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The Sick Journalist

The Sick Journalist E. Nesbit THROB, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain! One’s heart and one’s eyes on re, And never a spark in one’s brain. The stupid paper and ink, That might be turned into gold, Lie here unused, Since one’s brain refused To do its tricks—as of old. One can suffer still, indeed, But one cannot think any more. There’s no re in the grate, No food on the plate, And the East-wind shrieks through the door. The sunshine grins in the street: It used to cheer me like wine, Now it only quickens my brain’s sick beat; And the children are crying for bread to eat And I cannot write a line! Molly, my pet—don’t cry, Father can’t write if you do— And anyhow, if you only knew, It’s hard enough as it is. There, give old daddy a kiss, And cuddle down on the ˆoor; We’ll have some dinner by-and-by. Now, fool, try! Try once more! Hold your head tight in your hands, Bring your will to bear! The children are starving—your little ones— While you sit fooling there. Labor: Studies in Working-Class History, Volume 15, Issue 1 DOI 10.1215/15476715-4288620 Downloaded from https://read.dukeupress.edu/labor/article-pdf/15/1/5/521297/0150005.pdf by DEEPDYVE INC user on http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Labor Duke University Press

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Copyright
Copyright © 2018 Labor and Working-Class History Association
ISSN
1547-6715
eISSN
1558-1454
DOI
10.1215/15476715-4288620
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

E. Nesbit THROB, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain! One’s heart and one’s eyes on re, And never a spark in one’s brain. The stupid paper and ink, That might be turned into gold, Lie here unused, Since one’s brain refused To do its tricks—as of old. One can suffer still, indeed, But one cannot think any more. There’s no re in the grate, No food on the plate, And the East-wind shrieks through the door. The sunshine grins in the street: It used to cheer me like wine, Now it only quickens my brain’s sick beat; And the children are crying for bread to eat And I cannot write a line! Molly, my pet—don’t cry, Father can’t write if you do— And anyhow, if you only knew, It’s hard enough as it is. There, give old daddy a kiss, And cuddle down on the ˆoor; We’ll have some dinner by-and-by. Now, fool, try! Try once more! Hold your head tight in your hands, Bring your will to bear! The children are starving—your little ones— While you sit fooling there. Labor: Studies in Working-Class History, Volume 15, Issue 1 DOI 10.1215/15476715-4288620 Downloaded from https://read.dukeupress.edu/labor/article-pdf/15/1/5/521297/0150005.pdf by DEEPDYVE INC user on

Journal

LaborDuke University Press

Published: Mar 1, 2018

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