reation,
The glorious girls of New York.

EIGHT HOURS.

"Sign the petition!" "Write my name!"
"She said, ask me!"--oh, she's fooling;
Where do you think a girl like me
Could find the time for so much schooling?
Why, I've been here since I was eight or so--
That's ten years now--and it seems like longer;
The hours are from eight till six--you see
It wears one out--I once was stronger.
"A bad cough!" oh, that's nothing, sir;
It comes from the dust, and bending over.
It hurts me sometimes--no, not now.
"This!" why, a flower, a bit of clover.
I picked it up as I came to work--
It grew in the grass in some one's airy,
Where it stood, and nodded all alone
Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.
"Fond of flowers!" I like them--yes--
Though, goodness knows, I don't see many--
I'd have to buy them--they cost so much--
And I never can spare a single penny.
"Go to the park!"--how can I, sir?
The only day that I have is Sunday;
And then there's always so much to do
That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.
Like it sir, like it!--why, when I think
Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking--
I was country-bred, sir--my heart swells so
That I--there, there, what's the use of thinking!
If I could write, sir--"make a cross,
And let you write my name below it"--
No, please; I'm ashamed I can't, sometimes,--
I don't want all the girls to know it.
And what's the use of it, anyway?
They'll just say shortly, with careless faces,
"If you're not suited, you'd better leave"--
There's plenty of girls to fill our places.
They're kind enough to their own, no doubt--
Our head just worships his own young daughter,
Just my age, sir--she's gone away
To spend the Summer across the water.
But _us_--oh, well, we're only "hands,"
Do you think to please us they'll bear losses?
No, not a cent's worth--ah, you'll see--
I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.

SLEEPING BEAUTY.
A PARABLE.

You remember the nursery legend--
We heard in the early days,
Ere we knew of the world's deception
Or walked in its dusty ways,
And dwelt in a land of the fairies
Where the air was golden haze--

Of the maid, o'er whom the Summers
Of you