"
John Barton began to speak; they turned to him with great attention.
"It makes me more than sad, it makes my heart burn within me, to see
that folk can make a jest of striving men; of chaps who comed to ask
for a bit o' fire for th' old granny, as shivers i' th' cold; for a
bit o' bedding, and some warm clothing to the poor wife who lies in
labour on th' damp flags; and for victuals for the childer, whose
little voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud wi'
hunger. For, brothers, is not them the things we ask for when we
ask for more wage? We donnot want dainties, we want bellyfuls; we
donnot want gimcrack coats and waistcoats, we want warm clothes; and
so that we get 'em, we'd not quarrel wi' what they're made on. We
donnot want their grand houses, we want a roof to cover us from the
rain, and the snow, and the storm; ay, and not alone to cover us,
but the helpless ones that cling to us in the keen wind, and ask us
with their eyes why we brought 'em into th' world to suffer?"
He lowered his deep voice almost to a whisper--
"I've seen a father who had killed his child rather than let it clem
before his eyes; and he were a tender-hearted man.
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