin' tired, went to sleep an' had a nice wee nap on His throne. His head was in His han's an' a wee white cloud came down an' covered him up. Purty soon He wakes up an' says He:

"'Where's Michael?'

"'Here I am, Father!' said Michael.

"'Michael, me boy,' says God, 'I want a chariot and a charioteer!'

"'Right ye are!' says he. Up comes the purtiest chariot in the city of Heaven an' the finest charioteer.