I.-THE COSTER'S STORY.

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 84, 10 January 1885, Page 4

1.-THE COSTER'S STORY.

A short, rough man, lean, hungry, worn and Stands by a doorway in a dismal court ; And to the parson tells his gruesome tale, The while the ragged ohildren round them sport.

You're the parson ? I heerd you was comin ; But haven't you oalled rather late ? My little girl's buried, you see, air, And the neighbours are laying out Kate. What? "Gospel," and "comfort," and "patience," , _ m And " bear it as well as I can?' God took 'em?" Oh, no, but he didn't : They were both of 'em murdered by man I How was that, sir 1 It's easy to tell you, You see that place over the way, With the boarding all round it? Six acres That only till just t'other day Was oovered with houses, where poor folk Were orowding together for life ; And I lived in one of them places, With the moke and my child and my wife,

We wasn't as well off as you, sir, Maybe as we couldn't dress fine ; But we'd always enough for to live on, An' I did very wellin my line. To-day it was fish, and to-morrow P'raps cabbage, or melons, or pears : An' the house, it was werry conwenient, With the moke stowed under the stairs. Well, one day a bloke brought a paper, A-grvin' us notice to quit ; " From the Board," says he ; " the7*xe a-mean ing To improve up your dwellings a bit." " Improvement " ; tha'ts what they were after ! 'Twasn't much that the houses were worth ; But look over there at that hoarding— They're improved off the face of the earth. " You should go and live out in the country," ' Said a bloke as come round to explain ; And he riled me so much that I struck him, And, I tell you, I'd strike him again. They gave me a fortnight in quod, sir, An' remarked on my merciful fate ; An 1 when I come back from the prison I found that they'd bundled out Kate, She was living up here in the garret, Whore she's now lying dead in the cold ; Little Sally was down with ihe fever, And my good little moke had been sold. " Hard," did you say 1 I believe you ! How was a covey to live? I'd no money to furnish my barrow, And the neighbours had nothing to give. , I did what I could ; but there, bless you, 1 You'll guess at the rest of the taleHow hunger kept watch on the hearthstone, And our traps were put up at a sale. Cold, and starvation, and fever, We had 'em all three at a time ; Not brought by our fault, but all sent us ; And that's what I'm calling a crime. I heerd how them folks as are clever Has been making a deal of a fuss A-writin' of books and of papers Just brimful of pity for us. What comes of it ? 'Stroyin' of houses, With nowhere for poor folks to go, Fine words ain't a varnish for that, sir, It's cruel, and shameful, and low. Someday when you're up in your pulpit, In one of them sermons you give, Say it's best they should mind their own bisness, Or at least leave us somewhere to live. It's that sort of preachin' that's wanted : Not stuff 'bout the homes of the poor That touches folks' hearts so they help us By turning us out of door.