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'u>r«? wings
— the power to fly and fly, and then perch them-
selves aloft. It is delightful to know that some birds
can cross the wide ocean on their own little wings.
Again I must say if I could envy any creature it
would be a bird. If I might be anything other than
woman, let me be a white bird, with wings of my
own, to waft me up to the blue ether, and help me
to glorify my Creator, among trees that are grand
and vines that are beautiful, all near to human
homes.
POEMS AND PROSES. 55
A NEW PROVERB.
A man has no more right to wrong others to
please his wife than to please himself.
VOICES OF MY FAN.
1 have a Uttle fan which certainly is not like
any other fan. It is not made of palm, nor pearl,
nor sandal wood. It has no paste nor paint in its
fabrication ; and no human artificer has ever touched
it with his contriving hand. It is not beautiful, but
it is gentle, strikingly, thrillingly gentle. To the
touch it is silken-soft, and the warm air seems tender
in its coolness when you to^s it into waves about you
with this little fan. It is strange how many voices
there are in this one small thing ! To me it utters,
music, and poetry, and theology, in strains almost
divine.
It is only an owlet's wing ; and yet it sings to me
of the hills, and crags, and woods, where it lived, and
loved, and died. It speaks in deep unwritten poetry
of a mother's care in its young hfe ; and of an alpme
56 POEMS AXD PROSES.
brook that ran down by its nest in winter and in
summer. It speaks of the rich mosses and long
ferns that made the banks look green and beautiful,
in the bleak time of ice and leaflessness. It minds
me, too, of its own strange existence, with eyes that
see best in the darkness, and then folding itself
away from the sunshine and the busy day. To me,
the owl seems the most poetic of birds. He wakes,
and sings, and meditates, all the night long. The
stars all rise, and shine, and set in his presence. I
suspect he thinks the moon too bright and grand ;
and when the daylight dawns he grows weary. But
the night, "the grand, religious night," with all its
holy stars and voices, is his own by a right divine.
The infinite Almighty Father gave it peculiarly to
him, to possess and to enjoy. To me, this is one
page of theology. Who, but the Lord of all things,
could have provided such subhmities for a bird? I
almost understand why he gave it but one song, and
that song a monotone. A gifted voice of melody
would have made him far too rich and wonderful for
a being not immortal.
This eloquent little fan from the wildwood, grew
in the romantic forests of southern Kentucky, and
often speaks to me of human homes, as well as o
POEMS AND PROSES.
57
its own. How softly it has flitted and floated in air
above the homes of sleeping humanity ! The good
and the beautiful dwell there ; and the sorrowful and
weary ones are also there. But sorrow, and toil, and
care are sacred realities, and this sage little fan re-
minds me how dignified and lovely their votaries may
become.
This little wing has wafted itself over green
graves in the earth, and temples of worship in the
forest. In that region there are wonderful rocks,
and endless mines of coal. Then there are awful
legends told of robber^s in the days gone by, who
lived in bands, and gathered stores of gold froni their
slain victims. Their haunts and homes were a score
of miles distant from the place of my friends, but
my brothers there told me, that those horrid stories
were really true. I know not why my gentle little
fan reminds me of this, yet sometimes it does, as if
to make me glad of safety, and tranquiUity and good-
ness.
But in all the tones and melodies of this little
wing, there is nothing so divine as its mention of the
day in which it died — died in its own woodland, on a
snow-clad stump, because a boy who was gathering
wood cast a stone there. And Oh, it was poetic to
»*
58 POEMS AND PROSES.
die on a day like that ! The earth was deeply robed
in white, and every tree, and vine, and shrub was
woven about and crowned with snow in wonderful
perfection, I have never seen any created thing or
aspect that was so grand and beautiful ! There was
nothing to be seen 'round about us that day, save
the whiteness, in its myriad forms of curious lovliness.
It must have been sent to remind us oi heavenly
things. And if God can condescend, so to adorn
his footstool with evanescent whiteness and glory,
what must be the adorning of His Holy Home, where
the redeemed, whom he loves are clothed in white
raiment forever. I have seen beautiful snow-falls
before and since, but never aught like this, no, nev-
er ! Would that I could tell how manifold and pro-
found, to me, are the voices of my fan.
A PECULIAR GEM.
It is my lot to inherit and to have, a counter-
pane which was embroidered by my mother. The
white fabric of which it is made, wa§ carded, and spun,
and woven in my grandmother's home, and the snowy
cotton grew in her own Kentucky grounds. The
POEMS AND PROSES. 59
embroidering was commenced while my mother was
in a boarding-school, but was finished in her paren"
tal home. The manifold stitches are all monumental
of the diligent and faithful fingers of my incompar-
able mother. The fabric is monumental of an age
and a ho7ne all gone ^ quite gone, and forever ! Yet, it
was spun and woven in 1809, only seventy years ago.
THE BROKEN HEARTED.
"The tears our eyes shall never know,
Are dearer than the tears that flow."
— Father Ryan.
It is often said that "no one ever dies of sor-
row," but it is far from being true. I have been
well acquainted with two persons who certainly died
of anguish from bereavement. The best physicians
could find no symptom of sickness in either of them,
yet they pined away and died, with a peculiar sort
of gladness in departing. One was "a mother in
Israel," who buried her only son. He was a noble
being, so strong and wise that he would not address
the lady he loved and admired above all 'others, be-
6o POEMS AND PROSES.
cause she was his cousin, and he deemed it wrong
for such kindred to marry each other. I feel pleas-
ure in speaking of that heroic fact, whenever his
mother's grief is a theme of wonder and of sadness.
He was singularly good and talented and handsome,
with lofty and lovely aspirings for the battle of life;
yet so soon as his education was finished, he sickened
and died. It is not very strange that his mother's
heart should break, tho' she knew all about the balm
there surely is "in Gilead," and "the great Physi-
cian there."
The other, was a fair and gentle girl, whose
betrothed lover died on a journey, away from his
parental home, and from her. She did not weep,
or give expression to her sorrow. Extreme serenity
was the only visible token of the storm that had
swept over her. She glided on in her home and in
her social circle, almost as usual for a few months,
and then grew languid, but not sick. They nursed
her a few days, and she died, seeming glad to go
away from all the earth. Home, and friends, and
fortune, had no charm for her. I do not remember
her dying words which were told to me, but the
tones of her parting spirit seem to my imagination
thus to have whispered :
POEMS AND PROSES. 6i
Sweet sisters of mine I am pining to go
To the land of the loving, where bright waters
flow ; —
Where flowers are fadeless and graves are not
made,
Where the soul is at home in the Savior's abode
Ever — forever.
ANEMONE.
Of all the flowers that I have see, there is not
one that touches my heart like the lowly anemone.
The very leaves are beautiful as flowers, and all its
stems seem to be made of the harp-strings of angels.
The simple white flowers blent vvith all these, in
their peculiar gracefulness and gladness, look more
as if they came from heaven than any other flower
we know. I pity a person whb has never seen this
elegant little gem blooming in April, at the base of
a grand beechen tree, where mosses and dead leaves
had kept it warm, between the parted old roots, that
walled it partly round. There is no flower that I
62 POEMS AND PROSES.
SO love to carry about in my memories of childhood,
and in heaven I hope to see this same pale, 'Mow-
browed ancjuojie^
INACCURATE.
It is both strange and sad to see the inaccuracy
that abounds among the very respectable multitudes
of our land at this time. Only a few persons seem
to feel the importance of being accurate, in remem-
bering or narrating anything they see, or hear, or
read. Certainly there are very few persons, whose
evidence ought to be taken in a court of justice. It
must be that mothers and fathers are not faithful
enough in teaching their children the great import-
ance of being accurate.
VERY STRANGE!
Nothing seems so strange to me as great faults
in good and sensible people. I have known well,
only a few persons who did not sometimes astonish
POEMS AND PROSES. 6j
me, by words, or deeds, or some sad neglect of hu-
man or christian duty. Surely we have need to
pray often with the psalmist and say, " Search wf,
O God, and see if there be any wicked way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting."
THREE THINGS THAT ARE MOST BEAU-
TIFUL.
Affection seems to me, the loveliest of all hu-
man things, and no form of it is so perfect, as that
which is manifested by young persons, who are
deeply devoted to parents, and brothers, and sisters,
in the parental home. I have seen a few homes
that were more like heaven than earth, and the
beauty and blessedness there seemed all to grow out
of goodness and affection. All real love is divine.
It is passing beautiful to see a sweet woman kiss a
rose and say, I love it because it is so fresh from the
hand of my Father in heaven— I kiss it because His
touch of power is so really upon its perfect loveli-
ness.
64 POEMS AND PROSES.
Childhood is more beautiful than tongue can
ever tell. The. faith of a little child is the most per-
fect and divine of all faith. Perhaps no human
words can ever describe the gracefulness of child-
hood, or give a just idea of its perfect, untaught love-
liness. One must see it in order to apprehend or
appreciate it. I can believe that angels have more
to do with children, than mortals will ever know in
this existence. It must be that the divine Redeem-
er left on earth a perpetual benediction, for all ''lit-
tle children," when he took some of them in his holy
arms and blessed them in the days of his incarna-
tion. And yet, childhood has many sorrows and
sufferings, that only a child can know — a child, and
our all-wise Creator.
Companionship He who hung the stars, and
spread the sea, and gave the earth its orbit, fixed in
the human soul the wish, the everliving thirst for
something like itself to love. The little child de-
lights to be with children ; and if they live to be
threescore years and ten, they still love to commune
with something like themselves. It is amiable, it is
beautiful, it is fortunate so to be, if the word of the
Lord has been guiding and teaching them, all along
the journey of life.
POEMS AND PROSES. 65
A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL.
No. 1.
How 1 do enjoy this white convolvulus under
my window, said I this morning. " Yes, and so do
I," said my cousin M., 'how did you happen to
have a white convolvulus and no other just there ? "
''It did not happen,'' I replied, "for I carefully
gathered the seed of a white flov/er and planted it
there, to twine about the green beauty of my little
cedar tree, and it has grown into the exact fulfill-
ment of my wishes. It is a comfort and blessing to
me in many ways; while it beautifully confirms the
word of the Lord, which says, ' Whatsoever
a man soweth, that shall he also reap. ' "
We cannot think too often of this great truth. The
world is filled with mournful evidences of its neglect-
ed wisdom. I often think of the sad and guileless
testimony of poor Byron, on this subject. After
many bitter groanings and repinings he says, "The
thorns are of the tree I planted; they've torn me,
and I bleed."
I often make a shrine of my beautiful white
convolvulus, and offer up deep prayers for the way
66 POEMS AND PROSES.
ward and unbelieving — that they may learn to plant
only good seed, and so, "reap the life everlasting"
that is promised to " the wise-hearted."
CONVOLVULUS DAYS.
There are days in September when the morn-
ing-glory lives all the day, looking up into the sun-
shine. Those are the most lovely of autumnal days
— just cold enough, just warm enough, jjist bright
enough, and always filled with indescribable melody.
Those are the days when Ughts and shadows are
divine — the days in which the earth, and air, and
sky, seem to unite in their divinest anthem, while
they rest in "the Sabbath of nature."
THEOLOGY OF AN EGG.
Can it be that an atheist, or any unbeliever, has
ever gazed thoughtfully upon a bird, with its won-
derful plumag'e and powers, and then, remembering
that it was builded from an egg, will persistently
POEMS AND PROSES, 67
doubt the revelations of the Bible ? Let such an
one break an egg, and look upon its lifeless, curious,
insensate reality, and then look upon any living bird
that floats and flies in the free air, and see if he can
then doubt the divine perfection of a power and
wisdom far beyond all human comprehension. Even
one bird so curiously created, would be a miracle,
quite as wonderful as anything revealed in the word
of God. The redemption of the world, and the
resurrection of the dead, are more sublime and
dear to us, but not more incomprehensible. Surely
the power that can by any process build an egg into
a bird, can easily work all the wonders that are re-
vealed to us in his holy word.
And then, there is the same omnipotence mani-
fest in the countless numbers and variety of birds.
The humming-bird is exquisitely small and elegant,
and lives among the flowers. The Albatross flies
only about the ocean, and is '' tireless." The Eagle
is all strength and pride, and loves a mountain home.
So does
68 POEMS AND PROSES.
" The Condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through Heaven's unfathomable blue, and
brave
The fury of the northern hurricane,
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home."
Oh, how wonderfully different are the tribes of
birds ; and yet, they were and are, each one miracu-
lously builded from a cold and curious egg. It is
difficult to believe that a full fledged pea-foitl was
once only a simple egg, yet no one has ever disput-
ed it.
MY MOTHER'S NATAL DAY.
This fourteenth day of April, 1880, is the anni-
versary of that day in wiiich my dear mother, was
given as a sweet new blessing to the house of her
father — a sinless, helpless little child, and they called
her Martha. Brothers and sisters older, were there
to greet her, and be glad of her coming to that gen-
tle home, where prayers and praises hallowed the
morning and the evening of every day. I am glad
that my mother began her earthly pilgrimage in such
POEMS AND PROSES. 69
a home — and in the time of violets — and when the
waking buds and flowers were sending up their
great, deep whispered anthem of praise, for "the
resurrection and the Ufe." It seems fitting that the
day of her nativity should be when the sunshine is
so beautifully blent with the clouds and tears of the
sky. In all adverse hours, she was looking ever-
more at the divine mercy, that was so clear and
sweet to her in every day of trial and of tears. God
was very good when he created my mother, for he
gave her a rich and beautiful heritage of soul. Few
have been so gentle, and tender, and patient, and
firm. Her fortitude was the perfection of sublimity.
Her sorrows, and cares, and toils, were many and
great, yet she never complained. The devoted
affection of her husband and children, was one of
the divinely given influences to strengthen her, and
she never had an enemy. She was always very
busy, yet her heart and home were ever ready for
the warmest hospitality; and nothing but sickness in
her home, could hinder her from visiting the sick and
afflicted in her locahty. She was far from being rich
with common riches, yet she always had something
to give. Darhng, sweet mother ! It soothes me to
think of her nature, even before it was evangelized.
70 POEMS AXD' PJi OSES.
To-day I am thankful that I never heard her speak a
censorious word nor a word that was unrefined.
The atmosphere of her native home must have been
peculiarly elevating. I love to ren) ember what she
has told me, about the gentle joys and ways in that
home of her father and mother. Peace and affection
and industry, pervaded and consecrated by religion,
seem to have been the adorning there. My grand-
father was a farmer, and so just a man, that when
corn was scarce, and selling very high, he refused to
receive more than halt the market price, when men
came to buy his corn for bread. Years after he
died, the children asked their niolher why she never
would go out and walk with them as she used to do.
She told them sadly and calmly, that ''the green
fields and the forest were not beautiful to her since
their father died."
My mother was one year o]d the day her family
arrived at that Kentucky home, having journeyed
from their native Virginia, and over the mountains,
in wagons and on horseback. There was not then
a railroad in all this world. Yet it may be there
was more happiness and more greatness of soul than
there is now, in the fever and the rush. Darling,
sweet mother 1 it is pleasing to think of her nativity ;
POEMS AND PROSES. 71
and to be thankful "for her creation, preservation,
and redemption." But Oh, it is dreadful to remem-
ber that she died. The world can never be the same
that it was, after one sees their own good mother
die. We may grow calm, and strong, and walk,
and talk, and work, almost as when she was here;
yet this is not the same world when she is gone to
Paradise. A shadow and a vacancy goes with us
everywhere, and pervades all things. Darling own
mother ! in her cold repose there was the most per-
fect aspect of essential majesty that I have ever seen
— a visible consciousness, saying, I have dorie what I
could, I "have kept the faidi," and there is a
"crown laid up for me," which God will give to me
for Jesus' sake.
MY TWO FRIENDS.
One among the gifted has said that, " friend-
ship is the divinest of all the affections," and it may
be true, tho' to my mind, all the affections seem
heavenly.
72 POEMS AND PROSES,
It has been my happy lot in life to have many
dear friends, and to feel a joyous delight in their
existence. Yet there are two names among them
all that have a peculiar place in my memory, two
individualities that have entwined themselves about
my heart and mind, with a spell of love and beauty,
which time, and sorrow, and the grave, have no
power to weaken or alloy. Both of them were cul-
tivated, and intellectual and pious — both of them
were witty, and wise, and tender, and true — both
of them were practical, and excellent, and elegant,
and the graces which we can name, were so blended
in each one of them, as to give her a nameless charm
that can not be defined, and yet, they were differ-
ent. In aspect and in attainments they were differ-
ent. They never knew each other until they met in
my house, and then they were friends. Their homes
were many miles from mine; yet we saw each other
whenever it was convenient, and corresponded with
our pens, much after the manner of romantic lovers.
One of them was the daughter of a sweet rural
home, and educated there, by her own accomplished
mother and father. We first met in the home of a
mutual friend, and when an hour had been spent
v/ith her, I was enslaved by her mind and manner.
POEMS AND PROSES. 73
If a poet ever found, in real life, the cherished ideal
of his soul he surely felt as I did then. That spell of
beauty has never grown old or dim to me. The time
and place, and the aspect of the universe just then
and there, are all within my spirit now, with power to
bless me, as a sweet melody. No cloud or discord
ever cast a shadow over our friendship ; and in Par-
adise I expect to hold her hand in mine with pecu-
liar dehght. On earth her name was Sally. A few
years after this rural friendship began, I found in a
city, the second one of my Two Friends. I was
v^isiting my sister, whose husband was a minister,
much admired, and a fine theologian. A young
lady who had been raised in that city, and lived
an ear, visited my brother one evening, to discuss
with him some given point in theology. I was a
happy listener; and when the evening was half spent
my heart and mind were agiin enchanted with words
and manner. A new joy was in my soul, and it
seemed to me the angels had brought me another liv-
ing jewel, that was both radiant and rare. Her
name was Martha; and my first impressions of her
were strangely unerring.
Happy years of friendship glided by, and then,
one by one my darh'ng friends were led to the altar
74 POEMS AND PROSES.
by worthy gentlemen. I stood there beside each
one of them, in her bridal robe and Avreathe.
Both of them were very happy in their married lot.
Yet, al^s! both of them departed from all terrestrial
joys and cares, before tlie sweet roses of life had
lost any of iheir freshness and beauty. I have
worn the black raiment of sorrow for each of these
dear friends as for a sister. They have been long
years in Paradise, yet they still live in the recesses
of my heart, as bright, and good, and great, as they
were in the rich summer-time of our frindship. The
friend>, and books, and flowers, they loved are dear
to me, and the songs they sang are sweeter to me
than any other songs. It is beautiful to know that,
every one in my parental home loved my two friends,
and that they always enjoyed visits to us, with a
sort of heavenly delight. My brothers and sister
who are living now on earth, love them yet with a
poetic interest. It is sweet to know we helped each
Other to go liii(mi.iiiLVinrl, and that they will gladly
greet me at the gates of pearl. Rich, and beautiful,
and blessed to me is the gift of friendship — friend-
ship that can not die, because it is a part of my im-
mortal soul.
POEMS AND PROSES. 75
TWO LITTLE WHITE SLIPPERS.
Among other things that are more valuable to
me than to any other person, I have a small casket,
containing simple memorials, of dear and lovely
friends, who, one by one, have "closed their course
before me." There are tresses and ringlets of soft
hair, all cut from Hfeless brows, that are still fresh
and beautiful as ever. There are little pincushions,
with pins stuck here and there, by fingers of beauty
and hands of worth, that have long been folded
away in silent rest. There are threaded needles,
which were threaded by the happy and loving, who
sickened and died before those needles could stitch
the embroidery for which they were threaded. In
this peculiar treasury of mine, there is a pair of
white slippers, which, to me, are eloquently fraught
with poetic and historic value. They speak to me
thrillingly of the sweet bride whose fairy feet walked
in them once, and of the beautiful evening when, in
her parental home, she was given away in marriage.
They tell me again of her deep heart and beauteous
brow, and how she was surrounded thot evening by
dear and gentle friends, whom she had loved from
her childhood. I have never seen a lovelier even-
76 POEMS AND PROSES.
ing than that loth of September, with its serene
atmosphere of light, and friends, and flowers. The
universe seemed to be all in sympathy with the heart
and history of the gentle bride. Not many have
been so happy and so well beloved — not many have
been so guileless, and earnest, and good. Her
name was Angeline, and my own dear brother was
the bridegroom, so I called her my Angeline sister,
and such she really was. The light in her dark eyes
was tender, and pensive, and sweet, while music
and affection were a large part of her evangelized
nature. It is solacing to remember her ways and
words, and to commune with anything she has
touched or sung. I love to recall her aspect when
she softly swept the cords of an instrument, and
sang with her own peculiar feeling and simplicity
the songs she loved.
Many and sacred are the memories that bind
me to those little white shoes. While they remind
me of so much that is pleasing, they also have
whisperings of sorrow, of anguish and bereavement.
When the next September came, my Angeline sister
sickened and died, and wailings were heard at the
mention of her name. But it is blessed to know
that her death was sublimely triumphant. Her
POEMS AND PROSES. 77
faith in redeeming love was a glad reality, and she
was ready for the unexpected transition. In her dy-
ing days she bequeathed to me her bridal slippers,
and so, they have solemn voices of admonition, and
all they say is true. They reiterate and testify the
words of our faithful Redeemer, when he said, " /'
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