E. J. V. HUIGINN MISS DOANE     MISS Doane was sixty, probably； She rented third floor room That opened on an airshaft full Of cooking smells and gloom. She worked in philanthropic man's Well-known department store； Cashiered in basement, hot and close, For forty years or more. Each night when she came home she'd stand A moment in the hall, Before she went into her room With low and tender call. And often I would hear her voice Repeat a childish prayer； Or read some old, old fairy tale Of Princess, grand and fair. One night I went to visit her And spied, in little chair A great wax doll, in dainty dress, And curls of flaxen hair. I praised the doll； its prettiness； Miss Doane said, "I'm alone. She comforts me. I wanted so A child to call my own." Each night I heard her softly sing A childish lullaby； But once, and just before she died, I heard her cry and cry！

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