Part 1 (1/2)

THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET.

by John Masefield.

I

Down Bye Street, in a little Shrops.h.i.+re town, There lived a widow with her only son: She had no wealth nor t.i.tle to renown, Nor any joyous hours, never one.

She rose from ragged mattress before sun And st.i.tched all day until her eyes were red, And had to st.i.tch, because her man was dead.

Sometimes she fell asleep, she st.i.tched so hard, Letting the linen fall upon the floor; And hungry cats would steal in from the yard, And mangy chickens pecked about the door Craning their necks so ragged and so sore To search the room for bread-crumbs, or for mouse, But they got nothing in the widow's house.

Mostly she made her bread by hemming shrouds For one rich undertaker in the High Street, Who used to pray that folks might die in crowds And that their friends might pay to let them lie sweet; And when one died the widow in the Bye Street St.i.tched night and day to give the worm his dole.

The dead were better dressed than that poor soul.

Her little son was all her life's delight, For in his little features she could find A glimpse of that dead husband out of sight, Where out of sight is never out of mind.

And so she st.i.tched till she was nearly blind, Or till the tallow candle end was done, To get a living for her little son.

Her love for him being such she would not rest, It was a want which ate her out and in, Another hunger in her withered breast Pressing her woman's bones against the skin.

To make him plump she starved her body thin.

And he, he ate the food, and never knew, He laughed and played as little children do.

When there was little sickness in the place She took what G.o.d would send, and what G.o.d sent Never brought any colour to her face Nor life into her footsteps when she went Going, she trembled always withered and bent For all went to her son, always the same, He was first served whatever blessing came.

Sometimes she wandered out to gather sticks, For it was bitter cold there when it snowed.

And she stole hay out of the farmer's ricks For bands to wrap her feet in while she sewed, And when her feet were warm and the grate glowed She hugged her little son, her heart's desire, With 'Jimmy, ain't it snug beside the fire?'

So years went on till Jimmy was a lad And went to work as poor lads have to do, And then the widow's loving heart was glad To know that all the pains she had gone through And all the years of putting on the screw, Down to the sharpest turn a mortal can, Had borne their fruit, and made her child a man.

He got a job at working on the line Tipping the earth down, trolly after truck, From daylight till the evening, wet or fine, With arms all red from wallowing in the muck, And spitting, as the trolly tipped, for luck, And singing 'Binger' as he swung the pick Because the red blood ran in him so quick.

So there was bacon then, at night, for supper In Bye Street there, where he and mother stay; And boots they had, not leaky in the upper, And room rent ready on the settling day; And beer for poor old mother, worn and grey, And fire in frost; and in the widow's eyes It seemed the Lord had made earth paradise.

And there they sat of evenings after dark Singing their song of 'Binger,' he and she, Her poor old cackle made the mongrels bark And 'You sing Binger, mother,' carols he; 'By crimes, but that's a good song, that her be': And then they slept there in the room they shared, And all the time fate had his end prepared.

One thing alone made life not perfect sweet: The mother's daily fear of what would come When woman and her lovely boy should meet, When the new wife would break up the old home.

Fear of that unborn evil struck her dumb, And when her darling and a woman met, She shook and prayed, 'Not her, O G.o.d; not yet.'

'Not yet, dear G.o.d, my Jimmy go from me.'

Then she would subtly question with her son.

'Not very handsome, I don't think her be?'

'G.o.d help the man who marries such an one.'

Her red eyes peered to spy the mischief done.

She took great care to keep the girls away, And all her trouble made him easier prey.

There was a woman out at Plaister's End, Light of her body, fifty to the pound, A copper coin for any man to spend, Lovely to look on when the wits were drowned.

Her husband's skeleton was never found, It lay among the rocks at Glydyr Mor Where he drank poison finding her a wh.o.r.e.

She was not native there, for she belonged Out Milford way, or Swansea; no one knew.

She had the piteous look of someone wronged, 'Anna,' her name, a widow, last of Triw.