OLD MEETING-HOUSES BY JOHN RUSSELL HAYES WITH 52 ILLUSTRATIONS ex mi CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THE GEORGE LINCOLN BURR BOOK FUND Established in 193 i BX7635 .mT" ""'™""^ '■"•™^ *"'' iinfiinNiiiftiiiiml®*! '"^ ''°*'" ""ssell Haye olln 3 1924 029 464 348 Cornell University Library The original of tiiis bool< is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924029464348 OLD MEETING-HOUSES By the Same Author: The Old-Fashioned Garden and Other Verses The Brandywine llluBtrated by RobertrShaw Swarthmore Idylls liluBtrated by;Robert Shaw OLD MEETING-HOUSES By John Russell Hayes With over fifty illustrations " ■ ■¥'* ■ 1 %--^ Vi^M > ^ ^0^ ^B ■■'--mm. Wi .SI SBHBHBffiSEHBI^ W^^ id )tMMA 'I ' 'q!^j=^^BMfeaLr«iJ ■'/ /ore Quaker luays and Quaker worship" —Charles Lamb Philadelphia : The Biddle Press London: Headley Brothers 1909 Copyright 1909 By John Russell Hayes TO Joseph S. Walton c OLD MEETING-HOUSES. /SEE them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled, — Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, luith kind faces wrinkled, — Serene among their memory-hallowed acres. Madison Cawein a a Xlove old Meeting-houses, — how my heart Goes out to those dear silent homes of prayer With all their quietude and rustic charm, Their loved associations from old days, Their tranquil and pathetic solitude, Their hallowed memories! O I could roam Forever in old Quaker neighborhoods And muse beneath the oaks and sycamores That shade those quiet roofs, the evergreens That guard the lowly graves, — and meditate Upon the kindly hearts that softly sleep Beneath the violets and wandering vines And mossy turf, the kindly hearts and true That in old years gone by were wont to come To First-day and to Mid-week Meeting here To worship and to pray and find new strength For daily duties. Many a tranquil face I see in fancy as I ponder here, — The blessed mothers with their eyes of love And tenderest ssrmpathy, the fathers kind And serious and generous-souled to all, And hosts of rosy boys and budding girls — The youthful scions of old Quaker stock. The great old trees around the Meeting-house, Hoar patriarchs of eld, chant low to me Their centuried recollections of the sires Who plowed the far-spread farms that lie around, And matrons who have made, in years long gone. These grey farm-houses centers of true peace And friendly cheer, in days when son to son Succeeded, and the ancient well-loved farms Became ancestral lands round which were twined What love, what veneration, what deep faith! mighty oaks and noble sycamores. With trunk moss-silvered and with lichened limb. Breathe soft to me the storied memories And treasured records of the long rich years That blessed the Meeting-house at London Grove Gazing across the fertile townships there, — A grand old house of grand old memories. Tell me of Salem near the river shore Far in south Jersey, with its giant oak. Type of its people's age-long strength and charm; — Of that old Meeting-house at Wilmington, A peaceful island 'mid the city's noise ; Of little ancient solitary Cain Dreaming upon its solitary hill; Of Newtown's cheerful, sunny Meeting-house; Tell me of Ercildoun so friendly-kind; Of dear Penn Hill, precious in memory; Of Concord high among the peaceful farms; Of Gwynedd in the old Welsh settlement. Heart of a region where old faith still lives. And old tradition and old friendliness; Of Warrington among the ancient woods, Where Friends from Ireland worshipped in old days. O mighty oaks and lordly sycamores. Ye venerable warders, tell to me What happiness, what sorrows cluster round Solebury's Meeting "sacrosanct with love," Where late we laid one noble soul to rest After a rich full life of blessedness ; "The Light's great peace upon each fervent face," — Yea, such the Light he knew and followed well! Tell me, great trees that shade the quiet roofs And guard the lowly graves among the grass, Tell me of all the simple country faith And grace and kindliness that long have blest The old-time Quaker colonies afar — In fertile Indiana's sunny glades. In Loudoun's meadows warm and dreamy-fair, In old Long Island and in Canada, And every region where our Faith endures. Love links us all across the sundering leagues, Love makes us brothers in our cherished creed In many an ancient Quaker neighborhood. In many a well-loved kindly Meeting-house Par up and down the land, where'er we come And gather in the peaceful First-day morns. Waiting in quietude upon the Lord, Waiting and praying, — "Children of the Light." F 'AIR First-day mornings, steeped in summer calm Warm., tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm. Came to him, like some nnother-hallowed psalm. There, through the gathered stillness multiplied And made intense by sympathy, outside The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried, A-swing upon his elm. A faint perfume Breathed through the open windows of the room, From locust-trees heavy with clustered bloom. Whittier II Xlove old Meeting-houses; — what charm, What tender benediction and what peace Dwell in the very sunlight streaming down Across their quiet aisles! An ancient calm And phantom fragrance fill the sun-lit air That shimmers from the softly-humming stove In winter days and give& a dreamy grace And radiance to the far-off snowy hills And old homesteads and sleepy villages And lonely woods seen through the little panes. And in the golden summer First-day morns How sweet the drowsy air that softly flows Through open windows from the harvest fields And garden walks, scenting the quiet house With fragrance faint of honeysuckle vines And pungent clover-tops and spicy pinks! The winter sunlight and the flower-sweet air Of golden summer sabbaths add a grace. An unsuspected solemn spiritual charm, To all the blessed meditations there And tranquil thoughts; they are the visible form. Harmonious with inward righteousness. That heighten, strengthen, make it fair to all. O can there be perfection of the soul If God's sweet sunshine smiling down from heaven, Or birds and flowers beneath the tranquil blue, Meet no response? I cannot think it so. How poor of spirit he whose heart warms not O'er the calm beauty and benignity That musical silence and sweet country peace And balmy odors lend to those still hours In old-time Meeting-houses! Well I know What dignity breathes from the lofty space And amplitude of hospitality In these old-fashioned simple Quaker shrines! Most friendly seems the long, high, sturdy roof. Most friendly the all-welcoming old walls. Seen through the sheltering trees across the hills, As driving cheerily the families come To this sequestered sanctuary dear, Forgetful of the week's routine and trials. To find fresh consolation and fresh peace. — I love those spacious and all-welcoming walls Built for whole countrysides to gather there; They seem the very soul and warm dear heart Of all the Quaker region, — every hearth And chimney-nook and cosy family room In all the old farm-houses round about Find here their essence and their sum of warmth And human consecration kind and true, — So strongly knit is the old Meeting-house With every neighborly and friendly tie. So seems the Meeting sober and benign Of calm Old Kennett by the country road. Ancient and storied, — from the days of Penn To ours, a home of deepest Quaker peace. So seems the Meeting at dear Nottingham, In Calvert's province founded long ago. Child of New Garden in Penn's ancient shire, So peaceful, kindly, and so well-beloved. Such, ivied Abington's serene old house, — How spacious and all-welcoming its walls, How steeped in antique calm the air that flows Around that ample, cheery Quaker shrine! What sweet remembrance wreathes round every name, What reverence, what tenderness, what love! And like to these and equally endeared The Meetings with melodious Indian names, Or titles drawn from forms of stream and field, — Oswego, quaint Hockessin's little shrine, Lone Catawissa's olden log-built house, Eancocas with its walls of antique brick, Miami, Chappaqua, Greenfield, Short Creek, Mount Holly by our sainted Woolman's home, Coldstream, Westfield, and Plumstead quaint and old. Forever could I roam, forever muse Around these olden haunts, forever dream Upon the dear hearts sleeping silently Below the violets and the tangled grass. Where weep the rains and sob the murmuring leaves And chant the wistful birds at vesper hour. A SIMPLE country meeting-house, ^± Roofed in with mossy stone, Built in the days of Fox and Penn, All grey and lichen-grown. And round about, the old Friends sleep, Grave women, earnest men, Who kept the faith 'mid hate and scorn In the brave days of Penn. If love and faith and dauntless truth Can shed an influence round. Then these are consecrated walls, And this is holy ground! Fanny Peibson b3 s el- 's o Ill Xlove old Meeting-houses: — ^where on earth Is more of gracious charm and piety And saintly goodness seen than gathers here In quiet First-day meetings? Many a child, I know, is stirred to life-long righteousness By sight and memory of the dignity And tranquil spiritual beauty in the forms And faces of the venerable sires And placid grand-dames in the gallery seats. Wrapt round with tranquil sweet solemnity And peace and gentleness, they represent The Quaker faith made visible to all. One such there was whose memory is most dear: — Friendly of soul was she, and all who came Within the sunlight of her kindliness Were richer for her friendship and her love. We say the saints have gone from earth long since; But she, I think, was saintly, — if to be Devoted to high truth, to hear from heaven The voice ineffable and tell its words With pleading power and fervent eloquence To us who listened to her ministry. To live a blameless life, and shed around Sweet peace and friendliness and gracious cheer, — If this be saintliness, the gift was hers. God sends such souls among us now and then To show that heaven is not remote and strange. But here about us on this beauteous earth; And never can discouragement or gloom Becloud our vision while companioned here With friends like her, whose simple kindliness And cheering love seem touched with grace divine. And many a kindly reverend good old man Of equal saintship have I known, now gone Unto his heavenly home. One such there was Whose blameless tranquil years reached nigh five-score Before they laid him in the quiet earth Among the hills above the Brandywine, At little, lonely, well-loved Romansville. He was a farmer of the olden school, A man of friendly heart and wholesome cheer. Sturdy and steadfast through all trials; and now In his old age a noble veteran He sat among the elders much revered, A true old-fashioned Friend; all ages loved His converse, for his venerable head Belied his youthful heart, — he was as fresh In sympathy as any boy, and drew Young folk and children round him by the charm Of cheerfulness unfailing, and his kind Warm interest in all their joys and griefs. — when they laid him in the quiet earth, I thought, in childish fashion, that no more Of kindness lived, now this good man was gone! Among the ancient graves at Solebury We lately laid, — upon a wintry day Of weeping clouds and sadly moaning winds And sighing trees, — the earthly form of one Beloved beyond the usual lot of men. So venerable and benign, so kindly he. So cheerful-hearted and so young of soul, — He seemed a Quaker of the olden time, Gentle and steadfast, honorable and true. Grounded in virtue and integrity. And guided ever by an inner light; Yet no stern and unbending puritan; — We knew him genial, friendly, meekly wise. Childlike in his simplicity, naive And quaintly humorous, — such a man, I think, As Horace might have loved, so well he blent Sound lore and home-bred sense, contentment sweet And fine humanity. Yea, he had learned These Quaker virtues at his mother's knee; And through the long course of his fruitful life Her maxims he remembered; and in him Were human power and grace of soul so fused That long his happy memory shall endure Engraven in our hearts who loved him well, — The good old man, so venerable and benign. So cheerful-hearted and so young of soul. The Friends that I have here portrayed are types Of such as every Meeting-house has known ; Their names are written on the lowly slabs Beneath the solemn cypresses and firs. Wept o'er by sobbing rains and rose-leaves strewn In grieving autumn eves by wandering winds, In every Quaker grave-yard, and their fame Lives in the loving records of the heart Immortally. wondrous power of goodness Surpassing every other human gift, — Goodness that bringeth heaven down to earth And linketh mortal man with angels here! ^PIRIT of Wordsworth, vnth me still kj Upon the plain, upon the hill, I find my purpose wholly bent To be to-day thine instrument. Philip Henry Savage IV Xlove old Meeting-houses; — how remote From all the world's loud tumult do they seem!— Islands of blissful peace to lull tired souls Tossed on the seas of daily circumstance And seeking friendly haven after storm ; Sequestered bowers sweet with holy balm, To shelter and to shield. No words may tell The pathos of their centuried peacefulness, Tranquil and holy; — here have women wept Above their loved-ones, strong men here were bowed By piteous grief, in those grey ruthless hours When in the silent earth they laid to rest Their precious dear ones, — while the old house gloomed In silent sympathy, and all its trees. Its drooping roses and its ancient shrubs And clinging ivies sighed in unison A requiem for vanished loveliness, Or worth and noble charm too early gone. Or goodly veterans called to their long home. — The memories are sacred that enshrine Those sweet-sad, tragic, grey and mournful hours; But with each mellowing year that mellows grief And reconciles us to the Father's will. The dear old Meeting-house grows more endeared And gathers sentiment unto itself, Deep sentiment and reverence and love. One Meeting-house I love to call to mind Endeared by long ancestral ties, where late We came, descendants of the sires of old, To celebrate in autumn's pensive hours The hundredth year of that old Meeting-house. In many a loving heart that golden day Has now become a blessed memory Of dying woodlands flaming mile on mile, Of great cloud-fleets above the sleeping hills, And old-time peacefulness and love and charm. And through it all, one strong calm voice rings clear. His voice who seemed that centuried day, when all Our thoughts were of the Past, to sound once more The clarion call of sturdy Fox or Penn, Or Woolman's pleading pathos grave and sweet, — With homely simile and pithy phrase Stirring our youth to enter once again The lists where long ago our fathers strove For truth and faith and freedom of the soul. In truth he seemed of that pure brotherhood Of old-time Quakers, — our Idealist, Our Optimist, — I love to call him so, — Blending the vigor of the elder day With some fine grace caught from our own rich age, And fusing all with warm poetic glow As of some memory Wordsworthian. It could not other be, since he once roamed On Wordsworth's hills and mused the seer's high song Amid Westmoreland's sacred solitudes. — Such memory of that centuried day is mine. That golden day of peacefulness and love. Of dying woodlands flaming mile on mile. And great cloud-fleets above the sleeping hills. And here, in this dim raftered house of prayer, Xi. Where the bee drones against the sunny pane. And scent of old-time flowers lies on the air. And each worn bench recalls the Past again, Now throng the shadowy figures through the gloom, In shimmering gray, with gentle footfall go To take familiar station in the room. The sweet-voiced speakers in accustomed place. The quiet forms, expectant, ranged below. The Light's great peace upon each fervent face. Ely John Smith Xlove old Meeting-houses; — 'tis a joy To look across the wistful memoried years And summon back the faces kind and calm Of old-time Friends, who gathered 'neath these roofs In bygone days, who loved these ancient seats Of fragrant wood, and loved the sheltering trees And tender violets among the grass As still ,we love. They long have gone from earth — Dear, venerable, cheery old-time Friends, — But in the heart their recollection lives To sweeten and console; their voices speak Immortally across the vanished years, Immortally in sacred memory; And, hallowed by death's consecrating touch, Their messages bring solace to the soul More deep, I must believe, than living words. O friends, I would that we might cherish well Their sure and simple faith, their maxims quaint. Their piety, their saintly innocence. Their creed untroubled by the doubts that vex Our restless age, the questionings that rob Our hearts of their just dues of peace and joy. We call them "old-time Friends," and such they were. It is the noblest title we can give. For in the mellow retrospect of years They seem to move in monumental peace. And, like old portraits, keep a lasting charm, A type unchanging, since mortality Has been put off, and but the soul remains, Shining through kindly eyes and wistful smiles In old daguerreotypes cherished so well. With tender memoried faces such as these We people the old benches where to-day We sit with living friends, and musingly Find in the well-loved faces round us here Echoes and hints and dim resemblances Inherited from those of yore, that make The line continuous, the tides from soul To soul unbroken in their mystic flow. — Power ineffable, thus to maintain The spirit's kinship through the dateless years, Preserving the imperishable type, And linking with us in our mortal years The sainted and the loved of long ago! OLD homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love they touch me, through the years that sever. With sim,ple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever. Madison CAWEirt " The small and quaint Grey Mi't-ting-housc in Fnrness' grey, fields" j-llnt^onr, En^iUind VI Xlove old Meeting-houses; — simple shrines That hold the history of our noble faith, Strong arks that down the rivers of old time Have borne the symbols of our precious Past. Ah me, their very names are wondrous dear! — Kindly ancestral English names beloved, All redolent of English honesty And charm and worth, — brought hither by our sires To keep them minded of their English homes Among the moorlands or by tranquil streams. Their "leighs" and "tons," their "moors" and "byes" and "fields"; Mute history lies enshrined in every name, — Yardley and Yarmouth, Bristol, Burlington, Fairfax and Preston, Greenwich, Haddonfield, And drowsy Stanton 'mid the drowsy fields, Old Horsham dreaming in the hickories' shade, Easton, where Fox the Founder long ago Preached to a "heavenly meeting" gathered there, Bloomfield and Chesterfield and Fallsington, Uxbridge and Cain and tranquil Byberry, Old Darby, Cornwall, peaceful Providence, And old, old Shrewsbury where Fox once held "A precious meeting," quiet Fallowfield, And lonely Sadsbury so desolate Beside the lonely highway strewn with leaves. West Chester in the kindly dear old town; And little York, most like the small and quaint Grey Meeting-house in Fumess' grey fields By centuried Swarthmoor Hall, where Margaret Fell Through wondrous years kept warm the friendly hearth. Swarthmoor ! — ah how my dreaming fancy wakes At that name loved by Friends around the world; Musing I wander from that ancient Hall To many a Meeting-house in England's shires Or in green lovely Ireland. Well I know What kindliness, what old-world charm, abide At Henley by slow Thames, at Huddersfield, At Kendal and at Keswick in the vales That Wordsworth loved, at Ackworth long held dear, At Oxford and at Morland and at Ljmn, At brooding wave-washed Saltburn-by-the-Sea, At pleasant Darlington, at Thornton Marsh, At lonely-hearted Little Eccleston, At Cartmel nigh to those romantic fells Where great Helvellyn's foot-hills face the sea. At Warwick in Old England's midmost shire, At Walton-on-the-Naze so quaintly named. At Street in Somerset's delightful fields. At Chesham, Chelmsford, Chelsea, Cheltenham, And Chipping Norton 'mid the Oxford hills; And Little Jordans, that most hallowed spot, Where loved and saintly Penn was laid to rest Beside the loved and saintly Peningtons. In Ireland well I know what kindliness And peaceful charm abide, now as of old. At Limerick by Shannon's lordly stream. At Ballinderry and at Ballytore, At kindly Carlow, and at dear Clonmel In Tipperary's dales, at Waterford, At Wicklow and "sweet Cork" and old Tramore; And up at Lurgan where my fathers dwelt, In Armagh 'mid the emerald Irish fields. Beneath blue Irish skies (O heart of mine. How dreamest thou of those dear fields and skies!) By quiet stream or quiet country town, Or in old red-brick courts secluded deep In hearts of solemn cities vastly old, Stands many an antique Old- World Meeting, still. Haunted ■with memory and mystery And shadows of the Early Friends, — they touch me With wondrous pathos and heart-moving power; I cannot voice the magic and the charm With which they cry across the wistful years, Holy and tender, from the Long Ago; I cannot voice the yearning they awake. Those ancient Meetings in the Mother Land! ' — do the fragile balmy blossoms strew Their lintels and their lowly burial-stones With fragrant petal-drift all April long? Do warm rains drip like tears on summer nights? Does drear November sway their massive oaks And moan among their dark and centuried yews? As mountain streams from siidden sources run ^jL And calmer grow ere yet they blend in one, Then deeper flowing and more reverently Yield all their treasure to the parent sea; — So holy love in kindred hearts awakes And swift, from many lands, one channel takes. Whose currents blending deep in silence move Toward that great ocean of Abiding Love, Our common Father's heart, where space and time are not And each for each may plead, all selfish ends forgot. Edith M, Winder 3 VII Xlove old Meeting-houses, and could roam Forever in old Quaker neighborhoods, By peaceful hamlets and high breezy hills And dreamy rivers sleeping in the sun. — Beneath the noble sycamores and oaks That guard those quiet roofs I love to watch The Friends arrive and in the shady porch Give cheery greetings, and in little groups Converse on happenings of the week, or glow With kindly tender smiles and wistful words O'er "good old days" and memories half-forgot, While young folks stray apart, and children seek For violets and chase the butterflies. Or 'neath the solemn cypresses I roam Among the mossy stones, deciphering Dim names long weathered by the winter storms And April rains, musing upon the folk That in old years gone by were wont to come To First-day and to Mid-week Meeting here To worship and to pray and find new strength For daily duties; — and at length pass in With all the gathering groups of genial men And gentle women, blithesome rosy lads And winsome girls, beneath the lofty roof. And on the long unpainted fragrant seats Slow settle into silence, while the bees Drone in the panes and glad birds chirp outside. And from afar come sounds of farming toil. Of clinking scythes and plowmen's cheery calls And wagons slowly creaking; — then it is, As musical silence settles o'er the house, That our calm worship seems to sanctify Each longing soul, each heart athirst for grace. As in the ancient Meeting-house we sit. Environed round with friendliness and love. With stillness and the peace of musing minds. Or touched and comforted with eloquence And gentle pleading; with the solemn thought Of those low graves beneath the murmuring boughs, And all they hold of poignant memory, — In those most holy hours, does not a Voice Unheard by any save the spirit's ear Speak to each longing heart; does not a Presence Unseen by any save the spirit's eye Touch every brow with balm beneficent; Do not all barriers fade, all outward signs Seem merely phantom forms, until our souls Flow in resistless tide toward the Divine, "Toward that great ocean of Abiding Love," — As in the ancient Meeting-house we sit Environed round with love and friendliness. With stillness and the peace of musing minds! — Such the sure guidance of the Inner Light, Such the companionship and blessed strength Of the great Love that holds our yearning hearts. On many an azure morr of early spring When black-birds piped full sweet among the trees, Or in the flower-soft sabbaths of mid-June Fragrant with balmy airs, or in the deep December silence of a dim white world, Have these inflowings heartened and refreshed God's children met in quiet worship here. Such memories truly make a sacred shrine Of each old Meeting-house, — make it as holy To our affections and our reverence As any grey cathedral to our brethren Of faiths more ancient far than ours. I yield To none in sympathy for those high fanes And heaven-aspiring minsters of old lands, Whose solemn organ-tones and glorious hymns And incense streaming up in mists of gold So satisfy devout and simple hearts; — We all were of the old Church once, and feel Some thrill of old allegiance; — yet the calm Still air of blessedness and holy peace In some old Meeting 'mid its bowering trees. Its rambling horse-sheds, and low walls that bound Its silent "acre" sweet with tender flowers, Holdeth for me a pathos beautiful And wondrous beyond reach of any words. Ye dear old Meeting-houses, thus would one. Who long hath loved you deeply, strive to pay His tribute to your charm, your ancient peace, Your centuried repose, your guardianship O'er gracious souls into the twilight gone Such long, long years ago; hoping to wake In hearts too soon forgetful of the Past, Renewed reliance in your blessed power To soothe our anxious and unresting time With your serene and spiritual grace. Your precious sanctity and ancient charm: — Ye loved and quaint old Meeting-houses all. Time-honored Plymouth 'mid thy stately trees; Hoary of limb and silvered o'er with age; Nine Partners, where the blithe and thoughtful lass Lucretia Coffin came in school-girl days; Menallen, with thy kindly Irish name; Solebury's Meeting "sacrosanct with love;" And thou, grey shrine of faith and friendliness 'Neath Gwynedd's antique oaks; and little Cain Sad and deserted on thy lonely hill; Thou, Old Blue River, 'mid thy silent graves. Brooding in silence on thy memoried past; Thou, Pendleton, heart-warm with kindliness; Thou, spacious, tranquil, grand old Meeting-house At London Grove; quaint friendly Birmingham, Thou storied shrine; thou, ancient well-loved house Where meet the kindly folk of Willistown; Thou, Buckingham, above thy dreamy fields; And thou, old Meeting-house at Wilmington, A peaceful island 'mid the city's noise; Old Salem with thy monumental oak; Lone Cecil musing 'mid the forest flowers; Camden, so peaceful 'mid thy peaceful graves; And dear Penn Hill of precious memories; And many another which the yearning heart Holds dear for recollected happiness In hours of meditation and of dream Amid your quietude and rustic charm. Your tranquil and pathetic loneliness, Your dear associations from old days. Your sacred and ancestral memories. — And ye, old Meetings scattered up and down Among old Quaker neighborhoods afar In our wide continent; and ye, old shrines In those revered ancestral English shires And Irish fields, beyond the rolling seas That separate our lands hut not our love. _ if -I. il.^ «ir '■<^ ^ 'Ancient seats nj fmyra i/t wood A^eu': (Jtirdfjn, Pa ""Hraii of all fJir Qiiiikrr reijioH Moore^toirn, A\ J. iM^^fx "Steeped in atitii/ue calm' Readinq, Pa " Cdiiidf'ii. Ko pijureful 'iiiid ilnj peaceful graven" J^ '.-1 ivijl-lnriil kiiiilli/ Miitii/ii-li(insv Darl.,,, Pi, 'Dear assnriationx from old doi/s" Hnprwell. Va. ' Kiiriioii,,! ruinnl inlli friiili'i'iirss (III, I I,, Siindy S^iriiict. ^Id. Where iiieef the kiiiilhi full: ,,r \Vi/l,st,,ir„ W'riljil iniiinl iritli Norri.^l,,,,-,!. /; "Quaint Huckessin's little shrine' M,,inif Hull,/. I,,i niir saiittril Wi>'>i home' ' Cahn (Jhl Ke>nu:tt 77/r fi(>J't(y-li /( nun ing store Ala flic < !riire, !nd. 'Nine Partners, ivhere Lucretia Coffin came in school-girl days" tin/ '/ red in // fir/ils ' (Jld-lime feacefuhiess and love and i-linmi ' ' r,h«,irur,'. A' ./ Tranquil end pathetic lonelinei;!'" Haddonfield. N. J. 'A grfiiiil !>!(! lumsf of grand oli.l itn:iin>nes Londoi' (!rori\ Pa. 'Little ancient solitary Cain, Dreaniiiii] upon its solifiinj lull' " With ifs i/iaiij link, fi/jJC iif its ijpople'f! uge-loiig strcngtji mid rlnirin Siih III. A'. J. Si.nJ* " fis silent 'firrr' siri'ct iritli ti'liilr)- /idlrri's Fall.tirhrhl. Pa. ' Musical sill' lire fuid .'iirrtl (■(iinttnj peace lUnnanxvUlf. I'li . In the iiolden sioniiier First-day morns"