THE NEWS-BOY.
Hark on the street the News-boy’s call,Above all other sounds it rings;“Great news by telegraph”[9]he brings,A luxury devoured by all;And some with vacant visage laugh;—Laugh while they read of ruthless war,Of huge disasters, near and far,Of crimes that give the world a jar,O wondrous news by telegraph!The Press is modern Jove, and heSwift Mercury, who bears abroadThe utterance of the sleepless god,Wherever thriving cities be;Wherever steeples pierce the sky;Where desperate politicians bawl,Responsive to their country’s call,And drunkards reel against the wall,There peals the eager News-boy’s cry.Through central and suburban partHe hurries on, and who may tellWhat hopes his little bosom swell,What distant visions warm his heart.At times you see him—hapless one!With elbows out, a tuft of hairSeeking, through crown-rent hat, the air,His feet half shod, or wholly bare,And buttons of importance gone.But whether ragged, spruce or grand,Proudly his pile of pence he jinks,And, reckoning his profits, thinks:—“The day may come when I shall standAmong the richest and the best.”And then his troubles, light as chaff,Pass from him; he could leap and laugh;“Great news, great news, by telegraph!”Again he shouts with swelling chest.And thus his rill of boyhood runs;And oft dependent on his mite,A widowed mother waits at night,Waits with her famished little ones,And listens for his homeward tread.A happy smile illumes her face;The mother and the boy embrace,And, all within the humble place,A sudden light from Heaven is shed.He tells her of the day’s success,Of incidents both grave and gay,The dandy’s hat that flew away,And wind-tossed ladies in distress.The widow gazes while he speaks;Another voice in his she hears,Another face in his appears,And holy are the silent tearsThat trickle down her pallid cheeks.But other parents, different far,Await the News-boy, and purloinThe little fellow’s honest coinTo spend at some pernicious bar;They think not how, with weary tread,All day the child has nobly strivenTo merit praise;—with curses driven,A scanty supper, harshly given,He weeps within his little bed.The angels heed his lowly state,And pity him, and kindly weaveA destiny which none perceive,Save those at the celestial gate.Then give, my brothers, words of cheerTo waft the News-boy on his way;His country, at some future day,May learn his name, and proudly say:—Of noblest men he is the peer.
Hark on the street the News-boy’s call,Above all other sounds it rings;“Great news by telegraph”[9]he brings,A luxury devoured by all;And some with vacant visage laugh;—Laugh while they read of ruthless war,Of huge disasters, near and far,Of crimes that give the world a jar,O wondrous news by telegraph!The Press is modern Jove, and heSwift Mercury, who bears abroadThe utterance of the sleepless god,Wherever thriving cities be;Wherever steeples pierce the sky;Where desperate politicians bawl,Responsive to their country’s call,And drunkards reel against the wall,There peals the eager News-boy’s cry.Through central and suburban partHe hurries on, and who may tellWhat hopes his little bosom swell,What distant visions warm his heart.At times you see him—hapless one!With elbows out, a tuft of hairSeeking, through crown-rent hat, the air,His feet half shod, or wholly bare,And buttons of importance gone.But whether ragged, spruce or grand,Proudly his pile of pence he jinks,And, reckoning his profits, thinks:—“The day may come when I shall standAmong the richest and the best.”And then his troubles, light as chaff,Pass from him; he could leap and laugh;“Great news, great news, by telegraph!”Again he shouts with swelling chest.And thus his rill of boyhood runs;And oft dependent on his mite,A widowed mother waits at night,Waits with her famished little ones,And listens for his homeward tread.A happy smile illumes her face;The mother and the boy embrace,And, all within the humble place,A sudden light from Heaven is shed.He tells her of the day’s success,Of incidents both grave and gay,The dandy’s hat that flew away,And wind-tossed ladies in distress.The widow gazes while he speaks;Another voice in his she hears,Another face in his appears,And holy are the silent tearsThat trickle down her pallid cheeks.But other parents, different far,Await the News-boy, and purloinThe little fellow’s honest coinTo spend at some pernicious bar;They think not how, with weary tread,All day the child has nobly strivenTo merit praise;—with curses driven,A scanty supper, harshly given,He weeps within his little bed.The angels heed his lowly state,And pity him, and kindly weaveA destiny which none perceive,Save those at the celestial gate.Then give, my brothers, words of cheerTo waft the News-boy on his way;His country, at some future day,May learn his name, and proudly say:—Of noblest men he is the peer.
Hark on the street the News-boy’s call,Above all other sounds it rings;“Great news by telegraph”[9]he brings,A luxury devoured by all;And some with vacant visage laugh;—Laugh while they read of ruthless war,Of huge disasters, near and far,Of crimes that give the world a jar,O wondrous news by telegraph!
The Press is modern Jove, and heSwift Mercury, who bears abroadThe utterance of the sleepless god,Wherever thriving cities be;Wherever steeples pierce the sky;Where desperate politicians bawl,Responsive to their country’s call,And drunkards reel against the wall,There peals the eager News-boy’s cry.
Through central and suburban partHe hurries on, and who may tellWhat hopes his little bosom swell,What distant visions warm his heart.At times you see him—hapless one!With elbows out, a tuft of hairSeeking, through crown-rent hat, the air,His feet half shod, or wholly bare,And buttons of importance gone.
But whether ragged, spruce or grand,Proudly his pile of pence he jinks,And, reckoning his profits, thinks:—“The day may come when I shall standAmong the richest and the best.”And then his troubles, light as chaff,Pass from him; he could leap and laugh;“Great news, great news, by telegraph!”Again he shouts with swelling chest.
And thus his rill of boyhood runs;And oft dependent on his mite,A widowed mother waits at night,Waits with her famished little ones,And listens for his homeward tread.A happy smile illumes her face;The mother and the boy embrace,And, all within the humble place,A sudden light from Heaven is shed.
He tells her of the day’s success,Of incidents both grave and gay,The dandy’s hat that flew away,And wind-tossed ladies in distress.The widow gazes while he speaks;Another voice in his she hears,Another face in his appears,And holy are the silent tearsThat trickle down her pallid cheeks.
But other parents, different far,Await the News-boy, and purloinThe little fellow’s honest coinTo spend at some pernicious bar;They think not how, with weary tread,All day the child has nobly strivenTo merit praise;—with curses driven,A scanty supper, harshly given,He weeps within his little bed.
The angels heed his lowly state,And pity him, and kindly weaveA destiny which none perceive,Save those at the celestial gate.Then give, my brothers, words of cheerTo waft the News-boy on his way;His country, at some future day,May learn his name, and proudly say:—Of noblest men he is the peer.
[9]This was written in the early days of telegraphing, when the News-boy delighted to proclaim that his papers, sparkled with intelligence, flashed along the electric wire.
[9]This was written in the early days of telegraphing, when the News-boy delighted to proclaim that his papers, sparkled with intelligence, flashed along the electric wire.
[9]This was written in the early days of telegraphing, when the News-boy delighted to proclaim that his papers, sparkled with intelligence, flashed along the electric wire.