eight, And Josef was but ten. And then he died And left this helpless family, and the boy Sold papers on the street, ten years of age, The widow washed.
And first he sold the Times And helped to spread the doctrines of the Times Of ordered liberty and epicene Reforms of this or that. But when the Star With millions back of it broke in the field He changed and sold the Star, too bad for him-- Discovered something:
Josef did not know The corners of the street are free to all, Or free to none, where newsboys stood and sold, And kept their stands, or rather where the powers That kept the great conspiracy of the press Controlled the stands, and to prevent the Star From gaining foot-hold. Not upon this corner Nor on that corner, any corner in short Shall newsboys sell the Star. But Josef felt, Being a boy, indifferent to the rules, Well founded, true or false, that all the corners Were free to all, and for his daring, strength Had been selected, picked to sell the Star, And break the ground, gain place upon the stands. He had been warned from corners, chased and boxed By heavy fists from corners more than once Before the day they felled him. On that day A monster bully, once a pugilist, Came on him selling the Star and knocked him down, Kicked in his ribs and broke a leg and cracked His little skull.
And so they took him home To Widow Fortelka and the sisters, brothers, Whose bread he earned. And there he lay and moaned, And when he sat up had a little cough, Was short of breath.
And on this foggy day When Widow Fortelka reads in the Times That Lowell, the editor, is dead, he sits With feet wrapped in a quilt and gets his breath With open mouth, his face is brightly flushed; A fetid sweetness fills the air of the room That from his open mouth comes. Josef lingers A few weeks yet--he has tuberculosis. And so his mother looks at him, resolves To call this day on William Rummler, see If Lowell's death has changed the state of things; And if the legal mind will not relent Now that the mind that fed it lies in death. It's true enough, she thinks, I was dismissed, And sent away for good, but never mind. It can't be true this pugilist went farther Than the authority of his hiring, that's The talk this lawyer gave her, used a word She could not keep in mind--the lawyer said Respondeat superior in this case Was not in point--and if it could be proved This pugilist was hired by the Times, No one could prove the Times had hired him To beat a boy, commit a crime. Well, then "What was he hired for?" the widow asked. And then she talked with newsboys, and they said The papers had their sluggers, all of them, Even the Star, and that was just a move In getting circulation, keeping it. And all these sluggers watched the stands and drove The newsboys selling Stars away.
No matter, She could not argue with this lawyer Rummler, Who said: "You must excuse me, go away, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."
Now Widow Fortelka had never heard Of Elenor Murray, had not read a line Of Elenor Murray's death beside the river. She was as ignorant of the interview Between the coroner and this editor Who died next morning fearing Merival Would dig up Mrs. Lowell and expose Her suicide, as conferences of spirits Directing matters in another world. Her thought was moulded no less by the riffles That spread from Elenor Murray and her death. And she resolved to see this lawyer Rummler, And try again to get a settlement To help her dying boy. And so she went.