"Not in the least. I just like them, and love to get acquainted with them. Each bird whose acquaintance I make is as truly a discovery to me as if he were totally unknown to the world."

We were sitting by a southern window that looks out on a wide-spreading and ancient elm, my glory and pride. Not one bird had I seen on it that cold, repellent middle of March. But Mrs. Miller looked up, and said: "Your robins have come!" Sure enough I could now see a pair.

"And there are the woodpeckers, but they have stayed all winter. No doubt you have the hooting owls. There's an oriole's nest, badly winter-worn; but they will come back and build again. I see you feed your chickadees and sparrows, because they are so tame and fearless. I'd like to come later and make a list of the birds on your place."

I wonder how many she would find. Visiting at Deerfield, Massachusetts, I said one day to my host, the artist J.W. Champney: "You don't seem to have many birds round you."

"No?" he replied with a mocking rising inflection. "Mrs. Miller, who was with us last week, found thirty-nine varieties in our front yard before breakfast!" Untrained eyes are really blind.

Mrs. Miller is an excellent housekeeper, although a daughter now relieves her of that care. But, speaking at table of this and that dish and vegetable, she promised to send me some splendid receipts for orange marmalade, baked canned corn, scalloped salmon, onion a la creme (delicious), and did carefully copy and send them.

She told me that in Denmark a woman over forty-five is considered gone. If she is poor, a retreat is ready for her without pay; if rich, she would better seek one of the homes provided for aged females who can pay well for a home.

Another thing of interest was the fact that when Mrs. Miller eats no breakfast, her brain is in far better condition to write. She is a Swedenborgian, and I think that persons of that faith have usually a cheerful outlook on life. She was obliged to support herself after forty years of age.

I would add to her advice about a hobby: don't wait till middle age; have one right away, now. Boys always do. I know of one young lady who makes a goodly sum out of home-made marmalade; another who makes dresses for her family and special friends; another who sells three hundred dozen "brown" eggs to one of the best groceries in Boston, and supports herself. By the way, what can you do?

Mrs. Lippincott had such a splendid, magnetic presence, such a handsome face with dark poetic eyes, and accomplished so many unusual things, that, knowing her as I did, I think I should be untrue to her if I did not try to show her as she was in her brilliant prime, and not merely as a punster or a raconteur, or as she appeared in her dramatic recitals, for these were but a small part of the many-sided genius.

When my friend, Mrs. Botta, said one evening to her husband: "Grace writes me that she will be here tomorrow, to spend the Sabbath," and then said to me, "Grace Greenwood, I mean; have you ever met her?" my heart beat very quickly in pleasant anticipation of her coming. Grace Greenwood! Why, I had known her and loved her, at least her writings, ever since I was ten years old.

Those dear books, bound in red, with such pretty pictures—History of My Pets and Recollections of My Childhood, were the most precious volumes in my little library. Anyone who has had pets and lost them (and the one follows the other, for pets always come to some tragic end) will delight in these stories.

And then the Little Pilgrim, which I used to like next best to the Youth's Companion; and in later years her spirited, graceful poetry; her racy magazine stories; her Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe; her sparkling letters to the Tribune, full of reliable news from Washington, graphic descriptions of prominent men and women, capital anecdotes and atrocious puns;—O how glad I should be to look in her face and to shake hands with the author who had given me so much pleasure!

Well, she came, I heard the bell ring, just when she was expected, with a vigorous pull, and, as the door opened, heard her say, in a jolly, soothing way: "Don't get into a passion," to the man who was swearing at her big trunk. And then I ran away, not wishing to intrude, and waited impatiently for dinner and an introduction to my well-beloved heroine.

Grace—Mrs. Lippincott—I found to be a tall, fine-looking lady, with a commanding figure and a face that did not disappoint me, as faces so often do which you have dreamed about. She had dark hair, brown rather than black, which was arranged in becoming puffs round her face; and such eyes! large, dark, magnetic, full of sympathy, of kind, cordial feelings and of quick appreciation of fun. She talked much and well. If I should repeat all the good stories she told us, that happy Saturday night, as we lingered round the table, you would be convulsed with laughter, that is, if I could give them with her gestures, expressions, and vivid word-pictures.

She told one story which well illustrated the almost cruel persistent inquiries of neighbours about someone who is long in dying. An unfortunate husband was bothered each morning by repeated calls from children, who were sent by busy mothers to find out "Just how Miss Blake was feeling this morning." At last this became offensive, and he said: "Well, she's just the same—she ain't no better and she ain't no worse—she keeps just about so—she's just about dead, you can say she's dead."

One Sunday evening she described her talks with the men in the prisons and penitentiaries, to whom she had been lately lecturing, proving that these hardened sinners had much that was good in them, and many longings for a nobler life, in spite of all their sins.

No, I was not disappointed in "G.G." She was just as natural, hearty, and off-hand as when some thirty years ago, she was a romping, harum-scarum, bright-eyed schoolgirl, Sara Clarke, of western New York, who was almost a gypsy in her love for the fields and forests. She was always ready for any out-door exercise or sport. This gave her glorious health, which up to that time she had not lost.

Her nom de plume, which she says she has never been able to drop, was only one of the many alliterative names adopted at that time. Look over the magazines and Annuals of those years, and you will find many such, as "Mary Maywood," "Dora Dashwood," "Ella Ellwood" "Fanny Forrester," "Fanny Fern," "Jennie June," "Minnie Myrtle," and so on through the alphabet, one almost expecting to find a "Ninny Noodle." Examining one of Mrs. Lippincott's first scrapbooks of "Extracts from Newspapers," etc., which she had labelled, "Vanity, all is Vanity," I find many poems in her honour, much enthusiasm over her writings, and much speculation as to who "Grace Greenwood" might really be. The public curiosity was piqued to find out this new author who added to forceful originality "the fascination of splendid gayety and brilliant trifling." John Brougham, the actor and dramatist, thus expressed his interest in a published letter to Willis:

The only person that I am disposed to think, write or talk about at present is your dazzling, bewitching correspondent, "Grace Greenwood." Who is she? that I may swear by her! Where is she? that I may fling myself at her feet! There is a splendour and dash about her pen that carry my fastidious soul captive by a single charge. I shall advertise for her throughout the whole Western country in the terms in which they inquire for Almeyda in Dryden's Don Sebastian: "Have you seen aught of a woman who lacks two of the four elements, who has nothing in her nature but air and fire?"

And here is one of the poetical tributes:

If to the old Hellenes Thee of yore the gods had given Another Muse, another Grace Had crowned the Olympian heaven.

Whittier at that time spoke most cordially of her "earnest individuality, her warm, honest, happy, hopeful, human heart; her strong loves and deep hates."

E.P. Whipple, the Boston critic and essayist, when reviewing her poems, spoke of their "exceeding readableness"; and George Ripley, then of the New York Tribune, said:

One charm of her writings is the frankness with which she takes the reader into her personal confidence. She is never formal, never a martyr to artificial restraint, never wrapped in a mantle of reserve; but, with an almost childlike simplicity, presents a transparent revelation of her inmost thoughts and feelings, with perfect freedom from affectation.

She might have distinguished herself on the stage in either tragedy or comedy, but was dissuaded from that career by family friends. I remember seeing her at several receptions, reciting the rough Pike County dialect verse of Bret Harte and John Hay in costume. Standing behind a draped table, with a big slouch hat on, and a red flannel shirt, loose at the neck, her disguise was most effective, while her deep tones held us all. Her memory was phenomenal, and she could repeat today stories of good things learned years ago.

Her recitation was wonderful; so natural, so full of soul and power. I have heard many women read, some most execrably, who fancied they were famous elocutionists; some were so tolerable that I could sit and endure it; others remarkably good, but I was never before so moved as to forget where I was and merge the reader in the character she assumed.

Grace Greenwood probably made more puns in print than any other woman, and her conversation was full of them. It was Grace Greenwood who, at a tea-drinking at the New England Woman's Club in Boston, was begged to tell one more story, but excused herself in this way: "No, I cannot get more than one story high on a cup of tea."

Her conversation was delightful, and what a series of reminiscences she could have given; for she knew, and in many cases intimately, most of the leading authors, artists, politicians, philanthropists, agitators, and actors of her time in both her own land and abroad. In one of her letters she describes the various authors she saw while lounging in Ticknor's old bookstore in Boston.

Here, many a time, we saw Longfellow, looking wonderfully like a ruddy, hearty, happy English gentleman, with his full lips and beaming blue eyes. Whittier, alert, slender and long; half eager, half shy in manner; both cordial and evasive; his deep-set eyes glowing with the tender flame of the most humane genius of our time.

Emerson's manner was to her "a curious mingling of Athenian philosophy and Yankee cuteness."

Saxe was "the handsome, herculean punster," and so on with many others.

She resided with Miss Cushman in Rome, and in London she saw many lions—Mazzini, Kossuth, Dickens and Talfourd, Kingsley, Lover, the Howellses, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Muloch Craik, George Eliot, etc.

She was the first Washington correspondent of her sex, commencing in 1850 in a series of letters to a Philadelphia weekly; was for some years connected with the National Era, making her first tour in Europe as its correspondent, and has written much for The Hearth and Home, The Independent, Christian Inquirer, Congregationalist, Youth's Companion; also contributing a good deal to English publications, as Household Words and All the Year Round.

She was the special correspondent from Washington of the New York Tribune, and later of the Times. Her letters were racy, full of wit, sentiment, and discriminating criticism, plenty of fun and a little sarcasm, but not so audaciously personal and aggressive as some letter-writers from the capital. They attracted attention and were widely copied, large extracts being made for the London Times.

She lectured continually to large audiences during the Civil War on war themes, and subjects in a lighter strain; was the first woman widely received as a lecturer by the colleges and lyceums. With a commanding presence, handsome face, an agreeable, permeating voice, a natural offhand manner, and something to say, she was at once a decided favourite, and travelled great distances to meet her engagements. She often quoted that ungallant speech from the Duke of Argyle: "Woman has no right on a platform—except to be hung; then it's unavoidable"; and by her eloquence and wit proved its falsity and narrowness. Without the least imitation of masculine oratory, her best remembered lectures are, "The Heroic in Common Life," and "Characteristics of Yankee Humour." She always had the rare gift of telling a story capitally, with ease, brevity, and dramatic effect, certain of the point or climax. I cannot think of any other woman of this country who has caused so much hearty laughter by this enviable gift. She can compress a word-picture or character-sketch into a few lines, as when she said of the early Yankee: "No matter how large a man he was, he had a look of shrinking and collapse about him. It looked as if the Lord had made him and then pinched him." And a woman who has done such good work in poetry, juvenile literature, journalism, on the platform, and in books of travel and biography, will not soon be forgotten. There is a list of eighteen volumes from her pen.

She never established a salon, but the widespread, influential daily paper and the lecture hall are the movable salon to the women of genius in this Republic.

This is just a memory. After all, we are but "Movie Pictures," seen for a moment, and others take our place.



CHAPTER VI

In and Near Boston—Edward Everett Hale—Thomas Wentworth Higginson—Julia Ward Howe—Mary A. Livermore—A Day at the Concord School—Harriet G. Hosmer—"Dora D'Istria," our Illustrious Visitor.

Edward Everett Hale was kind to me, as he was to all who came within his radius. He once called to warn me to avoid, like poison, a rascally imposter who was calling on many of the authors in and near Boston to get one thousand dollars from each to create a publishing company, so that authors could have their books published at a much cheaper rate than in the regular way. This person never called on me, as I then had no bank account. He did utterly impoverish many other credulous persons, both writers, and in private families. All was grist that came to his mill, and he ground them "exceeding small."

I met Mr. Hale one early spring at Pinehurst, North Carolina, with his wife and daughter. He always had a sad face, as one who knew and grieved over the faults and frailties of humanity, but at this time he was recovering from a severe fall, and walked with a slow and feeble step. When he noticed me sitting on the broad piazza, he came, and taking a chair beside me, began to joke in his old way, telling comical happenings, and inquired if I knew where Noah kept his bees. His answer: "In the Ark-hives, of course." Once when I asked his opinion of a pompous, loud-voiced minister, he only said, "Self, self, self!"

I wonder how many in his audiences or his congregation could understand more than half of what he was saying. I once went to an Authors' Reading in Boston where he recited a poem, doubtless very impressive, but although in a box just over the stage, I could not get one word. He placed his voice at the roof of his mouth, a fine sounding board, but the words went no farther than the inside of his lips. I believe his grand books influence more persons for better lives than even his personal presence and Christ-like magnetism.

Mr. Thomas Wentworth Higginson never failed me. Once only I ventured alone into the Authors' Club Saturday meeting, and none of my own friends happened to be there. Evidently I was not known. Mr. Higginson saw the situation at once, and coming quickly to me escorted me to a comfortable seat. He ordered two cups of tea with wafers, and beckoned to some delightful men and women to whom he introduced me as his friend Miss Sanborn, thus putting me at my ease. He was also ever patient about my monomania of trying to prove that women possess both wit and humour. He spoke of his first wife as the wittiest woman he had ever known, giving convincing proof. A few men were on my side, but they could be counted on one hand omitting the thumb. But I worked on this theme until I had more than sufficient material for a good-sized volume. If a masculine book reviewer ever alluded to the book, it was with a sneer. He generally left it without a word, as men still ignore the fact when a woman wins in an essay-writing competition against men in her class or gets the verdict for her powers in a mixed debate. At last Mr. Higginson wrote me most kindly to stop battering on that theme. "If any man is such a fool as to insist that women are destitute of wit or humour, then he is so big a fool that it is not worth while to waste your good brains on him. T.W. Higginson." That reproof chilled my ardour. Now you can hardly find any one who denies that women possess both qualities, and it is generally acknowledged that not a few have the added gift of comedy.

As most biographers of Mrs. Julia Ward Howe dwell on her other gifts as philanthropist, poet, and worker for the equality of women with men, I call attention to her effervescent, brilliant wit. Julia Ward Howe was undeniably witty. Her concurrence with a dilapidated bachelor, who retained little but his conceit, was excellent. He said: "It is time now for me to settle down as a married man, but I want so much; I want youth, health, wealth, of course; beauty, grace—" "Yes," she interrupted sympathetically, "you poor man, you do want them all."

Of a conceited young man airing his disbelief at length in a magazine article, she said: "Charles evidently thinks he has invented atheism." After dining with a certain family noted for their chilling manners and lofty exclusiveness, she hurried to the house of a jolly friend, and, seating herself before the glowing fire, sought to regain a natural warmth, explaining: "I have spent three hours with the Mer de Glace, the Tete-Noire, and the Jungfrau, and am nearly frozen."

Pathos and humour as twins are exemplified by her tearful horror over the panorama of Gettysburg, and then by her saying, when urged by Mrs. Livermore to dine with her: "O no! my dear, it's quarter past two, and Mr. Howe will be wild if he does not get—not his burg—but his dinner."

Mrs. Howe's wit never failed her. I once told her I was annoyed by seeing in big headlines in the morning's paper, "Kate Sanborn moralizes," giving my feeble sentiments on some subject which must have been reported by a man whom I met for the first time the evening before at a reception, though I was ignorant of the fact that I was being interviewed. She comforted me by saying: "But after all, how much better that was than if he had announced, 'Kate Sanborn demoralizes.'" Or when Charles Sumner refusing to meet some friends of hers at dinner explained languidly: "Really, Julia, I have lost all my interest in individuals." She retorted, "Why, Charles, God hasn't got as far as that yet!" Once walking in the streets of Boston with a friend she looked up and read on a public building, "Charitable Eye and Ear Infirmary." She said: "I did not know there were any charitable eyes and ears in Boston." She showed indomitable courage to the last. A lady in Boston, who lived opposite Mrs. Howe's home on Beacon Street, was sitting at a front window one cold morning in winter, when ice made the steps dangerous. A carriage was driven up to Mrs. Howe's door to take her to the station to attend a federation at Louisville. She came out alone, slipped on the second step, and rolled to the pavement. She was past eighty, but picked herself up with the quickness of a girl, looked at her windows to see if anyone noticed it, then entered the carriage and drove away.

Was ever a child as unselfish as Mary Rice, afterwards Mary Livermore? Sliding on ice was for her a climax of fun. Returning to the house after revelling in this exercise, she exclaimed: "Splendid, splendid sliding." Her father responded: "Yes, Mary, it's great fun, but wretched for shoes."

Those words kept ringing in her ears, and soon she thought how her father and mother had to practise close economy, and she decided: "I ought not to wear out my shoes by sliding, when shoes cost so much," and she did not slide any more. There was no more fun in it for her.

She would get out of bed, when not more than ten years old, and beseech her parents to rise and pray for the children. "It's no matter about me," she once said to them, "if they can be saved, I can bear anything."

She was not more than twelve years old, when she determined to aid her parents by doing work of some kind; so it was settled that she should become a dressmaker. She went at once into a shop to learn the trade, remained for three months, and after that was hired at thirty-seven cents a day to work there three months more. She also applied for work at a clothing store, and received a dozen red flannel shirts to make up at six and a quarter cents a piece. When her mother found this out, she burst into tears, and the womanly child was not allowed to take any more work home. We all know Mrs. Livermore's war record and her power and eloquence as an orator.

I would not say she was a spiritualist, but she felt sure that she often had advice or warning on questions from some source, and always listened, and was saved from accidents and danger. And she said that what was revealed to her as she rested on her couch, between twilight and dusk, would not be believed, it was so wonderful.

Mrs. Livermore had a terrible grief to bear,—the lifelong illness of her daughter from a chronic and incurable disease. She told me, when I was at her house, that she kept on lecturing, and accepting invitations, to divert her mind somewhat. She felt at times that she could not leave her unfortunate child behind, when she should be called from earth, but she was enabled to drive that thought away. From a child, always helping others, self-sacrificing, heroic, endowed with marvellous energy and sympathy, hers was a most exceptional life; now "Victor Palms" are her right.

I spent one day at the famous Concord School of Philosophy during its first season. Of course I understood nothing that was going on.

Emerson, then a mere wreck of his former self, was present, cared for by his wife or his daughter Ellen. Alcott made some most remarkable statements, as: "We each can decide when we will ascend." Then he would look around as if to question all, and add: "Is it not so? Is it not so?" I remember another of his mystic utterances: "When the mind is izzing, it is thinking things. Is it not so? Is it not so?" Also, "When we get angry or lose our temper, then fierce four-footed beasts come out of our mouths, do they not, do they not?"

After Mr. Harris, the great educational light, had closed his remarks, and had asked for questions, one lady timidly arose and inquired: "Can an atom be said to be outside or inside of potentiality?"

He calmly replied that "it could be said to be either inside or outside potentiality, as we might say of potatoes in a hat; they are either inside or outside the hat." That seemed to satisfy her perfectly.

Mr. Frank B. Sanborn read his lecture on American Literature, and I ventured to ask: "How would you define literature?"

He said: "Anything written that gives permanent pleasure." And then as he was a relative, I inquired, but probably was rather pert: "Would a bank check, if it were large enough, be literature?" which was generally considered as painfully trifling.

Jones of Jacksonville was on the program, and talked and talked, but as I could not catch one idea, I cannot report.

It was awfully hot on that hill with the sun shining down through the pine roof, so I thought one day enough.

As I walked down the hill, I heard a man who seemed to have a lot of hasty pudding in his mouth, say in answer to a question from the lady with him: "Why, if you can't understand that, you can have no idea of the first principles (this with an emphatic gesture) of the Hegelian philosophy."

Alcott struck me as a happy dreamer. He said to me joyously: "I'm going West in Lou's chariot," and of course with funds provided by his daughter.

An article written by her, entitled "Transcendental Wild Oats," made a great impression on my mind.

It appeared in a long-ago Independent and I tried in vain to find it last winter. Houghton and Mifflin have recently published Bronson Alcott's "Fruitlands," compiled by Clara Endicott Sears, with "Transcendental Wild Oats" by Louisa M. Alcott, so it is brought to the notice of those who will appreciate it.

I called once on Miss Hosmer, who then was living with relatives in Watertown, Massachusetts, her old home; the house where she was born and where she did her first modelling. Recently reading in Miss Whiting's record of Kate Field's life, of Miss Hosmer as a universal favourite in Rome, a dearly loved friend of the Brownings, and associated with the literary and artistic coterie there, a living part of that memorable group, most of whom are gone, I longed to look in her eyes, to shake her hand, to listen to her conversation. Everyone knows of her achievements as a sculptor.

After waiting a few minutes, into the room tripped a merry-faced, bright-eyed little lady, all animation and cordiality as she said: "It is your fault that I am a little slow in coming down, for I was engrossed in one of your own books, too much interested to remember to dress."

The question asked soon brought a flow of delightful recollection of Charlotte Cushman, Frances Power Cobbe, Grace Greenwood, Kate Field, and the Brownings. "Yes," she said, "I dined with them all one winter; they were lovely friends." She asked if we would like to see some autograph letters of theirs. One which seemed specially characteristic of Robert Browning was written on the thinnest of paper in the finest hand, difficult to decipher. And on the flap of the envelope was a long message from his wife. Each letter was addressed to "My dearest Hattie," and ended, "Yours most affectionately." There was one most comical impromptu sent to her by Browning, from some country house where there was a house party. They were greatly grieved at her failure to appear, and each name was twisted into a rhyme at the end of a line. Sir Roderick Murchison, for instance, was run in thus:

As welcome as to cow is fodder-rick Would be your presence to Sir Roderick.

A poor pun started another vein. "You must hear some of Miss Cobbe's puns," said Miss Hosmer, and they were so daringly, glaring bad, as to be very good. When lame from a sprain, she was announced by a pompous butler at a reception as "Miss Cobble." "No, Miss Hobble," was her instant correction. She weighed nearly three hundred pounds and, one day, complaining of a pain in the small of her back her brother exclaimed: "O Frances, where is the small of your back?"

Miss Hosmer regarded Grace Greenwood (Mrs. Lippincott) as one of the best raconteurs and wittiest women she had known. She was with her at some museum where an immense antique drinking cup was exhibited, large enough for a sitz bath. "A goblet for a Titan," said Harriet. "And the one who drained it would be a tight un," said Grace.

She thought the best thing ever said about seasickness was from Kate Field, who, after a tempestuous trip, said: "Lemonade is the only satisfactory drink on a sea voyage; it tastes as well coming up as going down."

* * * * *

The last years of this brilliant and beloved woman were devoted to futile attempts to solve the problem of Perpetual Motion. I wish she had given us her memories instead.

Helen Ghika was born at Bucharest, Wallachia, the 22nd of January, 1829. The Ghika family is of an ancient and noble race. It originated in Albania, and two centuries ago the head of it went to Wallachia, where it had been a powerful and ruling family. In 1849, at the age of twenty, the Princess was married to a Russian, Prince Koltzoff Massalsky, a descendant of the old Vikings of Moldavia; her marriage has not been a congenial one.

A sketch of the distinguished woman, Helen Ghika, the Princess Massalsky, who, under the nom de plume of Dora D'Istria, has made for herself a reputation and position in the world of letters among the great women of our century, will at least have something of the charm of novelty for most American readers. In Europe this lady was everywhere known, beloved by many personal friends, and admired by all who had read her works. Her thought was profound and liberal, her views were broad and humane. As an author, philanthropist, traveller, artist, and one of the strongest advocates of freedom and liberty for the oppressed of both sexes, and of her suffering sisters especially, she was an honour to the time and to womanhood. The women of the old world found in her a powerful, sympathizing, yet rational champion; just in her arguments in their behalf, able in her statements of their needs, and thoroughly interested in their elevation and improvement.

Her works embrace a vast range of thought, and show profound study and industry. The subjects are many. They number about twenty volumes on nationality, on social questions more than eight, on politics eighteen or twenty. Her travels fill fifteen books, and, beside all this, she wrote three romances, numerous letters and articles for the daily papers, and addresses to be read before various learned societies, of which she was an honoured member. M. Deschanel, the critic of the Journal des Debats, has said of her that "each one of her works would suffice for the reputation of a man." As an artist, her paintings have been much admired. One of her books of travel, A Summer on the Banks of the Danube, has a drawing by its author, a view of Borcia in Roumania. From a notable exhibition at St. Petersburg she received a silver medal for two pictures called "The Pine" and "The Palm," suggested to her by Heine's beautiful little poem:

"A pine-tree sleeps alone On northern mountain-side; Eternal stainless snows Stretch round it far and wide.

"The pine dreams of a palm As lonely, sad, and still, In glowing eastern clime On burning, rocky hill."

This princess was the idol of her native people, who called her, with the warm enthusiasm of their race, "The Star of Albania." The learned and cultivated also did her homage. Named by Frederika Bremer and the Athenians, "The New Corinne," she was invested by the Greeks with the citizenship of Greece for her efforts to assist the people of Candia to throw off the oppressor's yoke, this being the first time this honour had ever been granted to a woman.

The catalogue of her writings fills several pages, the list of titles given her by learned societies nearly as many more and, while born a princess of an ancient race and by marriage one also, she counted these titles of rank as nothing compared with her working name, and was more widely known as Dora D'Istria than as the Princess Koltzoff Massalsky.

There is a romantic fascination about this woman's life as brilliant as fiction, but more strange and remarkable in that it is all sober truth—nay, to her much of it was even sad reality. Her career was a glorious one, but lonely as the position of her pictured palm-tree, and oftentimes only upheld by her own consciousness of the right; she has felt the trials of minds isolated by greatness. Singularly gifted by nature with both mental and physical, as well as social superiority, the Princess united in an unusual degree masculine strength of character, grasp of thought, philosophical calmness, love of study and research, joined to an ardent and impassioned love of the grand, the true, and the beautiful. She had the grace and tenderness of the most sensitive of women, added to mental endowments rare in a man. Her beauty, which had been remarkable, was the result of perfect health, careful training, and an active nature. Her physical training made her a fearless swimmer, a bold rider, and an excellent walker—all of which greatly added to her active habits and powers of observation in travelling, for she travelled much. Only a person of uncommon bodily vigour can so enjoy nature in her wildest moods and grandest aspects.

This quotation is from a long article which Mrs. Grace L. Oliver, of Boston, published in an early number of Scribner's Magazine. I never had known of the existence of this learned, accomplished woman, but after reading this article I ventured to ask her to send me the material for a lecture and she responded most generously, sending books, many sketches of her career, full lists of the subjects which had most interested her, poems addressed to her as if she were a goddess, and the pictures she added proved her to have been certainly very beautiful. "She looked like Venus and spoke like Minerva."

My audience was greatly interested. She was as new to them as to me and all she had donated was handed round to an eager crowd. In about six months I saw in the papers that Dora D'Istria was taking a long trip to America to meet Mrs. Oliver, Edison, Longfellow, and myself!

I called on her later at a seashore hotel near Boston. She had just finished her lunch, and said she had been enjoying for the first time boiled corn on the cob. She was sitting on the piazza, rather shabbily dressed, her skirt decidedly travel-stained. Traces of the butter used on the corn were visible about her mouth and she was smoking a large and very strong cigar, a sight not so common at that time in this country. A rocking chair was to her a delightful novelty and she had already bought six large rocking chairs of wickerwork. She was sitting in one and busily swaying back and forward and said: "Here I do repose myself and I take these chairs home with me and when de gentlemen and de ladies do come to see me in Florence, I do show them how to repose themselves."

Suddenly she looked at me and began to laugh immoderately. "Oh," she explained, seeing my puzzled expression, "I deed think of you as so deeferent, I deed think you were very tall and theen, with leetle, wiggly curls on each side of your face."

She evidently had in mind the typical old maid with gimlet ringlets! So we sat and rocked and laughed, for I was equally surprised to meet a person so "different" from my romantic ideal. Like the two Irishmen, who chancing to meet were each mistaken in the identity of the other. As one of them put it, "We looked at each other and, faith, it turned out to be nayther of us."

The Princess Massalsky sent to Mrs. Oliver and myself valuable tokens of her regard as souvenirs.



CHAPTER VII

Elected to be the First President of New Hampshire Daughters in Massachusetts and New Hampshire—Now Honorary President—Kind Words which I Highly Value—Three, but not "of a Kind"—A Strictly Family Affair—Two Favourite Poems—Breezy Meadows.

On May 15, 1894, I was elected to be the first president of the New Hampshire Daughters in Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and held the position for three years. Was then made Honorary President.

* * * * *

Some unsolicited approval:

Hers was a notable administration, and brought to the organization a prestige which remains. Rules might fail, but the brilliant president never. She governed a merry company, many of them famous, but she was chief. They loved her, and that affection and pride still exist.

A daughter of the "Granite State," who can certainly take front rank among business women, is Kate Sanborn, the beloved president of New Hampshire's Daughters.

Another thing that has occupied Miss Sanborn's time this summer aside from farming and writing is the program for the coming winter's work for the Daughters of New Hampshire. It is all planned, and if all the women's clubs carry such a program as the one which Miss Sanborn has planned, and that means that it will be carried out, the winter's history of women's clubs will be one of unprecedented prosperity.

If New Hampshire's daughters now living out of their own State do not keep track of each other, and become acquainted into the bargain, it will not be the fault of their president, who has carried on correspondence with almost every one of them, and who has planned a winter's work that will enable them to learn something about their own State, as well as to meet for the promoting of acquaintance.

OUR FIRST MEETING

This meeting was presided over by our much loved First-President, Kate Sanborn, and it was the most informal, spontaneous, and altogether enjoyable organization meeting that could be imagined, and the happy spirit came that has guided our way and helped us over the rough places leading us always to the light.

Our first resolve was to enjoy to the utmost the pleasure of being together, and with it to do everything possible to help our native State. To these two objects we have been steadfastly true in all the years; and how we have planned, and what we have done has been recorded to our credit, so that we may now say in looking back, "We have kept the faith and been true."

At this time there are so many memories, all equally precious and worthy of mention here, but we must be brief and only a few can be recalled.

In our early years our Kate Sanborn led us through so many pleasant paths, and with her "twin President," Julia K. Dyer, brought the real New Hampshire atmosphere into it all.

That was a grand Dartmouth Day, when the good man, Eleazar Wheelock, came down from his accustomed wall space to grace our program and the Dartmouth Sons brought their flag and delighted us with their college songs.

Since then have come to us governors, senators, judges, mayors, and many celebrities, all glad to bring some story with the breath of the hills to New Hampshire's Daughters. Kate Sanborn first called for our county tributes, to renew old acquaintances and promote rivalry among the members. We adorned ourselves with the gold buttercup badges, and adopted the grey and garnet as our colors.

NEW HAMPSHIRE'S DAUGHTERS

Members of the Society Hold an Experience Meeting.

The first meeting of the season of New Hampshire's Daughters was held at the Hotel Vendome, Boston, Saturday afternoon, and was a most successful gathering, both in point of attendance and of general interest. The business of the association was transacted under the direction of the president, Miss Kate Sanborn, whose free construction of parliamentary law and independent adherence to common sense as against narrow conventionality, results in satisfactory progress and rapid action. The 150 or more ladies present were more convinced than ever that Miss Sanborn is the right woman in the right place, although she herself indignantly repudiates the notion that she is fitted to the position.

The Daughters declare that the rapid growth of the organization is due to Miss Sanborn more than to any other influence. Her ability, brightness, wit, happy way of managing, and her strong personality generally are undoubtedly at present the mainstays of the Daughters' organization. She is ably assisted by an enthusiastic corps of officers.

MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:

Your calendar about old age is simply au fait. After reading it, I want to hurry up and grow old as fast as I can. It is the best collection of sane thoughts upon old age that I know in any language. Life coming from the Source of Life must be glorious throughout. The last of life should be its best. October is the king of all the year. A man should be more wonderful at eighty than at twenty; a woman should make her seventieth birthday more fascinating than her seventeenth. Merit never deserts the soul. God is with His children always.

Yours for a long life and happiness, PETER MacQUEEN.



DEAR KATE SANBORN:

The "Indian Summer Calendar" is the best thing you have done yet. I have read it straight through twice, and now it lies on my desk, and I read daily selections from it, as some of the good people read from their "Golden Treasury of Texts."

MARY A. LIVERMORE.

DEAR MISS SANBORN:

It gives me pleasure to offer my testimonial to your unique, original, and very picturesque lectures. The one to which I recently listened, in the New England Conservatory of Music, was certainly the most entertaining of any humorous lecture to which I have ever listened, and it left the audience talking, with such bright, happy faces, I can see it now in my mind. And they continued to repeat the happy things you said; at least my own friends did. It was not a "plea for cheerfulness," it was cheerfulness. I hope you may give it, and make the world laugh, a thousand times. "He who makes what is useful agreeable," said old Horace of literature, "wins every vote." You have the wit of making the useful agreeable, and the spirit and genius of it.

Sincerely, HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

I published a little volume, A Truthful Woman in Southern California, which had a large sale for many years. Women tourists bought it to "enlarge" with their photographs. Stedman wrote me, after I had sent him my book:

MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:

I think it especially charming that you should so remember me and send me a gift-copy of Truthful Kate's breezy and fascinating report of Southern California. For I had been so taken with your adoption of that Abandoned Farm that I had made a note of your second book. Your chapters give me as vivid an idea of Southern California as I obtained from Miss Hazard's watercolors, and that is saying a good deal. We all like you, and indeed who does not? And your books, so fresh and sparkling, make us like you even more. Believe that I am gratified by your unexpected gift, and by the note that convoyed it. EDMUND C. STEDMAN.

New York Public Library, Office of Circulation Department, 209 West 23rd Street, February 19,1907.

MISS KATE SANBORN, Metcalf, Mass.

DEAR MISS SANBORN:

You may be interested to know that your book on old wall-papers is included in a list of books specially recommended for libraries in Great Britain, compiled by the Library Association of the United Kingdom, recently published in London. As there seems to be a rather small proportion of American works included in the list, I think that this may be worthy of note.

With kindest regards, I remain, Very truly yours, ARTHUR E. BOSTWICK. Chief of the Circulation Department.

MY DEAR MISS KATE SANBORN:

How kind and generous you are to my books, and therefore, to me! How thoroughly you understand them and know why I wrote them!

When a book of mine is sent out into the cold world of indifferent reviewers, I read their platitudinous words, trying to be grateful; but waiting, waiting, knowing that ere long I shall get a little clipping from the Somerville Journal, written by Kate Sanborn; and then I shall know what the book is. If it's good, she'll say so, and if it isn't, I think she would say so; but that alternative never has come to me. But I would far rather have her true words of dispraise than all machine-made twaddle of nearly all the book columns of our great American press.

It is such generous minds as yours that have kept me writing. I should have stopped long ago if I had not had them.

ALICE MORSE EARLE.

It is impossible to give you a perfect pen picture of Breezy Meadows or of its mistress, Kate Sanborn, just as it is impossible to paint the tints of a glorious sunset stretching across the winter sky. Breezy Meadows is an ideal country home, and the mistress of it all is a grand woman—an honor to her sex, and a loyal friend. Her whole life seems to be devoted to making others happy, and a motto on one of the walls of the house expresses better than I can, her daily endeavour:

"Let me, also, cheer a spot, Hidden field or garden grot, Place where passing souls may rest, On the way, and be their best." BARBARA GALPIN.

As a lecturer, Miss Kate Sanborn is thoroughly unique. Whatever her topic, one is always sure there will be wit and the subtlest humour in her discourse, bits of philosophy of life, and the most practical common sense, flashes of laughable personal history, and gems of scholarship. It is always certain that the lecture will be rendered in inimitably bright and cheery style that will enliven her audience, which, while laughing and applauding, will listen intently throughout. No wonder she is a favourite with lecture goers, for few can give them so delightful an evening as she.—MARY A. LIVERMORE.

There is only one Kate Sanborn. Her position as a lecturer is unique. In the selection and treatment of her themes she has no rival. She touches nothing that she does not enliven and adorn. Pathos and humour, wit and wisdom, anecdote and incident, the foibles, fancies, freaks, and fashions of the past and present, pen pictures of great men and famous women, illustrious poets and distinguished authors, enrich her writings, as if the ages had laid their wealth of love and learning at her feet, and bidden her help herself. With a discriminating and exacting taste, she has brought together, in book and lecture, the things that others have overlooked, or never found. She has been a kind of discoverer of thoughts and things in the by-paths of literature. She also understands "the art of putting things." But vastly more than the thought, style, and utterance is the striking personality of the writer herself. It is not enough to read the writings of Miss Sanborn, though you cannot help doing this. She must be heard, if one would know the secret of her power—subtle, magnetic, impossible of transfer to books. The "personal equation" is everything—the strong, gifted woman putting her whole soul into the interpretation and transmission of her thought so that it may inspire the hearts of those who listen; the power of self-radiation. It is not surprising that Miss Sanborn is everywhere greeted with enthusiasm when she speaks.—ARTHUR LITTLE.

Miss Kate Sanborn is one of the best qualified women in this country to lecture on literary themes. The daughter of a Dartmouth professor, she was cradled in literature, and has made it in a certain way the work of her life. There is nothing, however, of the pedantic about her. She is the embodiment of a woman's wit and humour; but her forte is a certain crisp and lively condensation of persons and qualities which carry a large amount of information under a captivating cloak of vivacious and confidential talk with her audience, rather than didactic statement.

J.C. CROLY, "Jenny June."

One of the friends I miss most at the farm is Sam Walter Foss. He was the poet, philosopher, lecturer and "friend of man." His folk songs touched every heart and even the sombre vein lightened with pictures of hope and cheer. He was humorous and even funny, but in every line there is a dignity not often reached by writers of witty verse or prose. Mr. Foss was born in Candia, N.H., in June, 1858. Through his ancestor, Stephen Batcheller, he had kinship with Daniel Webster, John Greenleaf Whittier, and William Pitt Fessenden.

Mr. Foss secured an interest in the Lynn Union, and it was while engaged in publishing that newspaper that he made the discovery that he could be a "funny man." The man having charge of the funny column left suddenly, and Mr. Foss decided to see what he could do in the way of writing something humorous to fill the column. He had never done anything of this kind before, and was surprised and pleased to have some of his readers congratulate him on his new "funny man." He continued to write for this column and for a long time his identity was unknown, he being referred to simply as the "Lynn Union funny man." His ability finally attracted the attention of Wolcott Balestier, the editor of Tit-Bits, who secured Mr. Foss's services for that paper. Before long he became connected with Puck, Judge, and several other New York periodicals, including the New York Sun.

Mr. Foss's first book was published in 1894, and was entitled Back Country Poems and has passed through several editions. Whiffs from Wild Meadows issued in 1896 has been fully as successful. Later books are Dreams in Homespun, Songs of War and Peace, Songs of the Average Man.



He had charge of the Public Library at Somerville, Massachusetts, and his influence in library matters extended all over New England.

His poems are marked by simplicity. Most of his songs are written in New England dialect which he has used with unsurpassed effect. But this poetry was always of the simplest kind, of the appealing nature which reaches the heart. Of his work and his aim, he said in his first volume:

"It is not the greatest singer Who tries the loftiest themes, He is the true joy bringer Who tells his simplest dreams, He is the greatest poet Who will renounce all art And take his heart and show it To any other heart; Who writes no learned riddle, But sings his simplest rune, Takes his heart-strings for a fiddle, And plays his easiest tune."

Mr. Foss always had to recite the following poem when he called at Breezy Meadows

THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNKHEAD

I'm a lunkhead, an' I know it; 'taint no use to squirm an' talk, I'm a gump an' I'm a lunkhead, I'm a lummux, I'm a gawk, An' I make this interduction so that all you folks can see An' understan' the natur' of the critter thet I be.

I allus wobble w'en I walk, my j'ints are out er gear, My arms go flappin' through the air, jest like an el'phunt's ear; An' when the womern speaks to me I stutter an' grow weak, A big frog rises in my throat, an' he won't let me speak.

Wall, that's the kind er thing I be; but in our neighborhood Lived young Joe Craig an' young Jim Stump an' Hiram Underwood. We growed like corn in the same hill, jest like four sep'rit stalks; For they wuz lunkheads, jest like me, an' lummuxes and gawks.

Now, I knew I wuz a lunkhead; but them fellers didn't know, Thought they wuz the biggest punkins an' the purtiest in the row. An' I, I uster laff an' say, "Them lunkhead chaps will see W'en they go out into the worl' w'at gawky things they be."

Joe Craig was a lunkhead, but it didn't get through his pate; I guess you all heerd tell of him—he's governor of the state; Jim Stump, he blundered off to war—a most uncommon gump— Didn't know enough to know it—'an he came home General Stump.

Then Hiram Underwood went off, the bigges' gawk of all, We hardly thought him bright enough to share in Adam's fall; But he tried the railroad biz'ness, an' he allus grabbed his share,— Now this gawk, who didn't know it, is a fifty millionaire.

An' often out here hoein' I set down atween the stalks, Thinkin' how we four together all were lummuxes an' gawks, All were gumps and lunkheads, only they didn't know, yer see; An' I ask, "If I hadn' known it, like them other fellers there, Today I might be settin' in the presidential chair."

We all are lunkheads—don't get mad—an' lummuxes and gawks, But us poor chaps who know we be—we walk in humble walks. So, I say to all good lunkheads, "Keep yer own selves in the dark; Don't own to reckernize the fact, an' you will make your mark."

Next is the poem which is most quoted and best known:

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

"He was a friend to man, and lived in a house by the side of the road."—HOMER.

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the peace of their self-content; There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran;— But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by— The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban;— Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road, By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardour of hope, The men who are faint with the strife. But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears— Both parts of an infinite plan;— Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; That the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by— They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish—so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat Or hurl the cynic's ban?— Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Mr. Foss's attribution to Homer used as a motto preceding his poem, "The House by the Side of the Road," is, no doubt, his translation of a passage from the Iliad, book vi., which, as done into English prose in the translation of Lang, Leaf and Myers, is as follows:

Then Diomedes of the loud war-cry slew Axylos, Teuthranos' son that dwelt in stablished Arisbe, a man of substance dear to his fellows; for his dwelling was by the road-side and he entertained all men.

* * * * *

SAM WALTER FOSS

Sam Walter Foss was a poet of gentle heart. His keen wit never had any sting. He has described our Yankee folk with as clever humour as Bret Harte delineated Rocky Mountain life. Like Harte, Mr. Foss had no unkindness in his make-up. He told me that he never had received an anonymous letter in his life.

Our American nation is wonderful in science and mechanical invention. It was the aim of Sam Walter Foss to immortalize the age of steel. "Harness all your rivers above the cataracts' brink, and then unharness man." He told me he thought the subject of mechanics was as poetical as the song of the lark. "The Cosmos wrought for a billion years to make glad for a day," reminds us of the most resonant periods of Tennyson.

"The House by the Side of the Road," is from a text of Homer. "The Lunkhead" shows Foss in his happiest mood: gently satirizing the foibles and harmless, foolish fancies of his fellow-men. There is a haunting misty tenderness in such a poem as "The Tree Lover."

"Who loves a tree he loves the life That springs in flower and clover; He loves the love that gilds the cloud, And greens the April sod; He loves the wide beneficence, His soul takes hold of God."

We have too little love for the tender out-of-door nature. "The world is too much with us."

It was a loss to American life and letters when Sam Walter Foss passed away from us at the height of his strong true manhood. Later he will be regarded as an eminent American.

He was true to our age to the core. Whether he wrote of the gentle McKinley, the fighting Dewey, the ludicrous schoolboy, the "grand eternal fellows" that are coming to this world after we have left it—he was ever a weaver at the loom of highest thought. The world is not to be civilized and redeemed by the apostles of steel and brute force. Not the Hannibals and Caesars and Kaisers but the Shelleys, the Scotts, and the Fosses are our saviours. They will have a large part in the future of the world to heighten and brighten life and justify the ways of God to men.

These and such as these are our consolation in life's thorny pathway. They keep alive in us the memory of our youth and many a jaded traveller as he listens to their music, sees again the apple blossoms falling around him in the twilight of some unforgotten spring.

PETER MacQUEEN.

Peter MacQueen was brought to my house years ago by a friend when he happened to be stationary for an hour, and he is certainly a unique and interesting character, a marvellous talker, reciter of Scotch ballads, a maker of epigrams, and a most unpractical, now-you-see-him and now-he's-a-far-away-fellow. I remember his remark, "Breakfast is a fatal habit." It was not the breakfast to which he referred but to the gathering round a table at a stated hour, far too early, when not in a mood for society or for conversation. And again: "I have decided never to marry. A poor girl is a burden; a rich girl a boss." But you never can tell. He is now a Benedict.

I wrote to Mr. MacQueen lately for some of his press notices, and a few of the names which he called himself when I received his letters.

MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:—Yours here and I hasten to reply. Count Tolstoi remarked to me: "Your travels have been so vast and you have been with so many peoples and races, that an account of them would constitute a philosophy in itself."

Theodore Roosevelt said, "No other American has travelled over our new possessions more universally, nor observed the conditions in them so quickly and sanely."

Kennan was persona non grata to the Russians, especially after his visit to Siberia, but Mr. MacQueen was most cordially welcomed.

What an odd scene at Tolstoi's table! The countess and her daughter in full evening dress with the display of jewels, and at the other end Tolstoi in the roughest sort of peasant dress and with bare feet. At dinner Count Tolstoi said to Mr. MacQueen: "If I had travelled as much as you have, I should today have had a broader philosophy."

Mr. MacQueen says of Russia:

During the past one hundred years the empire of the Czar has made slow progress; but great bodies move slowly, and Russia is colossal. Two such republics as the United States with our great storm door called Alaska, could go into the Russian empire and yet leave room enough for Great Britain, Germany, and Austria.

Journeys taken by Mr. MacQueen:

1896—to Athens and Greece.

1897—to Constantinople and Asia Minor.

1898—in the Santiago Campaign with the Rough Riders, and in Porto Rico with General Miles.

1899—with General Henry W. Lawton to the Philippines, returning through Japan.

1900—with DeWet, Delarey, and Botha in the Boer Army; met Oom Paul, etc.

1901—to Russia and Siberia on pass from the Czar, visiting Tolstoi, etc.

1902—to Venezuela, Panama, Cuba, and Porto Rico.

1903—to Turkey, Macedonia, Servia, Hungary, Austria, etc.

In the meantime Mr. MacQueen has visited every country in Europe, completing 240,000 miles in ten years, a distance equal to that which separates this earth from the moon.

Last winter he was four months in the war zone, narrowly escaping arrest several times, and other serious dangers, as they thought him a spy with his camera and pictures. I gave a stag dinner for him just after his return from his war experiences, and the daily bulletins of war's horrors seemed dull reading after his stories.

Here is an extract from a paper sent by Peter MacQueen from Iowa, where he long ago was in great demand as a lecturer, which contained several of the best anecdotes told by this irresistible raconteur, which may be new to you, if not, read them again and then tell them yourself.

Mr. MacQueen, who is to lecture at the Chautauqua here, has many strange stories and quaint yarns that he picked up while travelling around the globe. While in the highlands of Scotland he met a canny old "Scot" who asked him, "Have you ever heard of Andrew Carnegie in America?" "Yes, indeed," replied the traveller. "Weel," said the Scot, pointing to a little stream near-by, "in that wee burn Andrew and I caught our first trout together. Andrew was a barefooted, bareheaded, ragged wee callen, no muckle guid at onything. But he gaed off to America, and they say he's doin' real weel."

While in the Philippines Mr. MacQueen was marching with some of the colored troops who have recently been dismissed by the President. A big coloured soldier walking beside Mr. MacQueen had his white officer's rations and ammunition and can-kit, carrying them in the hot tropical sun. The big fellow turned to the traveller and said: "Say, there, comrade, this yere White Man's Burden ain't all it's cracked up to be."

In the Boer war Mr. MacQueen, war correspondent and lecturer, tells of an Irish Brigade man from Chicago on Sani river. The correspondent was along with the Irish-Americans and saw them take a hill from a force of Yorkshire men very superior in numbers. Mr. MacQueen also saw a green flag of Ireland in the British lines. Turning to his Irish friend, he remarked: "Isn't it a shame to see Irishmen fighting for the Queen, and Irishmen fighting for the Boers at the same time?" "Sorra the bit," replied his companion, "it wouldn't be a proper fight if there wasn't Irishmen on both sides."

Here's hoping that during Mr. MacQueen's long vacation from sermons, lectures, and tedious conventionalities in the outdoors of the darkest and deepest Africa, the wild beasts, including the man-eating tiger, may prove the correctness of Mrs. Seton Thompson's good words for them and only approach him to have their photos taken or amiably allow themselves to be shot. The cannibals will decide he is too thin and wiry for a really tempting meal.

* * * * *

Doctor Edwin C. Bolles has been for fifteen years on the Faculty of Tufts College, Massachusetts, and still continues active service at the age of seventy-eight.

His history courses are among the popular ones in the curriculum, and his five minutes' daily talks in Chapel have won the admiration of the entire College.

He was for forty-five years in active pastoral service in the Universalist ministry; was Professor of Microscopy for three years at St. Lawrence University. Doctor Bolles was one of the pioneers in the lecture field and both prominent and popular in this line, and the first in the use of illustrations by the stereopticon in travel lectures.

The perfection of the use of microscopic projection which has done so much for the popularization of science was one of his exploits.

For several years his eyesight has been failing, an affliction which he has borne with Christian courage and cheerfulness and keeps right on at his beloved work.

He has been devoted to photography in which avocation he has been most successful. His wife told me they were glad to accept his call to New York as he had almost filled every room in their house with his various collections. One can appreciate this when he sees a card displayed on the door of Doctor Bolles's sanctum bearing this motto:

"A man is known by the Trumpery he keeps."

He has received many honorary degrees, but his present triumph over what would crush the ambition of most men is greater than all else.

* * * * *

Exquisite nonsense is a rare thing, but when found how delicious it is! I found a letter from a reverend friend who might be an American Sidney Smith if he chose, and I am going to let you enjoy it; it was written years ago.

Speaking of the "Purple and Gold," he says:

I should make also better acknowledgments than my thanks. But what can I do? My volume on The Millimetric Study of the Tail of the Greek Delta, in the MSS. of the Sixth Century, is entirely out of print; and until its re-issue by the Seaside Library I cannot forward a copy. Then my essay, "Infantile Diseases of the Earthworm" is in Berlin for translation, as it is to be issued at the same time in Germany and the United States. "The Moral Regeneration of the Rat," and "Intellectual Idiosyncracies of Twin Clams," are resting till I can get up my Sanscrit and Arabic, for I wish these researches to be exhaustive.

He added two poems which I am not selfish enough to keep to myself.

GOLDEN ROD

O! Golden Rod! Thou garish, gorgeous gush Of passion that consumes hot summer's heart! O! yellowest yolk of love! in yearly hush I stand, awe sobered, at thy burning bush Of Glory, glossed with lustrous and illustrious art, And moan, why poor, so poor in purse and brain I am, While thou into thy trusting treasury dost seem to cram Australia, California, Sinai and Siam.

And the other such a capital burlesque of the modern English School with its unintelligible parentheses:

ASTER

I kissed her all day on her red, red mouth (Cats, cradles and trilobites! Love is the master!) Too utterly torrid, a sweet, spicy South (Of compositae, fairest the Aster.) Stars shone on our kisses—the moon blushed warm (Ursa major or minor, Pollux and Castor!)

How long the homeward! And where was my arm? (Crushed, crushed at her waist was the Aster!)

No one kisses me now—my winter has come: (To ice turns fortune when once you have passed her.) I long for the angels to beckon me home (hum) (For dead, deader, deadest, the Aster!)



Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems. A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almost every woman will assure an agreeable smoker that she is "fond of the odour of a good cigar."

DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM

When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered and gone, And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on, In the times when he's idle or thoughtful, When he's lonesome, jolly or blue, And he fingers his useless matches, What is a poor fellow to do?

For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is gathered in; From Texas to Maine they've voted tobacco the deadliest sin; A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two; In this female republic of virtue, What is a poor fellow to do?

He may train up his reason on bridge and riot on afternoon tea, And at dinner, all wineless and proper, a dress-suited guest he may be; But when the mild cheese has been passed, and the chocolate mint drops are few, And the coffee comes in and he hankers, What is a poor fellow to do?

It's all for his good, they say; for in heaven no nicotine grows, And the angels need no cedar for moth-proofs to keep their clothes; No ashes are dropped, no carpets are singed, by all the saintly crew; If this is heaven, and he gets there, What is a poor fellow to do?

He'll sit on the golden benches and long for a chance to break jail, With a shooting-star for a motor, or a flight on a comet's tail; He'll see the smoke rise in the distance, and goaded by memory's spell, He'll go back on the women who saved him, And ask for a ticket to Hell!

An exact description of the usual happenings at "Breezy" in the beginning, by my only sister, Mrs. Babcock, who was devoted to me and did more than anyone to help to develop the Farm. I feel that this chapter must be the richer for two of her poems.

LIGHT AND SHADE AT "BREEZY MEADOWS" FARM

This charming May morning we'll walk to the grove! And give the dear dogs all a run; Over the meadows 'tis pleasant to rove And bask in the light of the sun.

Last night a sly fox took off our best duck! Run for a gun! there a hen hawk flies! We always have the very worst of luck, The anxious mistress of the chickens cries.

We stop to smell the lilacs at the gate, And watch the bluebirds in the elm-tree's crest— The finest farm it is in all the state, Which corner of it do you like the best?

Just think! a rat has eaten ducklings two, Now isn't that a shame! pray set a trap! The downiest, dearest ones that ever grew, I think this trouble will climax cap!

At "Sun Flower Rock," in joy we stand to gaze; The distant orchard, flowering, show so fair: Surely my dear, abandoned farming pays, How heavenly the early morning air!

Now only see! those horrid hens are scratching! They tear the Mountain Fringe so lately set! Some kind of mischief they are always hatching, Why did I ever try a hen to pet?

Here's "Mary's Circle," and the birches slender, And Columbine which grows the rocks between, Red blossoms showing in a regal splendour! We must be happy in this peaceful scene.

The puppies chew the woodbine and destroy The dainty branches sprouting on the wall! How can the little wretches so annoy? There's Solomon Alphonzo—worst of all!

Now we will go to breakfast—milk and cream, Eggs from the farm, surely it is a treat! How horrid city markets really seem When one can have fresh things like these to eat!

What? Nickodee has taken all the hash? And smashed the dish which lies upon the floor! I thought just now I heard a sudden crash! And it was he who slammed the kitchen door!

By "Scare Crow Road" we take our winding way, Tiger and Jerry in the pasture feed. See, Mary,—what a splendid crop of hay! Now, don't you feel that this is joy indeed?

The incubator chickens all are dead! Max fights with Shep, he scorns to follow me! Some fresh disaster momently I dread; Is that a skunk approaching?—try to see!

Come Snip and Snap and give us song and dance! We'll have a fire and read the choicest books, While the black horses waiting, paw and prance! And see how calm and sweet all nature looks.

So goes the day; the peaceful landscape smiles; At times the live stock seems to take a rest. But fills our hearts with worry other whiles! We think each separate creature is possessed!

MARY W. BABCOCK.



THE OLD WOMAN

The little old woman, who wove and who spun, Who sewed and who baked, did she have any fun?

In housewifely arts with her neighbour she'd vie, Her triumph a turkey, her pleasure a pie!

She milked and she churned, and the chickens she fed, She made tallow dips, and she moulded the bread.

No club day annoyed her, no program perplext, No themes for discussion her calm slumber vexed.

By birth D.A.R. or Colonial Dame, She sought for no record to blazon her fame—

No Swamies she knew, she cherished no fad, Of healing by science, no knowledge she had.

She anointed with goose grease, she gave castor oil, Strong sons and fair daughters rewarded her toil.

She studied child nature direct from the child, And she spared not the rod, though her manner was mild.

All honour be paid her, this heroine true, She laid the foundation for things we call new!

Her hand was so strong, and her brain was so steady, That for the New Woman she made the world ready.

MARY W. BABCOCK.



Here is one of the several parodies written by my brother while interned in a log camp in the woods of New Brunswick, during a severe day's deluge of rain. It was at the time when Peary had recently reached the North Pole, and Dr. Cook had reported his remarkable observations of purple snows:

DON'T YOU HEAR THE NORTH A-CALLIN'?

Ship me somewhere north o' nowhere, where the worst is like the best; Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, an' a man can get a rest; Where a breeze is like a blizzard, an' the weather at its best; Dogs and Huskies does the workin' and the Devil does the rest.

On the way to Baffin's Bay, Where the seal and walrus play, And the day is slow a-comin', slower Still to go away.

There I seen a walrus baskin'—bloomin' blubber to the good; Could I 'it 'im for the askin'? Well—I missed 'im where he stood. Ship me up there, north o' nowhere, where the best is like the worst; Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, and the last one gets there first.

Take me back to Baffin's Bay, Where the seal and walrus play; And the night is long a-comin', when it Comes, it comes to stay.



THE WOMAN WITH THE BROOM

A Mate for "The Man With The Hoe."

(Written after seeing a farmer's wife cleaning house.)

Bowed by the cares of cleaning house she leans Upon her broom and gazes through the dust. A wilderness of wrinkles on her face, And on her head a knob of wispy hair. Who made her slave to sweeping and to soap, A thing that smiles not and that never rests, Stanchioned in stall, a sister to the cow? Who loosened and made shrill this angled jaw? Who dowered this narrowed chest for blowing up Of sluggish men-folks and their morning fire?

Is this the thing you made a bride and brought To have dominion over hearth and home, To scour the stairs and search the bin for flour, To bear the burden of maternity? Is this the wife they wove who framed our law And pillared a bright land on smiling homes? Down all the stretch of street to the last house There is no shape more angular than hers, More tongued with gabble of her neighbours' deeds, More filled with nerve-ache and rheumatic twinge, More fraught with menace of the frying-pan.

O Lords and Masters in our happy land, How with this woman will you make account, How answer her shrill question in that hour When whirlwinds of such women shake the polls, Heedless of every precedent and creed, Straight in hysteric haste to right all wrongs? How will it be with cant of politics, With king of trade and legislative boss, With cobwebs of hypocrisy and greed, When she shall take the ballot for her broom And sweep away the dust of centuries?

EDWARD W. SANBORN.

NEW HAMPSHIRE DAUGHTERS

New Hampshire Daughters meet tonight With joy each cup is brimmin'; We've heard for years about her men, But why leave out her wimmin?

In early days they did their share To git the state to goin', And when their husbands went to war, Could fight or take to hoein'.

They bore privations with a smile, Raised families surprisin', Six boys, nine gals, with twins thrown in, O, they were enterprisin'.

Yet naught is found their deeds to praise In any book of hist'ry, The brothers wrote about themselves, And—well, that solves the myst'ry.

But now our women take their place In pulpit, court, and college, As doctors, teachers, orators, They equal men in knowledge.

And when another history's writ Of what New Hampshire's done, The women all will get their due, But not a single son.

But no, on sober second thought, We lead, not pose as martyrs, We'll give fair credit to her sons, But not forget her Darters.

KATE SANBORN.



A little of my (not doggerel) but pupperell to complete the family trio.

Answer to an artist friend who begged for a "Turkey dinner."

Delighted to welcome you dear; But you can't have a Turkey dinner! Those fowls are my friends—live here: To eat, not be eat, you sinner!

I like their limping, primping mien, I like their raucous gobble; I like the lordly tail outspread, I like their awkward hobble.

Yes, Turkey is my favourite meat, Hot, cold, or rechauffee; *But my own must stay, and eat and eat; You may paint 'em, and so take away.

KATE SANBORN.

[*Metre adapted to the peculiar feet of this bird.]

SPRING IN WINTER

A Memory of "Breezy Meadows"

'Twas winter—and bleakly and bitterly came The winds o'er the meads you so breezily name; And what tho' the sun in the heavens was bright, 'Twas lacking in heat altho' lavish in light. And cold were the guests who drew up to your door, But lo, when they entered 'twas winter no more!

Without, it might freeze, and without, it might storm, Within, there was welcome all glowing and warm. And oh, but the warmth in the hostess's eyes Made up for the lack of that same in the skies! And fain is the poet such magic to sing: Without, it was winter—within, it was spring!

Yea, spring—for the charm of the house and its cheer Awoke in us dreams of the youth of the year; And safe in your graciousness folded and furled, How far seemed the cold and the care of the world! So strong was the spell that your magic could fling, We knew it was winter—we felt it was spring!

Yea, spring—in the glow of your hearth and your board The springtime for us was revived and restored, And everyone blossomed, from hostess to guest, In story and sentiment, wisdom and jest; And even the bard like a robin must sing— And, sure, after that, who could doubt it was spring!

DENIS A. McCARTHY.

New Year's Day, 1909.

Mr. McCarthy is associate editor of The Sacred Heart, Boston, and a most popular poet and lecturer.

His dear little book, Voices from Erin, adorned with the Irish harp and the American shield fastened together by a series of true-love knots, is dedicated "To all who in their love for the new land have not forgotten the old." There is one of these poems which is always called for whenever the author attends any public function where recitations are in order, and I do not wonder at its popularity, for it has the genuine Irish lilt and fascination:

"Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring time of the year, When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow, When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all a-tremble With their singing and their winging to and fro; When queenly Slieve-na-mon puts her verdant vesture on, And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring; When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance; Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!"

I have always wanted to write a poem about my own "Breezy" and the bunch of lilacs at the gate; but not being a poet I have had to keep wanting; but just repeating this gaily tripping tribute over and over, I suddenly seized my pencil and pad, and actually under the inspiration, imitated (at a distance) half of this first verse.

How sweet to be at Breezy in the springtime of the year, With the lilacs all abloom at the gate, And everything so new, so jubilant, so dear, And every little bird is a-looking for his mate.

There, don't you dare laugh! Perhaps another time I may swing into the exact rhythm.

The Rev. William Rankin Duryea, late Professor at Rutgers College, New Brunswick, was before that appointment a clergyman in Jersey City. His wife told me that he once wrote some verses hoping to win a prize of several hundred dollars offered for the best poem on "Home." He dashed off one at a sitting, read it over, tore it up, and flung it in the waste basket. Then he proceeded to write something far more serious and impressive. This he sent to the committee of judges who were to choose the winner. It was never heard of. But his wife, who liked the rhythm of the despised jingle, took it from the waste basket, pieced it together, copied it, and sent it to the committee. It took the prize. And he showed me in his library, books he had long wanted to own, which he had purchased with this "prize money," writing in each "Bought for a Song."

1

Dark is the night, and fitful and drearily Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea, Little care I as here I sing cheerily, Wife at my side and my baby on knee; King, King, crown me the King! Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King.

2

Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces Dearer and dearer as onward we go, Forces the shadow behind us and places Brightness around us with warmth in the glow King, King, crown me the King! Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King.

3

Flashes the love-light increasing the glory, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, Lifting the shadows that over us roll; King, King, crown me the King! Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King.

4

Richer than miser with perishing treasure, Served with a service no conquest could bring, Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing, King, King, crown me the King! Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King.

WM. RANKIN DURYEA, D.D.



Breezy Meadows, my heart's delight. I was so fortunate as to purchase it in a ten-minute interview with the homesick owner, who longed to return to Nebraska, and complained that there was not grass enough on the place to feed a donkey. I am sure this was not a personal allusion, as I saw the donkey and he did look forlorn.

I was captivated by the big elms, all worthy of Dr. Holmes's wedding-ring, and looked no further, never dreaming of the great surprises in store for me. As, a natural pond of water lilies, some tinted with pink. These lilies bloom earlier and later than any others about here.

An unusual variety of trees, hundreds of white birches greatly adding to the beauty of the place, growing in picturesque clumps of family groups and their white bark, especially white.



Two granite quarries, the black and white, and an exquisite pink, and we drive daily over long stretches of solid rock, going down two or three hundred feet—But I shall never explore these for illusive wealth.

A large chestnut grove through which my foreman has made four excellent roads. Two fascinating brooks, with forget-me-nots, blue-eyed and smiling in the water, and the brilliant cardinal-flower on the banks in the late autumn.

From a profusion of wild flowers I especially remark the moccasin-flower or stemless lady's-slipper.

My Nature's Garden says—"Because most people cannot forbear picking this exquisite flower that seems too beautiful to be found outside a millionaire's hothouse, it is becoming rarer every year, until the picking of one in the deep forest where it must now hide, has become the event of a day's walk." Nearly 300 of this orchid were found in our wooded garden this season.

In the early spring, several deer are seen crossing the field just a little distance from the house. They like to drink at the brooks and nip off the buds of the lilac trees. Foxes, alas, abound.

Pheasants, quail, partridges are quite tame, perhaps because we feed them in winter.

I found untold bushes of the blueberry and huckleberry, also enough cranberries in the swamp to supply our own table and sell some. Wild grape-vines festoon trees by the brooks.

Barberries, a dozen bushes of these which are very decorative, and their fruit if skilfully mixed with raisins make a foreign-tasting and delicious conserve.

We have the otter and mink, and wild ducks winter in our brooks. Large birds like the heron and rail appear but rarely; ugly looking and fierce.

The hateful English sparrow has been so reduced in numbers by sparrow traps that now they keep away and the bluebirds take their own boxes again. The place is a safe and happy haven for hosts of birds.

I have a circle of houses for the martins and swallows and wires connecting them, where a deal of gossip goes on.

The pigeons coo-oo-o on the barn roof and are occasionally utilized in a pie, good too!



"I wonder how my great trees are coming on this summer."

"Where are your trees, Sir?" said the divinity student.

"Oh, all around about New England. I call all trees mine that I have put my wedding ring on, and I have as many tree-wives as Brigham Young has human ones." "One set's as green as the other," exclaimed a boarder, who has never been identified. "They're all Bloomers,"—said the young fellow called John. (I should have rebuked this trifling with language, if our landlady's daughter had not asked me just then what I meant by putting my wedding-ring on a tree.) "Why, measuring it with my thirty-foot tape, my dear, said I.—I have worn a tape almost out on the rough barks of our old New England elms and other big trees. Don't you want to hear me talk trees a little now? That is one of my specialties."

"What makes a first-class elm?"

"Why, size, in the first place, and chiefly anything over twenty feet clear girth five feet above the ground and with a spread of branches a hundred feet across may claim that title, according to my scale. All of them, with the questionable exception of the Springfield tree above referred to, stop, so far as my experience goes, at about twenty-two or twenty-three feet of girth and a hundred and twenty of spread."

Three of my big elms easily stand the test Dr. Holmes prescribed, and seem to spread themselves since being assured that they are worthy of one of his wedding-rings if he were alive, and soon there will be other applicants in younger elms.

* * * * *

I am pleased that my memory has brought before me so unerringly the pleasant pictures of the past. But my agreeable task is completed.

The humming-birds have come on this fifteenth of July to sip at early morn the nectar from the blossoms of the trumpet-vine, now beginning its brilliant display. That is always a signal for me to drop all indoor engagements and from this time, the high noon of midsummer fascinations, to keep out of doors enjoying to the full the ever-changing glories of Nature, until the annual Miracle Play of the Transfiguration of the Trees.



THE END