Miss Doane

MISS Doane was sixty, probably;
She rented third floor room
That opened on an airshaft full
Of cooking smells and gloom.

She worked in philanthropic man’s
Well-known department store;
Cashiered in basement, hot and close,
For forty years or more.

Each night when she came home she’d stand
A moment in the hall,
Before she went into her room
With low and tender call.

And often I would hear her voice
Repeat a childish prayer;
Or read some old, old fairy tale
Of Princess, grand and fair.

One night I went to visit her
And spied, in little chair
A great wax doll, in dainty dress,
And curls of flaxen hair.

I praised the doll; its prettiness;
Miss Doane said, "I’m alone.
She comforts me. I wanted so
A child to call my own."

Each night I heard her softly sing
A childish lullaby;
But once, and just before she died,
I heard her cry and cry!

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON