Now a cat renowned of tiger-stripe
And fat.  And once again the cottage-home
Gave foretaste of the other, deathless, pure,
And glad, for love was there.        With quenchless hope
The happy widow bravely bent her shoulders
To the yoke again.  She had her boy
To live for, work for, love, and he would be
A man some day, and strong, when she would lean
On him as he had leaned on her.  And yet
The yoke was heavy, and grew heavier
As vigour waned.  In spite of hope and will
She craved for rest.  Or even if the wage
Were better, labour could be lessened
And give more of rest.
ON STRIKE        One day some workmen
Struck for better pay.  And David wondered
What it meant to strike.  "What is it, mother?--
Do they hit the men that give them work?"
The mother smiled.  "No, no, my child, they merely
Rest or cease from work to force their masters
Into giving better pay to get them
Back to work."  A happy thought now seized him--
"Oh, mother, strike, and then the people sure
Will give you better pay."  The mother smiled,
But sighed and said, "My darling boy, if I
Should strike, a score of women poor are ready,
Even glad, to take my place, perchance for less."
The boy was disappointed, and his heart
Was sad.        But "strike," that odd word strike, as meaning
Rest from work, or stopping work, clung fast
To David's mind.  Apart from better pay
He thought that something good remained, and so
At night, the last thing done before he slept,
The boy would often take his board, a blackboard
Big, and chalk in letters large and white--
"On strike till 7," "On strike till 6," "On strike
Till 5," according as his mother's work
Required, or strength could stand.  The metal clock,
A loud alarum, was also wound and set.
At this the mother always smiled, but when

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