一支铅笔，先生;一便士——你不买吗?我又冷又湿又累，真是可怜的处境;不要转过身去，先生;拿一个试试;今晚我一笔生意也没做成。哦，谢谢你，先生;不过，把铅笔也拿去吧;我不是乞丐，我是个生意人。我经营的铅笔，红的、黑的、蓝的; It's hard, but still I do the best I can. Most days I make enough to pay for bread, A cup o' coffee, stretching room at night. One needs so little -- to be warm and fed, A hole to kennel in -- oh, one's all right . . . Excuse me, you're a painter, are you not? I saw you looking at that dealer's show, The croûtes he has for sale, a shabby lot -- What do I know of Art? What do I know . . . Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed, "White Sorcery" it's called, all gossamer, And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid (You like the little elfin face of her?) -- That's good; but still, the picture as a whole, The values, -- Pah! He never painted worse; Perhaps because his fire was lacking coal, His cupboard bare, no money in his purse. Perhaps . . . they say he labored hard and long, And see now, in the harvest of his fame, When round his pictures people gape and throng, A scurvy dealer sells this on his name. A wretched rag, wrung out of want and woe; A soulless daub, not David Strong a bit, Unworthy of his art. . . . How should I know? How should I know? I'm Strong -- I painted it. There now, I didn't mean to let that out. It came in spite of me -- aye, stare and stare. You think I'm lying, crazy, drunk, no doubt -- Think what you like, it's neither here nor there. It's hard to tell so terrible a truth, To gain to glory, yet be such as I. It's true; that picture's mine, done in my youth, Up in a garret near the Paris sky. The child's my daughter; aye, she posed for me. That's why I come and sit here every night. The painting's bad, but still -- oh, still I see Her little face all laughing in the light. So now you understand. -- I live in fear Lest one like you should carry it away; A poor, pot-boiling thing, but oh, how dear! "Don't let them buy it, pitying God!" I pray! And hark ye, sir -- sometimes my brain's awhirl. Some night I'll crash into that window pane And snatch my picture back, my little girl, And run and run. . . . I'm talking wild again; A crab can't run. I'm crippled, withered, lame, Palsied, as good as dead all down one side. No warning had I when the evil came: It struck me down in all my strength and pride. Triumph was mine, I thrilled with perfect power; Honor was mine, Fame's laurel touched my brow; Glory was mine -- within a little hour I was a god and . . . what you find me now. My child, that little, laughing girl you see, She was my nurse for all ten weary years; Her joy, her hope, her youth she gave for me; Her very smiles were masks to hide her tears. And I, my precious art, so rich, so rare, Lost, lost to me -- what could my heart but break! Oh, as I lay and wrestled with despair, I would have killed myself but for her sake. . . . By luck I had some pictures I could sell, And so we fought the wolf back from the door; She painted too, aye, wonderfully well. We often dreamed of brighter days in store. And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail; I saw the shadows darken round her eyes. So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale, And oh, there came a day she could not rise. The doctor looked at her; he shook his head, And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air: "If you can get her out of this," he said, "She'll have a fighting chance with proper care." "With proper care!" When he had gone away, I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief. Under my old and ragged coat she lay, Our room was bare and cold beyond belief. "Maybe," I thought, "I still can paint a bit, Some lilies, landscape, anything at all." Alas! My brush, I could not steady it. Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall. "With proper care" -- how could I give her that, Half of me dead? . . . I crawled down to the street. Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat And begged of every one I chanced to meet. I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread, And so I fought to keep the Doom away; And yet I saw with agony of dread My dear one sinking, sinking day by day. And then I was awakened in the night: "Please take my hands, I'm cold," I heard her sigh; And soft she whispered, as she held me tight: "Oh daddy, we've been happy, you an