<h2><SPAN name="chap41"></SPAN>MISS DOANE</h2>
<p class="poem">
Miss Doane was sixty, probably;<br/>
She rented third floor room<br/>
That opened on an airshaft full<br/>
Of cooking smells and gloom.<br/>
<br/>
She worked in philanthropic man’s<br/>
Well-known department store;<br/>
Cashiered in basement, hot and close,<br/>
For forty years or more.<br/>
<br/>
Each night when she came home she’d stand<br/>
A moment in the hall,<br/>
Before she went into her room<br/>
With low and tender call.<br/>
<br/>
And often I would hear her voice<br/>
Repeat a childish prayer;<br/>
Or read some old, old fairy tale<br/>
Of Princess, grand and fair.<br/>
<br/>
One night I went to visit her<br/>
And spied, in little chair<br/>
A great wax doll, in dainty dress,<br/>
And curls of flaxen hair.<br/>
<br/>
I praised the doll; its prettiness;<br/>
Miss Doane said, “I’m alone.<br/>
She comforts me. I wanted so<br/>
A child to call my own.”<br/>
<br/>
Each night I heard her softly sing<br/>
A childish lullaby;<br/>
But once, and just before she died,<br/>
I heard her cry and cry!<br/></p>
<p class="left">
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON</p>
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