ing in a grayeyard or cemeterj' or those they saw at funerals. 



And thinking of these children brings to my thoughts Char^ 

 lotte Becker's poem, "The Waif" : 



She never saw a green field, or a tree 

 In wood or garden, or a running brook; 

 She never knew how thrush or robin look 

 Away from pavements or captivity; 

 She never watched a calf or colt run free 

 Through sunny pastures ; had a pup for friend ; 

 Or loitered barefoot where lush grasses lend 

 To play-worn feet their cooling sorcery. 



She knew no fragrance but the dingy smells 

 Of crowded tenement or shop or street; 

 No- music, save the shrill and raucous yells 

 Insistent vendors lustily repeat — 

 Yet, after a great truck had run her down, 

 They found a weed hid in her ragged gown. 



Let US grow a few more flowers to share with those who 

 rarely see or have any of their own ! 



28 



