The Mother Follows

She follows the children out to play, And calls and clutches when they stray The hideous, nameless house too near, Or in the bright saloon would peer. When will the foolish creature learn That these are none of her concern? "Go home and take care of your children." She follows the young things to the mill, And rashly seeks to guard them still From fenceless cogs that whirl and thrust And fill the air with lint and dust. The pay is small, the hours are long, The fire-escapes are none too strong— Meddlesome woman! Home again! This is the business of the men. "Go home and take care of your children." At last she follows the children home, Up to the dark and airless room, By noisome hall and lampless stair; But these are none of her affair; Nor should she seek to help or kill Amendments to the Tenement Bill. Yet now she wears upon her breast A button with the bold request: "Let me take care of my children!"