No girl of his should play with bolsheviks.
Alf was Norwegian, and a decent fellow,
A big blond youngster with a quiet eye;
He loved the girl, but old man Morton swore
All Scandinavians were the same as Russians,
And every Russian was a bolshevik.
Mary was stubborn; all her blood was willful;
At twilight, by the old Penn Treaty stone,
She used to wait for Alf, or he for her.
And in some whim of Celtic flame and fancy
The carven words became her heart's own motto,
And there they pledged their love: Unbroken Faith.
Oh, golden evenings there along the river!
When all the tiny park was Eden land—
Oh, eager hearts that burn and leap and shiver,
Oh, hand that mates with hand!
And they would cross the Shackamaxon ferry,
Or walk by Cramps' to see the dry-docked ships
Or in a darkened movie house make merry
With sudden lips on lips—
And half their talk was tremulous with yearning,
And half was of their future, shrewdly planned—
How Alf would leave the sea, and soon be earning
Not less than thirty in a job on land;
Between their kisses they would talk of saving,
Between their calculations, kiss anew,
And she would say that he must be behaving
While she described a little house for two.
With Alf at sea, the girl would still go down
To see the very bench where they had sat,
The tidy Stokley moored beside the pier,
