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Title: The Widow in the Bye Street Author: John Masefield Release Date: November 23, 2012 [EBook #41468] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET
LONDON SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD. 3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI MCMXII
_Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A._ _All rights reserved_
Down Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town, There lived a widow with her only son: She had no wealth nor title to renown, Nor any joyous hours, never one. She rose from ragged mattress before sun And stitched all day until her eyes were red, And had to stitch, because her man was dead.
Sometimes she fell asleep, she stitched so hard, Letting the linen fall upon the floor; And hungry cats would steal in from the yard, And mangy chickens pecked about the door Craning their necks so ragged and so sore To search the room for bread-crumbs, or for mouse, But they got nothing in the widow’s house.
Mostly she made her bread by hemming shrouds For one rich undertaker in the High Street, Who used to pray that folks might die in crowds And that their friends might pay to let them lie sweet; And when one died the widow in the Bye Street Stitched night and day to give the worm his dole. The dead were better dressed than that poor soul.
Her little son was all her life’s delight, For in his little features she could find A glimpse of that dead husband out of sight, Where out of sight is never out of mind. And so she stitched till she was nearly blind, Or till the tallow candle end was done, To get a living for her little son.
Her love for him being such she would not rest, It was a want which ate her out and in, Another hunger in her withered breast Pressing her woman’s bones against the skin. To make him plump she starved her body thin. And he, he ate the food, and never knew, He laughed and played as little children do.
When there was little sickness in the place She took what God would send, and what God sent Never brought any colour to her face Nor life into her footsteps when she went Going, she trembled always withered and bent For all went to her son, always the same, He was first served whatever blessing came.