Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt!

"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own--
It seems so like my own
Because of the fast I keep:
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work--work--work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread--and rags,
That shattered roof--and this naked floor--
A table--a broken chair--
And a wall so blank my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!


"Work--work--work
From weary chime to chime!
Work--work--work
As prisoners work for crime!"

If Thomas Hood had lived in our day, and could have gone around with me
in Boston, he would have had to make it stronger yet, for among us the
good, honest sewing-woman must work at least one-third harder than the