I did not shudder when they brought
A wounded Mexican to jail;
I calmly wrote his message down,
Unmoved, I listened to his wail
Hour by hour, till he died.
And when Mat Grover killed his wife,
I raised him from a pool of blood,
Half curdled to a slimy mud
That smeared the floor and sill and wall;
I wore my shoes out, stains and all.
But when, with small inquiring voice
So plaintive in the dark,
I heard a baby kitten mew,
Because the sergeant shot it
I wept the whole night through.
