And some of them shook their heads
And would never tell what they'd heard.
But he drove his awl and snapt his thread—
And he always kept his word;
And the little child that knew him
Better than all the rest,
She threw her arms around his neck
And went to sleep on his breast.
One day in that dreadful summer
When children died by the score,
John Carman glanced from his work and saw
Her mother there at the door.
He knew by the look on her face—
And his own turned deathly white;
He rose from his bench and followed her out
And watched by the child that night.
He tended her day and night;
He watched by her night and day.
He saw the cruel pain in her eyes;
He saw her lips turn gray.
II
The day that the child was buried
John Carman went back to his last,
And the neighbors said that for weeks and weeks
Not a word his clencht lips past.
"He takes it hard," they gossiped,
"Poor man, he's lacking in wit";
"I'll drop in to-day," said Deacon Gray,
"And comfort him up a bit."
