{"id":2356269,"date":"2005-10-21T14:09:00","date_gmt":"2005-10-21T14:09:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/2005\/10\/21\/historyplace-com-unitedstates-childlabor-birmingham-jpg\/"},"modified":"2007-11-26T00:02:20","modified_gmt":"2007-11-26T00:02:20","slug":"historyplace-com-unitedstates-childlabor-birmingham-jpg","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/?p=2356269","title":{"rendered":"historyplace.com\/unitedstates\/childlabor\/birmingham.jpg"},"content":{"rendered":"<div class='sustuff'>Stumbleupon <a href='http:\/\/bunty.stumbleupon.com\/review\/2356269\/'>Review<\/a> of :<br \/>\n\t<a href='http:\/\/www.historyplace.com\/unitedstates\/childlabor\/birmingham.jpg'>http:\/\/www.historyplace.com\/unitedstates\/childlabor\/birmingham.jpg<\/a><a href='http:\/\/www.stumbleupon.com\/url\/www.historyplace.com\/unitedstates\/childlabor\/birmingham.jpg'><img src='http:\/\/bunty.tv\/images\/smallstumble.png'><\/a>\n<\/div>\n<p><\/p>\n<div align=\"center\">\n<a href=\"http:\/\/www.historyplace.com\/unitedstates\/childlabor\/birmingham.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" border=\"0\" width=\"565\" height=\"396\" src=\"http:\/\/www.historyplace.com\/unitedstates\/childlabor\/birmingham.jpg\" \/><\/a>\n<\/div>\n<p>\n<font face=\"garamond\" size=\"3\"><br \/>\n<font size=\"5\"><\/p>\n<ul>\n<i>The Cry Of The Children<\/i><\/ul>\n<p><\/font><\/p>\n<ul>\nDo ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, <br \/>\nEre the sorrow comes with years? <br \/>\nThey are leaning their young heads against their mothers&#8212; <br \/>\nAnd that cannot stop their tears. <br \/>\nThe young lambs are bleating in the meadows; <br \/>\nThe young birds are chirping in the nest; <br \/>\nThe young fawns are playing with the shadows; <br \/>\nThe young flowers are blowing toward the west&#8212; <br \/>\nBut the young, young children, O my brothers, <br \/>\nThey are weeping bitterly!&#8212; <br \/>\nThey are weeping in the playtime of the others <br \/>\nIn the country of the free. <\/p>\n<p>Do you question the young children in the sorrow, <br \/>\nWhy their tears are falling so?&#8212; <br \/>\nThe old man may weep for his to-morrow <br \/>\nWhich is lost in Long Ago&#8212; <br \/>\nThe old tree is leafless in the forest&#8212; <br \/>\nThe old year is ending in the frost&#8212; <br \/>\nThe old wound, if stricken, is the sorest&#8212; <br \/>\nThe old hope is hardest to be lost: <br \/>\nBut the young, young children, O my brothers, <br \/>\nDo you ask them why they stand <br \/>\nWeeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, <br \/>\nIn our happy Fatherland? <\/p>\n<p>They look up with their pale and sunken faces, <br \/>\nAnd their looks are sad to see, <br \/>\nFor the man&#8217;s grief abhorrent, draws and presses <br \/>\nDown the cheeks of infancy&#8212; <br \/>\n&#8220;Your old earth,&#8221; they say, &#8220;is very dreary;&#8221; <br \/>\n&#8220;Our young feet,&#8221; they say, &#8220;are very weak! <br \/>\nFew paces have we taken, yet are weary<br \/>\nOur grave-rest is very far to seek. <br \/>\nAsk the old why they weep, and not the children, <br \/>\nFor the outside earth is cold,&#8212; <br \/>\nAnd we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, <br \/>\nAnd the graves are for the old. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;True,&#8221; say the young children, &#8220;it may happen <br \/>\nThat we die before our time. <br \/>\nLittle Alice died last year&#8212;the grave is shapen <br \/>\nLike a snowball, in the rime. <br \/>\nWe looked into the pit prepared to take her&#8212; <br \/>\nWas no room for any work in the close clay: <br \/>\nFrom the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her <br \/>\nCrying, &#8216;Get up, little Alice! it is day.&#8217; <br \/>\nIf you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, <br \/>\nWith your ear down, little Alice never cries!&#8212; <br \/>\nCould we see her face, be sure we should not know her, <br \/>\nFor the smile has time for growing in her eyes&#8212; <br \/>\nAnd merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in <br \/>\nThe shroud, by the kirk-chime! <br \/>\nIt is good when it happens,&#8221; say the children, <br \/>\n&#8220;That we die before our time.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking <br \/>\nDeath in life, as best to have! <br \/>\nThey are binding up their hearts away from breaking, <br \/>\nWith a cerement from the grave. <br \/>\nGo out, children, from the mine and from the city&#8212; <br \/>\nSing out, children, as the little thrushes do&#8212; <br \/>\nPluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty&#8212; <br \/>\nLaugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! <br \/>\nBut they answer, &#8220;Are your cowslips of the meadows <br \/>\nLike our weeds anear the mine? <br \/>\nLeave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, <br \/>\nFrom your pleasures fair and fine! <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;For oh,&#8221; say the children, &#8220;we are weary, <br \/>\nAnd we cannot run or leap&#8212; <br \/>\nIf we cared for any meadows, it were merely <br \/>\nTo drop down in them and sleep. <br \/>\nOur knees tremble sorely in the stooping&#8212; <br \/>\nWe fall upon our faces, trying to go; <br \/>\nAnd, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, <br \/>\nThe reddest flower would look as pale as snow. <br \/>\nFor, all day, we drag our burden tiring, <br \/>\nThrough the coal-dark, underground&#8212; <br \/>\nOr, all day, we drive the wheels of iron <br \/>\nIn the factories, round and round.<\/ul>\n<p><\/font><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Stumbleupon Review of : http:\/\/www.historyplace.com\/unitedstates\/childlabor\/birmingham.jpg The Cry Of The Children Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers&#8212; And that cannot stop their tears. &hellip; <a href=\"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/?p=2356269\">Continue reading <span class=\"meta-nav\">&rarr;<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":""},"categories":[10991],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2356269"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2356269"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2356269\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2356269"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2356269"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/su.blog.bunty.tv\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2356269"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}