The Story
of Saville
XIV.
We may dwell content in a lowly cot, wearing our homespun gray,
Neighbored by robins and lambs alone and the squirrels across the way,
Disprizing wealth and keeping aloof from the breakneck race of greed,
Our brows unbeaded by hard-wrung sweat; but in time of a dear one’s need
Money is freedom,—’tis wings, ’tis power, ’tis verily life indeed,—
Oft do we watch our darlings droop in the merciless Northern blast
Knowing we well might save them if fortune would only cast
In our way the means to carry them far where zephyrs auroral blow—
What the rich spend oft in a single feast—if only ’twere ours—but no!
’Tis ours instead to watch next spring the grass on a new grave grow!
Saville herself wrote bravely the letters summoning over the land
The skill that hath earned the right to come at only a Crœsus’ command,
And she quietly waited the verdict; she had written with steady hand
