The flickering carbon threw a stream
Of bluish light over the sleety street.
Men and women everywhere were hurrying homeward,
Shivering for the comfort that was gleaming
Through many a window from blazing hearths within.
The freezing rain was biting like an adder.
Down the icy thoroughfare,
Muffled deep in furs and ulster,
Madly rushed the Wall-street banker,
Plunging through the storm and shadow,
Impatient for the shelter of his mansion.
No wonder that he heeded not the darkling figure
Of a little homeless waif that crouched
Beneath the jutting frieze and cornice
Of a rich Corinthian window;—
No wonder, for the night was bitter,
And his mansion yet two blocks away!
No wonder either that the wanderer
Neither saw nor heard the banker,
Though his tread was swift and heavy,
For a mighty storm was raging!
Yet above the noise and howling
Of the wind and rain and tempest,
The outcast heard the shoeless footfall
Of a little homeless brother,
Lost amid the blinding shadows.
And soon they slept, secure and thankful,
Though the maddening storm grew fiercer,—
Slept, but dreamed:
The window rose a richer mansion
Than ever sheltered Wall-street banker—
A castle wrought of childish fancy,
More beauteous than the pen of romance
Has pictured of the days of chivalry.
But their little dreaming childhood,
Painted no baronial robber.
Saw no haughty plumed tiara,
Heard no clank in Norman donjon.
In the palace, dream-constructed,
Where the little waifs lay nestled
In each other's arms fraternal,
Love had built a shining altar,
War had laid aside his armor,
And the knights that there assembled
Were their little homeless brothers,
Gathered from the ranks of sorrow,
Orphans, outcasts, gamin, wanderers.