So many have no roofs or doors, no sheets to cuddle under! You hire some
men to do your chores, and then you cease to wonder. Alas, he is so hard
to find—he takes so much pursuing—the worker who will keep his mind on
what he may be doing. I hire a man to saw some sticks, to keep the fire
a-going, and he discusses politics, in language smooth and flowing; the
saw grows rusty while he stands, the welkin shrinks and totters, as he,
with swinging jaws and hands, denounces Wall Street plotters. When I go
home, as dusk grows dense, I hear his windy rages, and kick him sadly
through the fence, when I have paid his wages. I hire a man to paint the
churn and hoe the morning glories, and when at evening I return he’s
busy telling stories. “That toiler is no good, I fear,” remarks the
hausfrau, Sally; I take him gently by the ear and lead him to the alley.
I hire a man the stove to black, and fix the kitchen table, and when at
evening I come back, he’s sleeping in the stable. And thus we suffer and
endure the trifler’s vain endeavor; we do not wonder that the poor are
with us here forever.
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