Will it Pay?

Out from the hearth come the children,
Fair as the sunshine, pure as the snow;
A licensed throng on the crowded street
Waits the coming of guileless feet,
Child of the rich and child of the poor
Pass to their wreck through the dram-shop door.
Oh, say, will they ever come back as they go—
Fair as the sunshine, pure as the snow.

Out from the hearthstone the children
Pass from the breath of a mother's prayer;
Shall a father's vote on the crowded street
Consent to the snare for the thoughtless feet?
Ah, fathers 2 your finest gold grows dim,
Black with the rust of such shameless sin.
You may pave your street with your children slain,
And light your ways with the price of shame;
But, say, will your dearest come back as they go—
Fair as the sunshine, pure as the snow ?

Mary T. Lanthrop.