Ink-Smudged Fingers

Each boy had a history,
Each face had a tale.
Many over-came miseries,
Others had been through pure hell.

Their palms were calloused,
And their fingers smeared with ink.
When their papers were sold,
They were too tired to think.

Some slept in alleyways,
Alone in the night.
Some hid from the 'bulls,'[1]
Staying out of sight.

They'd pretend to be lame,
Earning pity and coins.
Each day was the same,
A ragged army they'd joined.

They'd tell lies to sell papes,
And play in the streets.
With bruises and scrapes,
No shoes on their feet.

A penny a pape, is what it had been,
But the price was raised,
The boys thought it a sin.

'How can he [2] do this?'
'Why would he try?'
'Let's go on strike!'
They began their out-cry.

They'd been stepped on,
They'd been pushed back.
But when one voice became many,
They began their attack.

All over the city,
Children rose up.
No longer wanting pity,
Or a coin in their cup.

With signs held high
And hope in their eyes,
They would not be silenced,
Despite Pulitzer's cries.

They had joined together,
The shoe-shiners and smiths,
Each seamstress and newsboy
Fighting for their wish.

They wanted their rights,
And they fought with great power.
It was their time,
It had become their hour.

When it was told that the mighty had caved,
The cries of joy spread like a wave.

The price hadn't been changed,
But a refund was pledged.
They could return their remainders,
And avoid the tight wedge.

In 1899, their time of glory came to pass,
But after their victory,
The revolution did not last.

No group shared their triumph,
Despite their mighty deed.
All across the country,
Newsies failed to take the lead.

As time passed on,
Delivery began.
'Carryin' da bannah'
Calloused no more hands.

As they grew with time,
And age set in,
Each man remembered
Their resolve to win.

Some memories faded,
And some memories lingered,
But not one could deny the remembrance
Of his Ink-Smudged Fingers
© Rebecca Eversman

Author's Comments on "Ink-Smudged Fingers"
This is a fic/poem that I wrote down when I was pissed at my Dad. He won't
shut up and leave me alone... he just keeps talking. I couldn't
concentrate. Sorry if this sucks. [1] 'Bulls' was a term that meant police
or cops. . [2] 'he' is referring to Mr. Joseph Pulitzer and his choice to
raise the price of newspapers for the newsboys from 50 cents to 60 cents
per 100 papers.