Tonight I was spending a little time cleaning out a few boxes in the basement and came across a box that had an older English class folder of mine with some papers in it. This short story spoke volumes to me 13 years ago and still does today.
The name of the story is “The Cold Within”. I am uncertain who to credit the story to because it was just a paper our professor had given me with no author’s name. Here it is:
The Cold Within
6 men possessed a stick of wood
-or so the story’s told-
their dying fire needed a stick
but none gave up his hold.
The first one did not want to be first
and helt his woodstick back.
And – looking ’round the fire -
noticed that one was black.
The next one looking across the way,
saw one who was not of his church
and he just could not bring himself
to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third man sat in tattered clothes
and gave his pants a hitch.
Why should HE GIVE UP HIS STICK,
to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought
of wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what HE had earned,
from the Lazy, shiftless poor.
The black one’s face bespoke revenge
as the hot fire passed from sight.
For all HE saw in his stick of wood,
was a chance to spite the white.
The last one of this forlorn group
did nothing except for gain;
giving only to those who gave to him
without him playing their game.
Their logs held tight, in death’s still grasp,
was proof of human sin.
They did NOT die from the cold without.
THEY DIED FROM THE COLD WITHIN.
