Overheard
Who was the speaker? I turned to see—
A sharp little saucy face,
No whit abashed, gazing at me
With bead-eyes, curiously,
With a petulant child's grimace,
As I shifted, moving her feet
From the chair where they'd taken root,
For the time at least; then again
I listened. Fast and fleet
She poured out the queer little words to her friend—
(A sort of overgrown brute).
I heard it out to the end—
A story of pain.
Here you have it, in fine
(Her words, not mine):
"Tried for luck in London—
Voilà tout!
Failed, lost money, undone;
Took to the streets for a life.
Entre nous,
It's a terrible uphill strife,
Like all professions—too filled.
And now I'm in lodgings hard by,
Au quatrième, up in the sky.
Visit me by and by,
They're furnished, but oh—so cold,
So cold!"
There the queer little voice was stilled;
She moved to a further chair
And left me sitting there
45
