$our$ Cove 
 
 Mer^mabei 
 
Class _JES_3 5^L 
 Book . /i4 &5-Sl 
 Copyright }J°. 
 
 9o^. 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
D€DICJfCTOn 
 
 a woria of brothers, sisters,— lovers,— 
 T aeaicate titese pulsations of my soul, 
 witboMt regara to color, country, or con- 
 aition of servituae, past or present. 
 
 T reverence you, conservatives, if your conser- 
 vatism means Dolding on to tDe Dest and courage 
 tDat aares to cut away tDe aeaa-wool 
 
 T reverence you, radicals, if your individualism 
 means tbe ultimate ideal of humanity; and you, 
 socialists, if your socialism embraces tDe nobler in- 
 dividualism of tDe future wDen men and women 
 can looR into eacD otDers eyes ani live witDout fear, 
 1)umanity is indeed a unit. (Ue rise or fall to- 
 getDer, one Source one road — one destiny— T 
 am glad. Drop mud and stones. Qive me your 
 Dand wDiie T Dumbly, reverently dedicate to a 
 universe of Kindred my life and worR. 
 
 mabel. 
 
 Copyright, 1904, by G. E. Littlefleld. 
 
THE CRAFTMAN'S WORD 
 
 here is a book about love, written for 
 love's sake, and made a labor of joy. 
 From an author's pen dipped in fluid Spirit, — 
 
 THE true expression OF HER LIFE, IT SO MOVED 
 
 all sorts of people who have heard it read 
 
 from manuscript that some of them proposed 
 
 to co-operate in publishing it ; so i print it. 
 
 And it has been a pleasure to set the types 
 
 AND PUT it through THE PRESS AND BIND IT, 
 
 the love of it grew upon me while working. 
 
 "Who works for glory, missed oft the goal — 
 Who works for monjpy coins his very soul. 
 Work for the work's sake then, and it may be 
 All these things shall be added unto thee." 
 
 To THUS WORK IN COLLABORATION WITH THE AU- 
 THOR AND READERS, IS A GLADNESS AND RECOM- 
 PENSE WHICH NO MERELY COMMERCIAL INTEREST 
 CAN EVER EQUAL. It IS SIMPLE HONESTY AIDING 
 
 the expression of sincerity ; it is reaching 
 toward the new freedom which is not wan- 
 ton ; it is a foretaste of the coming democ- 
 racy which is the socialistic individualism of 
 doing things in fellowship with the univer- 
 sal; and this makes work a divine art and 
 the craftsman a worker in paradise. 
 
 George Elmp:r Littlefield. 
 
1 SOUL'S im LETTER 
 
 BY MABEL .; 
 
 ^ ImJ^* 
 
 Price $i.oo, Postpaid 
 
 Published by The Ariel Press 
 
 Westwood Mass. 
 
 1904 
 
ONGRESSKI^ /U 
 
 Keceived f \'A '-' * 
 
 "it was not cut short ; and in the 
 end it learnt, through tears and 
 much pain, that holiness is an infi- 
 nite compassion for others ; that 
 greatness is to take the common 
 things of life and walk truly among 
 
 them ; that happiness is a great 
 
 love and much serving." 
 
 Olive Schreiner. 
 
A SOUL'S LOVE LETTER 
 
 "And so I write, and write and write, 
 Just for the sake of writing to you, dear. 
 
 EAR ARTHUR:— 
 
 My soul's friend-yes, 
 I believe I can, with 
 perfect abandon, tell 
 you all. There are 
 moments when you 
 seem, in reality, my 
 other self. I feel it 
 will bring relief to lay my breast up close 
 to your own while we mutually feel the 
 beating of the Inlinite Heart through an 
 "uncut cord." 
 
 Can I tell you all, all, from infancy to 
 widowhood, up through the baby-girl days — 
 up through the serious sorrows of child- 
 hood's inexperience, — misty maidenhood — 
 wondering, dreaming young womanhood, 
 marriage conventional, widowhood, and at 
 last ? 
 
A soul's love letter 
 
 As you already know, Arthur, I was born 
 and bred on one of the large rough farms 
 of western New York. It must be about 
 the year 1870 that I first remember myself, 
 a chubby little tot, roaming about in pur- 
 suit of happiness — my inalienable right. 
 Abstract thoughts of life and liberty came 
 later, but for the time, like the ordinary, 
 robust baby, I absolutely sought and de- 
 manded happiness. The selfish, coercive 
 spirit was not wanting, and my parents no 
 doubt felt relief, if they thought about the 
 matter at all. I should not die, as the good 
 children do ; but they would raise up unto 
 themselves a daughter, and mother should 
 have, what she so much needed, some one 
 to help her. 
 
 In pursuit of happiness! A lisping tod- 
 dler — daring to venture forth on such a 
 quest! Poor baby! Wonderment, even then, 
 why all the beautiful spools and buttons 
 must be taken out before they gave me the 
 empty boxes ? 
 
 Nevertheless, I grew and waxed strong. 
 Four other children came to my parents, — 
 two brothers older, a brother and a sister 
 younger. I often catch myself looking at 
 
A soul's love letter 
 
 little children and wondering if life means 
 something of satisfaction to them. We hear 
 so much about the joys of childhood — as 
 if a child could scarcely be a child, and 
 not be happy. 
 
 I do not remember myself as a happy 
 child. No love was ever manifest upon 
 that old farm, and I believe here rested the 
 secret of my child-hunger. Nobody ever 
 kissed anybody, no one ever said a love- 
 word. It seemed all work and worry. Why 
 didn't some one stop long enough to say, 
 "My darling baby!" I was so lonesome, so 
 tiny, and so stranger-like! But they were 
 all too busy, and so the tragedy went on. 
 Arthur, I believe no suffering can quite 
 equal that of a child. It has not learned 
 by experience the law of universal utility, 
 which comes with more mature analysis. 
 
 Yes, the strenuous life had stridden out 
 there upon that old farm. Milk pans and 
 milk pails were there : butter to make, bread 
 to bake, stockings to mend. These, with 
 the necessary scoldings and whippings left 
 no place for love and caresses among the 
 seven beings, two elders and five juniors, 
 who stayed several years at that given point 
 
Of little plaintive voices, innocent, I hear life— life !' 
 
 ROSS LOTS" to the country 
 school house that stood on a 
 corner of the farm, was the 
 next turn in experience. I 
 now came in conta6l with 
 the outside world, and began a deeper study 
 of man's relation to man. I can see that 
 old school room now, with its home-made 
 desks, painted a slate-blue, and further dec- 
 orated with leadpencils and jack-knives. 
 
 I can see those rows of grinning urchins, 
 who came in from the various nooks and 
 corners of the "deestri6t" — what reverence 
 I had, at this period, for the "big" boys 
 and girls who did those examples in long 
 division on the blackboard, more puzzling 
 to my childish mind than were the Egyp- 
 tian hieroglyphics to Champollion ! 
 
 My envy and admiration were much ex- 
 ercised over the buxom beauty of Edna and 
 Cora, the two belles of the school, who re- 
 ceived so much honor and attention. Well, 
 Emerson says we can lose reverence in 
 things without losing our reverence. 
 
 I say praise be to that retained reverence 
 that through much jostling inclined me more 
 
A SOUI.'S LOVE LETTER 
 
 and more to "hitch my wagon to a star." 
 It was at this period that I told my first 
 lie. It was no cherrj^-tree affair. I simply 
 wanted to see my name coupled in writing 
 with the name of Archie Brown, my most 
 admired "gentleman friend." Others had 
 their names so written, — I must have mine. 
 The temptation was too great, and so I 
 wrote what I wanted on the blue-drab of 
 the entry door. My satis fa6lion was small 
 compared with my discomfort and chagrin, 
 when a torturing rival discovered my weak- 
 ness and folly. I declared, emphatically, I 
 never wrote any such "horrid thing," — I 
 said I "just hated" Archie Brown — and then 
 I cried, partly from sham.e, partly because 
 of the lies I had told. Poor womankind ! 
 From my mother I had heard about the 
 lake of fire awaiting the bad ones of earth — 
 I trembled with fear. Then I remembered 
 my father had said the place was a hoax, 
 like all the other do6lrines taught by "chick- 
 en-eating" preachers. And while I hoped 
 my father was right, I was in hell, but I 
 didn't know. I didn't recognize the place 
 because I thought blisters were only made 
 by literal fires. Poor humankind ! 
 
''But I could not hide 
 My quickening inner life from those at watch. 
 They saw a light at the window, now and then, 
 They had not set there. Who had set it there?" 
 
 HERE was a distin6l phase 
 of my child-life, Arthur, that 
 you may think unique, if not 
 altogether unnatural. I was 
 given to moods resembling 
 depression, though that term does not quite 
 define my feeling. Usually these came when 
 I was lying awake morning or evening, 
 the scene ending with tears and sobbing. 
 Sometimes ni}^ mother found me so, and to 
 her natural questionings I could give no 
 rational answers. Analysis was beyond me 
 then. I think I understand better now. 
 
 Father regarded the New York World, 
 and the county newspaper, sprinkled in with 
 Ingersoll's le6tures, as the essential home 
 reading. From one of these sources he read 
 aloud, such spare moments as he found, 
 which were not many, certainly. 
 
 Like Prince Gautama, a great burden 
 came to rest upon my heart. There was 
 so much wrong and suffering in the world. 
 Nobody seemed to love anybody anywhere. 
 
A SOUI.'S LOVE LETTER I I 
 
 Why, why did they do so ? Why were they 
 not good? Why did they all prey upon 
 each other? Why did not some one tell 
 them if they would only love one another, 
 how happy they would all be, and nobody 
 be hurt any more? 
 
 I am very grateful for these experiences 
 when I look back, now. I believe these 
 touches came from the instin6l that some- 
 times manifests itself in great art rhythm, 
 attesting the persistence and reality of the 
 good and beautiful. Perhaps it might prop- 
 erly be called the very Messianic instin6t 
 itself, in embryo. 
 
''They pass away, 
 Other themes demand thy lay, 
 Thou art no more a child." 
 
 HE pleasantest experiences of 
 this time were those when 
 uncles and aunts came, with 
 cousins of all ages; or, when 
 two or three times a year 
 we were all bundled into the big sleigh in 
 winter, or the "democrat" wagon in summer, 
 for a day or two of outing at grandfather's. 
 Everything was so novel and interesting 
 at grandpa's. Even the cows had their own 
 distin6l individuality over against our "Cher- 
 ry'' and "Stub-horn.'' The milk at grand- 
 father's had a peculiar flavor all its own — 
 milked into wooden instead of tin pails, and 
 strained through a cloth instead of a strainer, 
 as at home. The bed-sinque, the rag carpet, 
 the hair sofa, and each piece of cheap bric- 
 a-brac were fraught with impressiveness. 
 
 There were bees humming, ducks wad- 
 dling and turkeys strutting, all so wonderful, 
 so wonderful! I remember on one occasion 
 the old gobbler very early took a dislike to 
 the bright red, print dress I wore, and kept 
 me fleeing for safety before his autocratic 
 
13 
 
 presence. The great shaggy shepherd dog 
 was a world of wonder in himself. With 
 children as with grown-ups, the familiar, the 
 commonplace cease to be wonderful, mag- 
 ical. Curiosity, wonderment, worship of the 
 far away, lure us on. In new scenes and 
 strange faces we hope to find more lasting 
 satisfaction. Our landscapes are not so beau- 
 tiful, the men we meet are not so wise or 
 loving — we will wander afar. Poor "per- 
 ennial globe trotters !" Poor happiness-pur- 
 suers ! It was later when I went to live 
 at grandfather's and a grass-widow aunt 
 scolded me for breaking the glass milk- 
 pitcher, and grandma made me sit a half 
 hour with folded arms, while grandpa read 
 the Bible and offered prayers, that I cried 
 to go back home. As Sam Foss says: "I 
 want to go somewhere, — I want to get 
 back ! is the shuttle-cock cry of the heart." 
 
*'It is not what a man is, but what he would be, 
 that exalts him." 
 
 OOD old puritanical grandma 
 would put to shame Matt 
 Quay or Tom Piatt, when she 
 wire-pulled grandpa into go- 
 ing down to see Electra, my 
 mother, and taking me home. A very mild 
 suggestion of the kind at tirst brought forth 
 a series of ejaculations : 
 
 "I hain't no night-hawk, I hain't! Got 
 to git them oats in 'fore it rains. Some 
 folks ain't never contented else the're a- 
 chasin' off somewheres." 
 
 Good old grandma knew, — she hadn't 
 heard anything about language being used 
 by men to conceal their thoughts, but she 
 said softly: 
 
 "Get ready just as fast as you can." 
 
 We were none too early in our prepara- 
 tions. Old sorrel "Jim" soon came lumber- 
 ing up to the door, drawing a freshly greased 
 buggy, and grandfather ghouted: 
 
 "Sha'n't wait two minutes for ye! Pile 
 in ; we ought to a' been on the road an 
 hour ago." 
 
 In we quickly clambered, and off Jim 
 
A soul's love letter 15 
 
 shambled, on his fourteen mile drive, while 
 grandpa beguiled the wa}^ with a character- 
 istic humming tune, all his own, broken in 
 upon every now and then by ^'G'lang, lazy 
 bones!" or "G'lang, saphead!" When Jim 
 responded mildly to the gentlest tap of the 
 old stub whip, grandfather said, "Then 
 g'lang, when I tell ye!'' 
 
 When we reached our destination, the 
 greetings were hardly over before grand- 
 father began to talk of going home, the oats 
 and the rain. But he smiled when the boys 
 commenced to dig bait, and make general 
 preparations for a fishing excursion. 
 
 He took great delight in telling of his 
 early prowess as a sportsman or fisherman. 
 Grandmother's New England piety kept her 
 exa6f to the letter and she constantly a6led 
 as a balance wheel while grandfather re- 
 lated his adventures. 
 
 On one occasion, when he told of the mar- 
 vellous "ketch" of tish he had once 'taken 
 from the Alleghany river, grandma disput- 
 ing, he said with great excitement : 
 
 "I ain't goin' to give in! Didn't Nancy 
 bring down two pails to hold 'em all ?" 
 
 Grandma replied very seriously: 
 
1 6 A soul's love letter 
 
 "Well, — mebbe. It would be jest as 
 wicked ter tell it a little tew small as it 
 would ter tell it a little tew big." 
 
 They both fell asleep at last, at a good 
 old age. Grandma conscientious, and grand- 
 pa too, with all his exaggerations. The gen- 
 tle, suggestive manner with which he used 
 the whip on old Jim's back, was to me 
 homely evidence of a sympathetic heart. 
 
Oh, there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, 
 Which are the dreams of love." 
 
 HE semi-annual donation for 
 the poorly paid Methodist 
 preacher, who preached in 
 the school house every two 
 weeks, was a great social 
 fundion for the country people of the time. 
 Such an event was approaching, the very 
 afternoon of the evening was upon us, and 
 each family and each member of each fam- 
 ily was busy and breathless. 
 
 Mother was to bake a cake — a real fros- 
 ted one, and she was afraid of her luck. 
 She decided upon a tall pyramid, as they 
 were the fad among country housekeepers. 
 Susan Green, the brag cook of the neigh- 
 borhood, had made one at the last donation 
 one layer higher than her ambitious neigh- 
 bors, and for six long months had been 
 alternately envied and worshipped as the 
 lioness of the hour. 
 
 I heard my mother express her very de- 
 cided feeling upon the subject, often. She 
 said she thought if her " man " had a mort- 
 gage on his place, she would leave tall cake- 
 baking to women whose husbands didn't 
 
i8 
 
 owe anything. She further intimated the 
 bare possibility that poor, deaf John, the 
 other half of Susan, fared no better than he 
 should at the hands of this unthrifty sharer 
 of his bed and board. Still others hinted 
 at something worse in the life of the gar- 
 rulous Susan than riotous wasting of sub- 
 stance. All the sweetness, all the bitterness, 
 found in petty scandal, or neighborhood gos- 
 sip, came to these good-meaning country 
 dames over that one extra layer of pyra- 
 mid cake. 
 
 Poor Susan's ambition came near being 
 her downfall in the community. I think 
 now the instru6tion of Cardinal Woolsey, 
 well a6led upon, would have saved her many 
 a withering glance from her piqued sisters : 
 
 "Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition. 
 By that sin fell the angels. How can, then, the 
 image of his Maker, hope to win by it?" 
 
 Supper is nearly ready at the donation. 
 The men of the congregation are gathered 
 with great dignity in the big "spare room" 
 while the worthy women folk dilligently 
 apply themselves to culinary arrangements. 
 Later day salads and tutti-frutti dishes are 
 
A soul's love letter 19 
 
 not here, but other good things are revealed 
 hidden away in those mammoth baskets, and 
 the odor of steeping coffee reaches us 3'oung 
 people playing *' Snap-and-catch 'em" and 
 "Needle's eye," in the hall-like chamber 
 above. 
 
 "The young folks are to eat first with the 
 preacher.'' So says Martha Brown, who 
 orders the ceremonies with busy, bustling 
 importance. 
 
 Lo ! he approaches — a boy ! — a young 
 man! — a something, anyway, wearing no 
 merino skirt, like I did myself, but a real 
 pair of pants! It couldn't be! O blissful 
 moment! He really was asking me to sup- 
 per with him. Those downy lips said it. 
 I saw them move nervously. 'Twas true! 
 Do not laugh, — I was almost thirteen ! 
 
 I was a woman really now. I could wear 
 my dresses long hereafter, and assume new 
 dignities. True, he wnsn't the one I would 
 have chosen out of the crowd of boys. I 
 liked Archie better, for his hair was black 
 and curled, while Anson's was light and so 
 straight it pitched awkwardly over his fore- 
 head. But then, what would one have? I 
 was chosen by some one. A new, delightful. 
 
20 A soul's love LETTER 
 
 even thrilling experience was upon me. 
 Onl}^ last year I called upon this light- 
 haired, freckle- faced youth of other days, — 
 now a prosperous lawyer of Buffalo. The 
 world had rubbed off all the greenness, and 
 he has money, it is said, — yea, even filthy 
 lucre has he! But he could not awaken 
 again in my heart — I know — one momen- 
 tary heart-throbbing, like he gave me when 
 we ate together, that autumn night, our 
 pumpkin pie, preserves and pyramid cake. 
 
"A youth who bore, mid snow and ice, 
 A banner with this strange device, 
 
 Excelsior." 
 
 T fourteen I went out to teach 
 my first school and earn 
 my first dollar. Appalling 
 thought ! Other souls were 
 to receive impetus and in- 
 struction from a child just in her teens. 
 But what of that ? Nature drops her su- 
 preme gift,a fresh new plastic being, into the 
 arms of girls as young. 
 
 A strange careless seeming old dame is 
 Nature, but she knows her own, and she 
 never flurries or gets red in the face. O 
 great matrix of infinitude in which we and 
 all things are cradled so safely, from whence 
 comes fear and restlessness? Even in the 
 house where I went to room myself, with 
 food and fuel brought from home, — even 
 there I found a girl of my own age, mar- 
 ried to a man of thirty, and about to be- 
 come a mother. 
 
 I do not accuse my father of any mer- 
 cenary spirit in putting me into this school; 
 though having burdened himself with new 
 indebtedness for a land purchase that made 
 
22 
 
 him poorer, I remember he gladly appro- 
 priated the check for my wages and I never 
 saw it more. I suppose it was *' benevolent 
 assimilation." High sounding words, and 
 good phrasing, you know, have covered a 
 multitude of sins from time immemorial. 
 When I cried myself to sleep the first night 
 of school teaching, I had myself chiefly to 
 thank for the pickle I was in. I wanted to 
 teach. I had played "teach school" many 
 times at home. 
 
 I had painted my picture. I would have a 
 line time! What satisfaction to ring the bell 
 and see every little soul obey automatically! 
 Order is heaven's first law. I could see them 
 sitting there before me, so demure, consci- 
 entiously waiting to do my slightest bidding, 
 and I would walk among them with the 
 feeling of Divine right. 
 
 Ideas founded on these premises have 
 brought crowned heads to the block and 
 blockheads to crowns and other trouble. My 
 chief motive w^as ambition, with perhaps a 
 sprinkling of high aspiration, but I desire 
 greatly to speak the truth to you. There is 
 such a gulf between these two attitudes of 
 mind, though the world seems not yet to 
 
A soul's love letter 23 
 
 discriminate carefully between them. As- 
 piration is a latent soul-quality. I had not 
 yet been whipped into the kingdom. Like 
 others before me, I had commenced to "beat 
 my wings against the bars of environment 
 about me, and I wanted a finer life." 
 
 I would read, earn money, and father 
 would let me go to the academy. I would 
 "be somebody." Father's mother, Laura 
 Beecher, came from New Haven, he told 
 us, and belonged to the original stock of 
 "brainy Beechers." I had never seen this 
 grandmother, who died early, but old pion- 
 eers spoke of her as a lady "born and bred." 
 I believed in kingly pedigree, then, and my 
 blood tingled. I have grown to believe more 
 in the One Life, and the utility of suffering. 
 No soul can boast over another. Souls are 
 not comparable; for they are of one stuff — 
 plastic, evolutionary, compelled by necessity 
 to become great Nature's democrats. 
 
 I need not go into the details of that four 
 months of teaching. When March was over, 
 and I didn't have the tires to build cold 
 mornings, and the bread and butter odor, so 
 characteristic of school rooms, had departed, 
 life became monotonously bearable. 
 
24 
 
 Often a stubborn girl or mischievous boy 
 made me fearful of more serious trouble, 
 for I had been told the teacher before me 
 was obliged to leave an unfinished term. 
 Though sometimes severely tried, still I had 
 my great hope strong within me: I would 
 bide my time, go to school, and *'be some- 
 body.'' 
 
 Something ludicrous, something pathetic, 
 touches me when I look back and see that 
 little girl teacher, going to and fro in her 
 barren round. My mother had neither time 
 nor talent for dressmaking. I remember the 
 dress I wore most of the time during that 
 term. An old alpaca of mother's, made over 
 by some neighbor thought clever with the 
 needle ; she had made my dress, overskirt 
 and basque, trimmed with plaiting. I had 
 grown since the making and it had become 
 what might properly be called shortwaisted 
 and out of date. 
 
 Never mind, I would soon be through, 
 have money and perhaps sometime go to 
 college. If I had no new and stylish dress 
 nevertheless I had my great hope. No one 
 could daunt my spirit or take that from me. 
 
'*And lived my life, and thought my thoughts 
 
 and prayed 
 My prayers without a vicar." 
 
 NE day a carriage halted be- 
 fore the school house door. 
 I recognized my dude cousin 
 Frank, from Fieldsboro', who 
 called me out to be introduced 
 to two beautiful ladies, seated behind. 
 
 "These are our cousins who have come 
 from the east to spend a few weeks among 
 the New York relatives. They are mother 
 and daughter, Cousin Mary Curtis, — Cousin 
 Caroline Beecher Curtis." 
 
 There they sat, and there stood I, self- 
 conscious, blushing and stammering. It was 
 Friday afternoon, and "would I not ride 
 home with them?" They were going to 
 stay a week at my home. I soon dismissed 
 my school and seated myself beisde Cousin 
 Frank, in front. I knew they were looking 
 at that short-waisted alpaca basque, and it 
 hurt, O how it hurt! Then I thought of 
 my hope, and I think I lelt as Samantha 
 did when she said Josiah told her she didn't 
 have any brains. She didn't care, for she 
 knew she had! 
 
26 A soul's love letter 
 
 A tragedy was going on, Arthur. How I 
 suffered during the visit of those city cous- 
 ins! They had real culture — what Matthew 
 Arnold rightly names sweetness and light. 
 They talked about our beautiful hills and 
 the advantages of rural life, but I couldn't 
 see it. It all seemed ver}' commonplace and 
 mean to me; I seemed chained to a death-in- 
 life existence. I almost loathed myself. I 
 had not asked to come, but some inevitable 
 necessity had taken me out of the unknown 
 and placed me here. I had the blood of my 
 beautiful and cultured cousin — I almost felt 
 that I longed more than she for the "ideal, 
 better called the real;" but here we were, 
 alike, yet diverse. Was there a God ? Was 
 there justice in the world ? Perhaps not. My 
 father was right — for even mortals were not 
 so unkind to mortals. I had not suffered 
 enough. It was a long time with much to 
 endure before I found a sure anchor. 
 
 That week's visit was a week of tears for 
 me. My one word to my cousin when we 
 separated was, "I'll be somebody yet, 
 Carrie." 
 
 I had life, I had liberty, I would yet find 
 happiness. 
 
^'Sublimest danger, over which none weeps, 
 When any young, wayfaring soul goes forth 
 Alone, unconscious of the perilous road. 
 The day-sun dazzling in his limpid eyes. 
 To thrust his own way, he an alien, through the 
 world of books." 
 
 OUSIN Caroline Beecher had 
 gone, but her influence had 
 left its impression. My long- 
 ing for better things was in- 
 creased tenfold while the 
 obstru(5lions and impediments in my path 
 seemed numberless. If I could gain access 
 to proper literature. But who was to guide 
 me, and where were the books to be had? 
 Some one told me of an old library, con- 
 taining a few volumes, the property of the 
 school district, and I hunted it up. I found 
 the books piled away in the corner of an 
 attic room. 
 
 I wish memory would serve me to give 
 the title of every book in the pile. I found 
 one that interested me greatly. It was inten- 
 ded to show bad people how bad they were, 
 and frighten them into being good. It con- 
 tained many bright-colored pi6lures, in har- 
 mony with the picture opposite the title-page 
 
A soul's love letter 
 
 which represented the devil with a horn in 
 the middle of his forehead and a long liz- 
 zard-like tail, finished with a fork. 
 
 I thought of the one lie I had told, but 
 I did not feel very much of a shiver, for I 
 commenced to believe father was all right 
 and there was a mistake somewhere. I se- 
 lected two books: a life of Henry Clay, and 
 Locke "On the Human Understanding," 
 both old-fashioned, russet leather-covered, 
 printed in small type and smelling of dust. 
 I tried to become interested, but with the 
 odor of the yellow pages and the fine tj^pe 
 I found the road to erudition uninviting 
 enough. I was so hungry to glean a morsel 
 of knowledge somewhere that I took them 
 down frequently from the chestnut mantel 
 back of the kitchen stove. Explain to me 
 why a dog gnaws at an old dry bone, and 
 I will explain the satisfaction that came to 
 me from even holding those old volumes. 
 
 One day I came into contact with a book 
 called "Edna Browning," written by Mary J. 
 Holmes. A neighbor had received it from 
 a young woman living in Fieldsboro, — 
 would she let me read it? She would. I 
 think I never ate nor slept until I had seen 
 
A soul's love letter 29 
 
 the poor young Edna through all her ex- 
 periences. O what a bliss 'twould be to 
 have all such books one could devour! I 
 returned the book, telling its owner I should 
 never rest contented until I had read .every 
 book ever written by Mary J. Holmes. My 
 father said it was "made up stuff'' — all 
 stories were made up — a lie. He never 
 wanted me to spend my time reading things 
 unless they were really true. I wondered 
 greatly like the little Lucy, who was told 
 by her mother she must eat no more jam. 
 "Mamma," said the little philosopher, "Why 
 is it that everything we want to do is either 
 wicked or will make us sick? 
 
 A few months passed. An aunt came to 
 see us, — a woman proud., who wanted to 
 "keep up," as she called it. I told her I 
 was exceedingly ambitious — so were Caesar 
 and Susan Green. She said she had a book 
 written by a man named Shakespeare. She 
 would lend it to me, for all the people who 
 "keep up" must know something of this 
 man Shakespeare. She said she couldn't 
 see why they made such a fuss about him, 
 for she had read the book a little, and in 
 some places the language was not fit to 
 
30 A SOUL S LOVE LETTER 
 
 be heard. I asked her if it was '^made up 
 stuff," as father was very much opposed to 
 anything made up. She said she didn't 
 really know, but it didn't matter if other 
 people considered it the thing whether it 
 was true or not. So I was sent the book, 
 and thus introduced to the myriad-minded 
 one, who knew all the heart's gamut to per- 
 fection, and played with its mysteries as 
 Emerson says little children play with grey- 
 beards, and in churches. 
 
 I was no fourteen-year-old prodigy, and 
 the full appreciation of my newly discov- 
 ered treasure came by degrees. So much 
 the better, for the source seemed exhaust- 
 less. I was in a new world, with compan- 
 ions to satisfy every mood and fancy known 
 to human experience. In sunny times I 
 could sport fancy-free with Celia and Rosa- 
 lind, in the forest of Arden; but I much 
 loved to live among those who suffered, 
 and hours were spent in agony with Hamlet 
 and Desdemona. 
 
 A serious illness, occasioned by a fall, 
 brought me close to the border line. My 
 mother came to tell me tearfully of my con- 
 dition, and the possible result. I cannot 
 
A soul's love letter 31 
 
 explain my feelings even yet, but I was 
 almost happy. 
 
 I was facing the old, unanswered ques- 
 tion — "If a man die shall he live again?" 
 But I was not afraid. Intuitively I felt I 
 could trust the Universe, and then the old 
 experiences had tried me so. If we were 
 given another chance, perhaps I could come 
 into an environment more congenial, like 
 fortunate Cousin Carrie, and so I waited, 
 patient, till the crisis was over, and life 
 forced me back once more into its mystic 
 mazes. 
 
''I did not die, . . . slowly, by degrees 
 
 I awoke, rose up, . . Where was I? In the world; 
 
 For uses therefore I must count worth while." 
 
 EAR old Jason Bumpus, with 
 his jolly, good-natured spouse 
 Olive, lived in a cabin up on 
 the hillside. Five acres of 
 stony soil, a cow, a pig, some 
 chickens and a mule, were the external 
 means of sustenance for this old couple. 
 And yet I have never seen but one other 
 case of ideal conjugal bliss. The cases were 
 unlike in nearly every particular, except that 
 both lived the unconventional and simple 
 life, and both were contented and happy. 
 Junk collecting and tin peddling with the 
 mule, yielded an extra penny now and then, 
 but on the whole this happy pair lived 
 above the strenuous. 
 
 Everybody laughed at and derided old 
 Jason. The boys played pranks on him for 
 sport, and still his old eyes were always 
 sparkling and his face was always smiling. 
 His form was tall and angular and his voice 
 was a sharp falsetto, but he carried about 
 somewhere under that old slouch hat and 
 weather-beaten coat the secret for which 
 
A SOUL S LOVE LETTER 33 
 
 most of US waste many years of energy. 
 
 I was sitting on the old porch settee, con- 
 valescing slowly from my illness. The doc- 
 tor had said I might never be strong again, 
 and what then would become of my glorious 
 hope ? Tears came to my eyes, but I brushed 
 them away, and looked up to see old Jason, 
 mule and all, approaching. 
 
 "Hello! little gal," he sang out, in his 
 high peepy voice, "How you gettin' along? 
 Don't feel very chipper yet, I reckon, — 
 guess I'll let Bill rest a minute while we 
 visit," he said, coming up the plank walk 
 and patting my head. 
 
 "You've had a pretty hard time, hain't 
 ye ? Look pale and kinder unhappy fer a 
 gal as oughter be rosy and cherky. Wouldn't 
 ye like to visit a little with an old man ? 
 Seems like sometimes it does a body good 
 to talk things over with some one." 
 
 I had had so little of demonstrated affec- 
 tion in my fifteen years that the old man's 
 tender concern won my confidence at once. 
 I told him of my great hope and what the 
 do6lor had said. 
 
 "Well, well, it's just's I thought, ye want 
 to pick a few stars, don't ye? I tuck my 
 
34 A soul's love letter 
 
 turn at star gazin' once. Animals, babies 
 and wild injuns put a deal of stock in big 
 glitterin' things. I guess if we could pick 
 a star 'twouldn't be what we thought it was 
 when we got it. It'd be either too hot or 
 too cold for us, or, mebbe 'twould be too 
 big, and we'd be glad to let it go darn quick." 
 
 "But,'' I said, timidly, "I don't want pretty 
 dresses and things so much as I want to 
 read the great books and see the great peo- 
 ple of the world." 
 
 My old friend gave a little whistle and con- 
 tinued, "Gol darned if blood ain't thicker n 
 water. Well, little gal, I'm glad 'tain' nothin' 
 worse'n books and folks ye're arter. Do ye 
 see Bill out there? Well, when ye've seen 
 Bill ye've seen about all there is to muledom. 
 Bill's older and scragglier'n some on 'em, but 
 he's a mule every inch of him, ears and all, 
 and what's true of Bill is true of all other 
 jackasses the world over.'' 
 
 "Say," he said, abruptly changing the sub- 
 ject, git ye sunbunnit and ride up to the top 
 of the hill with me. I'll show ye somethin' 
 worth goin' to see.'' 
 
 We were soon toiling over the muddy, 
 rough road, my companion enthusiastically 
 
A soul's love letter 35 
 
 pointing to every evidence of Nature's 
 spring awakening. 
 
 When we reached the highest part of 
 the hill, he carelessly left old Bill standing 
 while he lifted me over the rail fence and 
 led me to the top of a great rock. Here, 
 eagerly, he pointed out, with boyish pleas- 
 ure, a small patch of white anemone, the 
 first of the year. 
 
 Grand old man! When I look back to 
 that day and see the innocent animation 
 beaming on his countenance, while his trem- 
 bling hands put into my lap those early 
 spring treasures, my heart swells. Am I 
 guilty of sacrilege when involuntarily I 
 compare this simple child-man to the so- 
 called great men of the earth, whose faces 
 often express an animation found in less 
 innocent sources, and whose hands are not 
 always unstained with the blood of their 
 fellow men? 
 
 I made many pilgrimages to the simple 
 home of my friends, Olive and Jason. That 
 little cabin was no mere point in space — 
 its vista opened to infinitude. Here was 
 love, wisdom, reverence. The touch and 
 spontaneity that I missed at my father's I 
 
t;6 a soul's love letter 
 
 found with these simple people, and very 
 soon the gracious and soothing influences 
 brought my mind and body back to a more 
 normal condition. 
 
 What bearing my associations at this 
 period had upon my later mental attitudes, 
 I cannot say. Complex, — more complex, — 
 most complex ! But surely the secret is 
 hidden from many who would be wise and 
 revealed unto babes and sucklings. 
 
'*We drop the golden cup at Here's foot, 
 And swoon back to earth, and find ourselves 
 Face down among the pine cones, cold with dew 
 While the dogs bark, and many a shepherd scoffs 
 * What's now to come to the youth?'" 
 
 HEN fall came I talked with 
 mother about the pra6licabil- 
 ity of my going to Fieldsboro 
 to learn the work in some 
 dress -making establishment. 
 I could never face the outside world in the 
 quaint garb I usually wore, — and I must 
 somehow find my way out into life, the 
 swash and the swirl. Mother fell in with 
 my idea, but said father might obje6l, as he 
 generally did to all plans of the women folks. 
 I finally gathered up courage and broached 
 the matter to him. I told him I would find 
 a place to work for my board, nights and 
 mornings, so he consented to my going. I 
 gathered my personal effe(5fs together into 
 an old hair trunk, with a broken lock, and 
 waited to catch a ride to the village, eleven 
 miles distant. An uncle from near Fields- 
 boro, who had been visiting friends on Qua- 
 ker Hill, halted for dinner one day, and gave 
 me my opportunity. We stood the trunk on 
 
38 
 
 end between the dashboard and our feet 
 and were soon on our way. 
 
 When we reached our destination I found 
 myself in a land of uncles, aunts and cousins, 
 but I very soon felt awkward and uncom- 
 fortable. I almost despaired of farther pur- 
 suing my enterprise. Everybody was busy 
 with fall work, and I almost found myself 
 thrust upon them, helpless and dependent. 
 The aunt whose milk pitcher I had broken, 
 and who was at heart a sympathetic though 
 impulsive woman, left off cleaning house 
 and canning long enough to take me to town 
 in search of a place as an apprentice. The 
 lirst place we applied did not want a girl 
 so early in the season; the second had all 
 the help needed; and the third was going 
 to close the shop on account of ill health. 
 We finally found a second-class dressmaker 
 who would take me in. We looked about 
 some time for a place to work nights and 
 mornings, and at last got comfortable quar- 
 ters with a dear old lady who was suffering 
 from catara6t and needed a girl to assist. 
 
 I commenced work at once. The shop 
 overlooked the main street that ran from 
 the town to the Institute on the hill. Every 
 
A soul's love letter 39 
 
 day I was tantalized by the sight of the 
 students passing too and fro with their 
 books. A brilliant bevy of rosy school girls 
 is a pretty sight to me now, but then they 
 were a torture to my envious heart. When 
 I spoke modestly of my cherished hope, I 
 was derided and the head dressmaker jest- 
 ingly promised to make my graduating 
 dress, free of charge. 
 
 It was at this shop that I met my first 
 congenial spirit. Helen Parker, a girl of 
 eighteen, lived with her widowed mother, 
 in two cosy rooms rented from the dress- 
 maker. I think we were drawn together in 
 a musical way. Helen had a piano, — she 
 invited me into the little home, we sang and 
 played simple duets together and our friend- 
 ship grew into fondness. We commenced 
 reading together, borrowing books of poems 
 from whom we might. When two souls 
 stand on a common ground of insight and 
 understanding does it not always result in 
 a feeling of kinship? It may be two men, 
 it may be a woman and a man, it may be 
 an old woman and a young girl, or it may 
 be as in our case, two young girls; but love 
 
40 
 
 is the result. This is the love that knows 
 not age nor sex nor condition, for it deals 
 with realities and its governing law is affin- 
 ity. I wage no warfare against the many 
 other emotions men label " love," but, as 
 Hubbard would say, I know someone who 
 has tried them all and affirms the genuine- 
 ness of the genuine. On pleasant evenings 
 we rambled off into the meadows, I walk- 
 ing slowly for Helen was lame from birth. 
 Sometimes we rowed on the creek till dark, 
 and on Sundays reached the woods a mile 
 away. We talked over our hopes and fears, 
 together planned to do and to be sometime — 
 were truly soul companions. 
 
 One evening Helen spoke of a concert 
 to be given at the Institute, and we con- 
 cluded to attend. It was the first entertain- 
 ment I had ever witnessed outside of school 
 exhibitions at home. No great artist I have 
 ever seen since impressed me as did those 
 girl and boy performers at Fieldsboro Insti- 
 tute that prize concert night. The Princi- 
 pal's daughter, a pretty girl of my own age, 
 sang in a clear sweet voice, "Wait till the 
 clouds roll by," a song popular at the time. 
 My emotions almost overcame me. The 
 
A SOUI.'S LOVE LETTER 4 1 
 
 words are still echoing within my brain : 
 
 '^Oh my Jamie, Oh my Jamie, 
 
 Bide the time a wee ; 
 
 Surely lanes must have their turning 
 
 Ere the travellers dee. 
 
 Bide the time in patience, Jamie, 
 
 Looking to the sky ; 
 
 Waiting like my love waits, Jamie, 
 
 Till the clouds roll by." 
 
 What a gulf there seemed between that 
 fluffy, lacy, white-muslined Annie Raymond 
 and myself ! 
 
 How thirsty I was! I had received many 
 rustic compliments when I sang at home 
 and played my own half impromptu accom- 
 paniments upon the parlor organ. But the 
 artist soul within me had never been touched. 
 How I longed to sing to rest the burdened 
 brothers and sisters of the world ! Ye sor- 
 did devotees of commercialism, cast into 
 one side of God's great balance all the un- 
 earned increment of the money kings of 
 the earth, and I will tip the beam with one 
 ideal thought — one soul aspiration — thrown 
 into the opposite pan. When shall society 
 give attention to these wasted resources of 
 humanity's wealth, and by cultivation cause 
 
42 A soul's love letter 
 
 the fallow fields and arid deserts of the 
 common people to give up a full harvest 
 for the world's soul food ? 
 
 Helen and I had a real lovers' parting at 
 the end of the season when she and her 
 mother moved away ; but we wrote fre- 
 quently, and some of those letters I treas- 
 ure still. I marvel at their universal in- 
 sight when I read them over now. One, 
 of the early summer, the year after, contains 
 those beautiful lines from Lowell's "Vision 
 of Sir Launfal,'' 
 
 "What is so rare as a day in June? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfe6l days ; 
 
 Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune. 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays, 
 
 Joy comes, grief goes, v^^e know not how ; 
 
 Everything is happy now ; 
 
 Everything is upward striving, 
 
 *Tis easy now for the heart to be true, 
 
 As for grass to be green, or skies to be blue, 
 
 *Tis the natural way of living." 
 
'*Look thou into thy own heart and write, 
 Yes, into life's deep stream," 
 
 WAS to go away to school. 
 I was eighteen and father 
 had consented at last to one 
 term in Fieldsboro Institute. 
 In stri6l truth I felt one term 
 away at school would revolutionize my 
 whole mental and moral fibre. "Away at 
 school" was a far reaching phrase, — magic 
 was in those brick walls that I had gazed 
 on so often with awe and longing. 
 
 When I walked up the gravel path, and en- 
 tered the office to meet Dr. Raymond, there 
 were traces of tears on my cheeks. Mrs. 
 Raymond came to take me to my room 
 where I found another girl sharing it. I was 
 afraid my roommate might be a stuck up city 
 girl, so I was glad that Emma Woodruff 
 was a modest country product, like myself. 
 We were both bashful, but we grew tired 
 of sitting there looking at each other, so 
 before the bell rang for dinner, we had told 
 each other where we came from, learned 
 we were of the same age, both had taught 
 school, and were to study the same courses. 
 The bell rang. We both started and tim- 
 
44 
 
 idly made for the dining room. I was glad 
 we were the first to appear on the scene, 
 though I wondered why the others seemed 
 so lacking in promptness. I had not learned 
 that a boarding school dining room is not 
 unlike a church in this respe6l : the quality 
 place great value on being tardy. Indeed, 
 in many instances, I believe tardiness is 
 supposed to represent the only great quality 
 of said quality. When we had waited some 
 I ventured to remark that perhaps there was 
 some mistake, and we were hesitating over 
 the matter when two older students entered, 
 chatting gaily about vacation experiences. 
 In flocked more students, also the digni- 
 fied faculty; all took seats at the eight ta- 
 bles and dinner progressed. I had never 
 eaten in a public place before and it all 
 dazzled me. I was glad of the clatter of 
 the dishes, and the confident talk of the 
 students around me. I watched to see how 
 others did. I was afraid to swallow for fear 
 of choking. I thought in spite of myself 
 I was shouting at the top of my voice, "I'm 
 from the country," and every eye was riv- 
 eted on me. When I looked about I was 
 surprised to see how unheeding they were. 
 
A soul's love letter 45 
 
 How could they be so indifferent? I was 
 very glad when the torture of that first 
 dinner was over and Emma and I were 
 sitting in our room again, looking at each 
 other. She didn't awe me so much now, 
 for she was countrified too, and most of 
 the other girls, I observed, were town cut. 
 I was both glad and sorry that they had 
 put me in with country Emma. 
 
 It was not long before things began to 
 grow familiar, and I saw that a dignified 
 professor might be made of very common 
 mud, tempted in all points like myself, and 
 not without blame. 
 
 One day a girl I had much admired said, 
 "I did not think I should like you that first 
 day, but I do." When I asked her reason 
 for doubt, she replied, " Why, I took you 
 for one of those aristocrats.'' 
 
 It was compensation to find 
 
 ''They's just as skart of me 
 As I was skart of them." 
 
 School days passed quickly, and all too 
 soon I was to go back home again. Many, 
 even most of the girls, were to return and 
 attend until they graduated. How I wanted 
 
46 A soul's love letter 
 
 to stay! In Dr. Raymond's science classes 
 I had caught glimpses into the vastness of 
 even the material universe, and I wanted 
 to go on. I knew how dull and tame the 
 farm would seem; but I must obey and go 
 back where Nature had, eighteen years be- 
 fore, called me forth into objective mani- 
 festation. No books, no congenial compan- 
 ions, no railroad within nine miles, nothing 
 but disorganized household drudgery. Talk 
 about Siberia! I do not think all country 
 homes are as cheerless as was my own. 
 Indeed, I have seen comfort and happiness 
 in snow-bound lands. It was not the iso- 
 lation from civilization centers, and hard 
 work, that made the place so desolate. It 
 was the lack of love and sympathy that 
 chilled me. I wanted just the least frater- 
 nal demonstration with words of sympathy 
 and encouragement about the future — and 
 they were denied me. 
 
 But the time was near when I was to 
 hear words of love spoken in my ear — 
 hot, passionate words that burn, and blis- 
 ter, and wither. 
 
"Hear our heavenly promise 
 Through your mortal passion ! 
 Love ye shall have from us 
 In a pure relation." 
 
 E were to have a railroad and 
 great excitement prevailed. 
 Hiram Brown first brought 
 the news from Fieldsboro. 
 Amos Whelpley and Frank 
 Wilcox said they had several times noticed 
 business-looking fellows riding about in liv- 
 ery rigs, and finally it was a confirmed fa6t. 
 Silas Slocum, who owned the most un- 
 productive piece of terra firma about, said 
 he had no doubt now regarding the future 
 prosperity of the village. Eph Gillett de- 
 clared he was "goin' to hold on" to his farm 
 a little longer, as he expe6ted next they 
 would discover oil or coal in some of the 
 rocky hills. My father had little to say, but 
 looked the significant look he always wore 
 when things were coming his way. 
 
 One winter evening, late, a tall gentleman 
 muffled in a fur coat, called at the door. 
 Could he and a friend have lodging for a 
 day or two ? They were the contractors, put- 
 ting through the new railroad. They would 
 
48 A soul's love letter 
 
 pay well, and so they were accommodated. 
 
 We spread before them plenty of whole- 
 some farmer fare, melted the frost from the 
 windows in the front room by a crackling 
 wood fire and gave them a small bed-room 
 adjoining, with the great soft bed of geese 
 feathers and mother's *4og cabin" quilt on it. 
 
 The whole household was awed by the 
 presence of these men of the world. The 
 boys carefully groomed the tired horses and 
 even father grew loquacious over the ten- 
 dollars handed him the morning after their 
 arrival. The gold on the front room table 
 guarded by two revolvers, added gravity to 
 the situation. It was to pay the wages of 
 the men who were constru6ling the road. 
 
 Mother was fully up to the occasion, keep- 
 ing her ear "cocked for coons,'' as Uncle 
 Eb says. I assisted in cooking and waited 
 on the table. I remember I blushed when 
 I saw the eyes of the Colonel looking at 
 me admiringly. They were amused by my 
 diffidence, and I arose to the dignity of my 
 position. They tried to open conversation: 
 
 "Who reads Shakespeare here. Miss Ma- 
 bel, not a little minx like you ?" 
 
 Before I could answer mother responded: 
 
A soul's love letter 49 
 
 "Yes, she does, she's always been crazy 
 to read and go away to school. She's smart 
 enough if I do say it, but her father thinks 
 girls don't need much book learning.'' 
 
 Mother's intended compliment embar- 
 assed me greatly. I was afraid to talk with 
 these men, but I thought somehow I could 
 at least appear well if she would only hold 
 her tongue. I was not quite sure what their 
 attitude really was; I knew they must see 
 that I was green, but I would not be foolish. 
 
 The Colonel came to my side, his man- 
 ner and tone that which a man uses toward 
 a woman when he first becomes interested 
 in her. 
 
 "Miss Mabel, my friend here, Mr. Ross, 
 is a young fellow fresh from college, and 
 we have greatly enjoyed looking over the 
 marked passages in your Shakespeare. We 
 return tonight. Will you give us the pleas- 
 ure of your company to sing and talk and 
 get better acquainted?" 
 
 I felt as if every drop of blood was suf- 
 fusing my face and neck, as he spoke, but 
 I answered carelessly, "Thank you, I shall 
 be pleased." 
 
 Do you suppose the woman ever lived 
 
50 A soul's love letter 
 
 who could not tell exa6lly how I felt when 
 mother and I were alone that afternoon, in 
 busy preparation for the evening? We are 
 all made of about the same mud, poke and 
 puggle it as we will. Mother was in her 
 element, baking, brewing and talking excit- 
 edly. I ventured to suggest that she give 
 people a chance to form their own opinions. 
 If her daughter was so very smart, they 
 would probably find it out. 
 
 "Well," she said, "Pa and I have spent 
 almost a hundred dollars on you, with two 
 terms of music lessons and going away to 
 Fieldsboro, to say nothing of the boys, and 
 I ain't going to have them think we can't 
 read Shakespeare as well as they can." 
 
 I saw there was no use, and the old iron 
 tea-kettle cover gave forth a shrill metallic 
 warning when she swung it into place. 
 
 The best polka dot linen did service that 
 evening, and the table fairly groaned with 
 good things. The Colonel asked to have 
 the 'honor of eating with the waitress, so I 
 was seated by his side at the table. All the 
 delicate courtesy and attention a polished 
 conventional man can give to an admired 
 woman was bestowed upon my humble self. 
 
A soul's love letter 51 
 
 I was both gratified and embarassed. When 
 supper was nearly over mother appeared up- 
 on the scene, bearing a mammoth mince pie 
 and saying in her blandest tone: 
 
 "I don't s'pose it's style to have pie for 
 supper, but I want you to eat this to sam- 
 ple my new batch of mince meat." 
 
 Father never let pie go begging, and our 
 guests both signified their willingness to test 
 the quality of the mince meat, so mother 
 subsided with satisfaction for the time. 
 
 We soon adjourned to the front room. 
 I was asked to sing some old ballads and 
 complied, choosing "Annie Laurie" and 
 " Sweet Afton." There was a sweet, nat- 
 ural pathos to my voice that appeared to 
 please them greatly. They called for "Bon- 
 nie Doon" and "Auld Lang Sine," the Col- 
 onel enthusiastically joining in turns and 
 snatches. The evening passed pleasantly. 
 
 Our guests prepared to leave us the fol- 
 lowing morning, with many expressions of 
 gratitude and saying we should surely see 
 them again. 
 
*'It seems as if heaven had sent its insane angels 
 into our world, as to an asylum, and here they will 
 break out into their native music, and utter, at inter- 
 vals, the words they have heard in Heaven. Then the 
 mad fit returns and they mope and wallow like dogs." 
 
 ARLYLE calls man a strad- 
 dling biped without feathers. 
 The two that had created 
 such commotion among us 
 had gone, but we talked of 
 them often, telling over every little detail 
 of those two days' association. The boys 
 spoke of the livery horses, in jockey par- 
 lance, as being "high-steppers" and "up on 
 the bit." Father said it was worth all they 
 paid to clean up the rig, robes and all, after 
 such hard driving, adding, " I wouldn't want 
 them to drive a horse of mine. That off 
 horse is knee-sprung already, and the nigh 
 one wont be sound long." 
 
 Mother did not attempt to shine in the 
 horse talk, but she dug up the Shakespear- 
 ean hatchet from time to time, telling how 
 she gave them to understand they were 
 dealing with no low white trash, when they 
 slept in her real geese-feather bed, and ate 
 on her best polka-dot linen. 
 
53 
 
 Two weeks passed before Colonel Fuller 
 returned, bringing with him Mr. Griswold, 
 the civil engineer. 
 
 "This is the little girl I have been tel- 
 ling you about," said the Colonel, greeting 
 me cordially and leading me to his friend. 
 
 "So, Miss Mabel, I am told you are a 
 student of the great dramatist, and a singer 
 of Scotch ballads. You aren't a hypnotist 
 also are you ? Friend Fuller seems to have 
 bats lately, and his mind runs along the line 
 of Scotch ballads and poetical quotations." 
 
 Their deportment was so easy and gra- 
 cious that I began to feel less uncomfort- 
 able than formerly, though I colored deeply 
 when the conversation took a personal turn. 
 
 Supper time gave mother the opportunity 
 of working off much superfluous energy. 
 I felt safe when I saw her attention focussed 
 on blackberry pickles, head cheese, and fried 
 cakes over against family pedigree, poetry 
 and philosophy. The evening was spent in 
 general conversation. I produced my auto- 
 graph album, which was a great fad at that 
 time among young people. It contained 
 many typical album verses like: 
 
 ''If you love me as I love you, 
 No knife can cut our love in two." 
 
54 A soul's love letter 
 
 Both gentlemen wrote, at my request, the 
 
 Colonel these words: 
 
 ''Blessed are the pure in heart." 
 
 And his companion: 
 
 "Dear Mabel : the world has nothing brighter 
 or dearer to give than home, sweet home, the one 
 you have." 
 
 Arthur, are we not all Dr. Jekyls and 
 Mr. Hydes in some degree ? What rational 
 being dare have other feeling for poor de- 
 luded humans, like himself, than compas- 
 sion? Who are we who judge? ^Twas 
 one wise who said, "There is One good, 
 and that is God;" "Neither do I condemn 
 thee; go and sin no more." Go do up the 
 good and evil of the world into parcels and 
 label them carefully, and I will speak flip- 
 pantly of what you handle. But you have 
 told me that sin rested in the motive. I'll 
 grow modest. I am finite and only Infini- 
 tude has insight to grasp the secret springs 
 of motive. Deeper still lies the mystic 
 mazes of heredity and environment. If so- 
 called ruin had come to me that night and 
 I had suffered even more through all the 
 heavy years, whom should I blame ? "Leave 
 
A soul's love letter 55 
 
 judgment to Him who alone knows the law.'' 
 
 The family were preparing for the night 
 when Colonel Fuller said to me, "Mabel, 
 will you sit with me a moment ? I have 
 brought a little book for you and we can 
 look it over better together with no one 
 to disturb us." 
 
 "A book for me ?" I was so anxious to 
 see it, and how kind he was. When we 
 were alone he produced a beautiful copy 
 of Mrs. Browning's poems. I sparkled 
 with animation a moment, and then he had 
 caught me in his arms with the whisper: 
 
 "Mabel, I love you ! I love you. Give 
 yourself to me this night. Here, now, un- 
 reservedly, yield yourself. You are not 
 afraid of me. You must, you shall! I love 
 you so tenderly. I have money. You shall 
 go to school — to Europe, where you will. 
 Only be mine ! mine ! " 
 
 His hot breath was upon me; — and this 
 was love — at last. 
 
 Was this the thing I had wanted ? I was 
 dazed a moment, — then shame came, and I 
 fled from the man wildly. What a fool I 
 had been to think he really cared for me! 
 Doubtless they had been laughing at me 
 
56 A soul's love letter 
 
 all the time. Oh horrible thought! I knew 
 it must be so, and I cried for relief. My 
 mother's blood boiled within me. They 
 should not speak to me again, I thought. 
 That was pride. 'Twould ruin my life, said 
 fear. Then something said, "What does it 
 all amount to, anyway?" If I could only 
 go to school. 
 
 My dear Arthur, the world wou.d want 
 me to talk here of maidenly purity and 
 goody-goodness. But I must be truthful 
 to you. It was later that I analyzed deep 
 enough to recognize the real spiritual qual- 
 ity in a6ts — when I did what I thought was 
 right for right's sake; but I claim now it 
 was fear and pride that held me within 
 convention's borders that night. 
 
 A man is on his way to the gallows. The 
 rabble are curious. Boys are shouting and 
 deriding. So did the mob nineteen hun- 
 dred years ago. Men like John Bunyan 
 stand afar off and say in reverent tones: 
 "Except for the grace of God there goes 
 John Bunyan." 
 
"Unless you can think when the song is done, 
 
 No other is soft in the rhythm, 
 
 Unless you can fear when left by one 
 
 That all else may go with him ; 
 
 Unless you can know when unpraised by his breath 
 
 That your beauty itself wants proving. 
 
 Unless you can swear 'For life — for death !' 
 
 Oh, fear to call it loving." 
 
 FELT strangely embarassed 
 when I met the Colonel next 
 morning. He was ill at ease 
 as well as myself, when he 
 greeted me. His manner was 
 no longer genial, but business-like and se- 
 rious. I was glad when mother kept me 
 busy assisting with work in the pantry; for 
 the day was cold and stormy and no one 
 would venture forth. 
 
 I was peeling apples for mother's pies 
 when, taking advantage of her absence, 
 Colonel Fuller appeared in the doorway. 
 "Mabel, I am afraid to approach you af- 
 ter last night's scene, but I can't wait 
 longer to ask your forgiveness. Give me 
 another trial, and I will never abuse your 
 confidence again." Mother appeared before 
 I could answer. 
 
58 A soul's love letter 
 
 "My good woman," he said, laying his 
 hand upon mother's arm, "will you trust 
 me with your daughter? I esteem her 
 most highly, and may all the fiends of 
 Hades combine against me if I bring her 
 to harm." 
 
 Tears sprang to his eyes. We both knew 
 the man's better nature spoke truthfully. 
 Mother herself was quite subdued. 
 
 "I have always taught my children to do 
 right, and I ain't afraid to trust either one 
 of you," she said. 
 
 Colonel Fuller was a changed man from 
 the moment. I talked with him. I read 
 and sang with him. I rode out alone with 
 him. I believed, as he declared, that a 
 higher and better love had taken the place 
 of the passionate infatuation, that some- 
 times causes so much trouble. 
 
 True love, like the charity of St. Paul, 
 seeketh not its own, vaunteth not itself, 
 doth not behave itself unseemly. The spuri- 
 ous article often resembles the genuine so 
 closely that it takes a connoisseur to dis- 
 cern the difference. It has been said "Love 
 and lie; your love is curable.'' I will add, 
 love and seek your own gratification at 
 
A SOUL S LOVE LETTER 59 
 
 the expense of the object loved; — your 
 love is very curable. 
 
 Colonel Fuller gave me many moments 
 of pleasure that winter, and it was with 
 sincere regret that we finally parted at the 
 completion of the railroad. It was his wish 
 that I give up school, and give myself into 
 his keeping for life, but I could not bring 
 myself to love the man better than my 
 great hope, and so we parted. 
 
 '* Ships that pass in the night and speak 
 
 Each other in passing, 
 Only a signal shown, a distant voice in 
 the darkness." 
 
''Nothing's small — no lily-mufBed hum of summer bee 
 But finds some coupling with the shining stars." 
 
 N OTHER term of school 
 teaching and another term at 
 Fieldsboro, brought me home 
 again for the winter. Books 
 were growing to be more a 
 feature in the, home life, — Father, still dis- 
 trustful of "made up stuff/' but offering 
 no serious objection. 
 
 Our school had now grov/n to some pro- 
 portions. A new school building had been 
 erected, and three teachers were employed 
 instead of one. The principal, as he was 
 called, was quite a personage among the peo- 
 ple, especially the girl element. We were to 
 have a new principal and the gossips were 
 busy hashing and re-hashing. There was 
 talk of prodigality, and an unfinished college 
 course; but the world rolled on, making his- 
 tory, — big events, — little events,' — all his- 
 tory. So the man came, and so I met him. 
 Some one asks if the dog had barked that 
 Elizabeth Barrett carried in her arms the 
 day when she eloped with her soul's mate, 
 what would have been the effect upon Eng- 
 lish literature. I hold in my hand a gladiola 
 
6i 
 
 bulb, a rough, unsightly thing, yet all the 
 potentialities of the marvellous future crea- 
 tion are here, — roots, stems, leaves tiowers. 
 
 I think a thought, and the sensitive blood 
 is telltale in my suffused or pallid face. 
 Scientists tell of a man killed so; and yet 
 a million thoughts do not crowd the area 
 of a needle's point. 
 
 When I called for the mail that day, I 
 found Emma Stone an old school mate, 
 spending a week at home. 
 
 "We ought to visit the school, and meet 
 the new teacher," she said, as I was leav- 
 ing; and so arrangements were made. 
 
 There were three of us with Effie Chan- 
 dler, gathered in the school house entry. 
 Confident Emma Stone raps, and when the 
 principal responds she asks for Lizzie Davis, 
 one of the largest girls. Lizzie comes out 
 to us, we whisper and simper a moment, 
 as girls do sometimes, and then march in 
 proudly with very self-conscious decorum. 
 
 The teacher goes on through the dull rou- 
 tine of teaching the young idea how to 
 shoot, which at that time, meant stuffing 
 all you could into the mind without an at- 
 tempt to draw anything out. 
 
62 A soul's love letter 
 
 Froebel, grand old man! What a race 
 benefadlor! And still we give to such a 
 dinner of husks and a bed of straw, so busy 
 are we feeding and sleeping a few hundred 
 epicures. 
 
 "Desks in order," says the tired teacher. 
 Then ensues a rattle and scramble to bring 
 order out of chaos. 
 
 "Arms folded" — a death-like hush falls 
 over the room, only broken by a "hem!" 
 or "haw!" of some pert pupil. 
 
 "School stand, — excused." And out tile 
 two score or more of America's future 
 fathers, mothers, lawyers do6fors, farmers, 
 teachers, robbers, preachers, artists, build- 
 ers, workers, men, women. 
 
 School over, we are duly introduced to 
 the principal. We talk of schools in gen- 
 eral and this one in particular. When part- 
 ing time comes, we find refuge in perfunc- 
 tory remarks: 
 
 "I have enjoyed my call very much." 
 
 "Thank you, I shall be pleased to see 
 you again." 
 
 "My brother is home now, and we shall 
 be glad to have you call." 
 
A soul's love letter 67, 
 
 "Thank you, I shall do so with pleasure." 
 
 "Good afternoon." 
 
 "Good afternoon." 
 
 How indifferently I walked home that 
 night 'cross lots in the snow path of my 
 junior brother who attended the school. 
 How could I know there were years of 
 association before me with this quiet man 
 of the school room — years when I helped 
 him with a strength no other could give, 
 then years of my own weakness, when he 
 stood by my side and repaid it. Years 
 when both body and soul were struggling 
 for poise in existence. 
 
"No, by Allah! she believed in me when none 
 else would believe." 
 
 HE principal called within a 
 week, — called frequently. 
 Two months passed so, and 
 then he told me the old, old 
 stor}^ that Drummond says 
 began with the affinity of two differing cells. 
 
 We had been reading "The Dream of the 
 Hunter," when he took my hand, saying 
 seriously: "Why did I not meet you be- 
 fore? Mabel, I love you." 
 
 Then followed confessions, even as Angel 
 Claire confessed to Tess, of what had been 
 but should not be again. It is the impulse 
 every honest man feels, coming before the 
 woman he loves, knowing her purity, and 
 regretting a past that makes him not quite 
 her equal. "But little sister," he continued, 
 "I can amend and achieve, since I have 
 this great love to help me." 
 
 I answered quickly, "I took you for my 
 brother from the first. I trust you. Just 
 bring me results, while I work out my own." 
 
 I resumed my studies at once, and he left 
 for a western city. My parting word was: 
 
 "All things come to those who wait." 
 
 "And work," he added, smiling. 
 
''Our spirits have climbed high 
 By the reason of the passion of our grief, 
 And from the top of sense looked over sense, 
 To the significance and heart of things, 
 Rather than things themselves." 
 
 HAD met a widow, a liter- 
 ary character of Fieldsboro, 
 who, needing companionship, 
 had made me the gracious 
 offer of rooming in her home 
 without charge. Nine terms were required 
 for graduation. I had attended two. I in- 
 terested father in the situation. The small 
 expense necessary recommended itself to his 
 practical mind, and with a little opposition, 
 I won my case. 
 
 To be sure, girls didn't need much edu- 
 cation, but if I could make it inexpensive 
 'twas at least no harm. 
 
 "Well, go ahead," he said. "I suppose 
 you'll never be contented till you reach the 
 end of the rope. " 
 
 To do my father justice I must say that 
 he greatly rejoiced in each and every one 
 one of my successes. But they were being 
 purchased at the price of blood, though no 
 one knew it but myself. Foolish girl ! I 
 had dreamed of standing some day on the 
 
66 
 
 very topmost round of the ladder of knowl- 
 edge, and here was Commencement Day, 
 at the Seminary, finding me dizzy on the 
 first round. 
 
 It was a pale, tired girl who walked to 
 the footlights that night, to read her grad- 
 uating essay, entitled "The Glamour of Fic- 
 tion." Even yet I recall the closing words: 
 
 "The world will be cold indeed if it does 
 not reckon among its great ones such mar- 
 tyrs as missed the palm but not the pains 
 of martyrdom. Heroes without laurels, and 
 victors without the jubilation of triumph." 
 
 I remember, too, how the white ribbon 
 that decorated my soft mull dress trembled 
 with each heart-throb, as if it also had felt 
 the strain, and was asking for rest. 
 
 It was the June time and Cousin Carrie 
 had come again to spend vacation among 
 the country friends. I saw her fine, classic 
 face smiling in that strange throng, but tears 
 were sparkling in her eyes. She among all 
 before me, knew my thought that day. No 
 word had passed between us, but her nature 
 was intuitive, and she remembered my words. 
 The struggle, the cost — she felt it all. 
 
 There was something akin to sorrow with 
 me that day, — 
 
A soul's love letter 67 
 
 "A something too vague, could I name it, for others 
 to know." 
 
 Deep-sounding thought currents were 
 surging through the brain substance of one 
 "sweet girl graduate" as she quietly sat there 
 so worn at twenty, overlooking the crowded 
 chapel. An ex-Governor, with other digni- 
 taries, was seated on the platform; but they 
 all seemed pygmies: — Men, great men, 
 schools, cities, nations, the earth itself only 
 God's footstool. I could easily toss it into 
 space. I — a little girl — had thought to gain 
 knowledge in some of the schools men had 
 reared on this little ball, one-f orth land and 
 three- fourths water. I gathered up my 
 books and flowers and went forward to 
 receive congratulations among the rest; but 
 I felt, Arthur, like Lyndall did and as all 
 must feel sometime, 'I didn't want schools, 
 nor men, nor the things men work for, I 
 just wanted something great and good and 
 pure to lift me to itself. 
 
great marts. 
 
 *' Learn to win a lady's faith 
 Nobly, as the thing is high, 
 Bravely, as for life or death 
 With a loyal gravity. 
 
 "Lead her from the festive boards, 
 Point her to the starry skies ; 
 Guard her by your truthful words, 
 Pure from courtship flatteries." 
 
 Y father, quite as ignorant as 
 myself, expe6ted great things 
 of me now, and I must go 
 out and contend — offer my 
 mental wares in the world's 
 I must squeeze my drop of 
 juice from the World Orange. Out there 
 a million hands were squeezing frantically— 
 a million mouths were sucking eagerly. 
 
 Arthur, can you understand how I changed 
 from girl to woman during those two years, 
 learning what competition — unequal compe- 
 tition means? These human animals were 
 not satisfied when immediate appetites were 
 satiated; but surfeiting and drunken with 
 earth's choicest elixirs, I could see them 
 push back even baby mouths that pressed 
 rich Nature to get their share of sap. 
 
 My friend had entered upon the study of 
 medicine poor, and away in that distant city 
 
A soul's love letter 69 
 
 I learned to realize more and more the struo:- 
 gle he was making. Handclasps by letter and 
 encouraging words passed between us often. 
 
 Only once I felt through stress and strain 
 a brave soul was halting: '^ Mabel, you are 
 the only one who can help me," he wrote, 
 "but I must not be selhsh. My most blessed 
 thought is that if I fail I leave you free 
 and pure as when I found you." 
 
 It was an April day when he came back, 
 handing me the parchment that meant so 
 little and yet so much to him. 
 
 "It is yours, Mabel," he said, "I never 
 could have gone through without friends or 
 wealth had it not been for you." 
 
 When we were alone he spoke reveren- 
 tially of victories quite as important to my 
 mind as taking the highest honors in his 
 class: "I have done what I could to amend 
 and achieve," he said. "I am more than 
 repaid, little sister, even should I miss the 
 crowning joy." 
 
 A week we wandered about the old fa- 
 miliar haunts of the farm, often lingering 
 in a sunny, quiet corner with a book, and 
 lived again among old friends. Too soon 
 he said to me with his simple, earnest way: 
 
70 A soul's love letter 
 
 "Little comrade, I must leave you soon. 
 Do we not need each other?" 
 
 A moment I waited before I ventured : 
 
 "You always understand. Yes, I think 
 we need each other." 
 
 A long time we sat there on the old rock 
 in the orchard, where I had played "come 
 visiting" with the children when a little girl. 
 
 We were subdued in our happiness. We 
 made our little plans, talking with the beauty 
 of perfe6l frankness, of that home to be, of 
 the need of economy, and of other and 
 more sacred themes. 
 
 "Oh, Mabel, God's universe must be 
 o-ood. This love teaches me so much." 
 
 Words were not necessary longer. Each 
 felt the other understood. The hour was 
 full of prayer. It was quite dark when he 
 broke the silence: 
 
 "Could a man ever descend again after 
 an hour like this? I see it all." 
 
"'First God's love. 
 And next,' he smiled, 'the love of wedded souls.' 
 
 N June the man of God said 
 the conventional words over 
 us, and we launched our ship 
 on the matrimonial sea. We 
 were to locate in a country 
 town of Pennsylvania with ten dollars in 
 pocket, a horse and carriage, eight or ten 
 medical books, some simple do(?tor's appa- 
 ratus and $1000 college debts — the biggest 
 thing we carried. 
 
 We found three rooms with an old couple 
 on Main street and hung up a modest sign. 
 One room must be given up for the office 
 and the other large room did service as 
 kitchen, dining room and parlor. Callers, 
 not patients, came early, as they always do 
 in country places. Sumptuous young women 
 and besilked, befrizzled and bonneted mat- 
 ronly dames. They were curious, I suppose, 
 to see the new doctor and his wife. I grew 
 to know just what way the chat would run 
 and had my answers all ready. 
 
 '^How do you like our little village?" 
 " Does your husband get much to do, yet ?" 
 "Oh yes, there's sights of sickness in town." 
 
72 A SOULS LOVE LETTER 
 
 "They say Dr. Johnson is busy night and 
 day." 
 
 "What church do you attend? Oh, not 
 a member? We should be pleased to have 
 you make your church home with us." And 
 they mentioned one of the hundred and fifty 
 odd Christian se6ls, as the case might be. 
 
 I was usually glad when the ordeal was 
 over, for it was all very trying to my natu- 
 ral spontaneity. 
 
 How well I remember the first real pro- 
 fessional call! It came in the night — a 
 messenger in haste said breathlessly: 
 
 "This the dodor? Come to Mr. Brayton's 
 opposite the Presbyterian church, quick !" 
 
 In the excitement that followed I dropped 
 my husband's watch from the vest I was 
 holding ready, and broke the crystal. He 
 finally got off. If you think I rested those 
 two hours of his absence, Arthur, you have 
 never been the wife of a young physician 
 and helped him attend his first case. 
 
 Selfish, wicked girl! My first question 
 on his return was not as to the welfare of 
 the poor patient, but "Do you think they 
 liked you?" 
 
 This brought a smile. "Well, I really 
 
A SOUI/S LOVE LETTER 73 
 
 cannot say, dear, but the poor man is bet- 
 ter,'' he answered cheerfully. 
 
 I cannot leave this part of my story with- 
 out mention of dear old Aunt Sarah Silver- 
 ing. She had married a prosperous widower, 
 with four children, whom she mothered and 
 sent out of the home nest before her own 
 little Sadie came. Aunt Sarah was. a new 
 edition of Samantha Allen, only more so. 
 When her husband lost his property by sign- 
 ing with the boys, and became an invalid 
 on her hands, she bought a pony and phaeton 
 and scoured the country up and down selling 
 bosom-boards to maintain the family. 
 
 Dear old heart! I can see her now, as 
 she came puffing up the back lane that hot 
 summer afternoon to call upon the new doc- 
 tor and his wife. She wore her usual af- 
 ternoon white apron and carried, beside her 
 two hundred pounds avoirdupois, in one 
 hand an elderberry pie, and in the other a 
 mammoth sun umbrella. I was sitting on 
 the front porch when she turned in at the 
 gate, perspiration standing in drops on her 
 smiling old face. Her first words made me 
 feel at home: 
 
 "I'm Aunt Sarah Silvering. I baked pies 
 
74 
 
 this morning and thought mebbe you'd like 
 to try one. Well, how d'ye do anyway?" 
 she said, taking the seat I offered as I thank- 
 ingly received the juicy dyspetic-producer. 
 
 ^'Bless me, but it's hot. Guess I hain't 
 cooled off yet from baking,'' she panted. 
 
 I brought forth a huge ^'Jap" fan, vviiich 
 she waved vigorously while she continued: 
 
 "Does things seem to be home-like to ye, 
 yet? When I married Pap we went to Glen- 
 ville to live. I thought I never'd get used 
 to folks and things there, but I did, and 
 it'll be just the same with you." 
 
 I told her I found the place very pleasant. 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Sarah, "There's two 
 women I always pity, — its the doctor's wife 
 and the minister's wife. But don't ye ever 
 get discouraged. The doctors here are get- 
 tin' old and we need some new one. Mr. 
 Brayton's folks liked your man splendid." 
 
 I said calmly I was very glad to hear it, 
 but my heart was bounding for joy. 
 
 "Ye'll hear lots of things to hurt ye, so 
 I'm goin' to tell ye about our son Jim. He 
 owns one of the biggest houses in Jones- 
 boro now, and has all he can do, but he 
 had up-hill work starting. One day I was 
 
A SOU]/S LOVE LETTER 75 
 
 goin' over in the 'bus to see 'em, soon af- 
 ter they'd settled. I heard two women 
 talkin' 'bout someone who was sick. One 
 said, ^ Well, he'll die sure now, for they've 
 got that green do6tor Jim Silvering. Why 
 he don't amount to a hill of beans. Sam 
 used to know his father when Jim was a 
 boy and they lived down on the plank road.'" 
 
 We both laughed pleasantly, and after 
 visiting a few moments longer Aunt Sarah 
 said she must be going back or Pap would 
 miss her. 
 
 ^' We've got a garden full of stuff. Come 
 and see us. Bring a basket and get any- 
 thing you want," she said as she joggled 
 down the back lane. 
 
 An hour later, when the do(?l:or came in 
 from the drug store, I burst out joyfully : 
 "Oh, Aunt Sarah Silvering has been here. 
 She said they did like you up at Mr. 
 Brayton's. After we pay all the debts we'll 
 buy a place of our own, and have a gar- 
 den and flowers and everything nice, won't 
 we dear?" 
 
^'Lo, these are parts of His ways — but how little 
 a portion is heard of Him, but the thunder of His 
 power who can understand?" 
 
 HERE were five churches in 
 this little village and Church- 
 ianity was rampant. There 
 were splits and cliques galore 
 each jealous and trying to 
 outdo all the others. Every desirable new- 
 comer was pounced upon as soon as dis- 
 covered by these church vandals. Young 
 and ignorant, I was early seized upon as 
 new plunder. I sang, read, wrote, trained 
 children for entertainments, worked for 
 the heathen, ate church oyster stews, was 
 feasted and fasted. They seemed to regard 
 me as public property and I tried to fill 
 the bill. Nevertheless, we were very happy. 
 The economy I was obliged to practice 
 grew interesting. 'Twas like a game, see- 
 ing how far a dollar would go and trying 
 to create something out ol nothing. Inger- 
 soll said nothing made pretty poor material 
 out of which to constru6t a universe. How 
 do we know ? Things do not always appear 
 on the surface. Perhaps the enthusiasm I 
 realized over my tasteful little dishes made 
 
77 
 
 from next to nothing was the very God- 
 feeling itself, that finds satisfadlion and 
 reward in ever working for betterment, 
 bringing order out of chaos and harmony 
 out of discord. 
 
 We were in a beautiful country. The 
 river-like creek spread its lazy length along 
 the valley, where fertile farms lay with up- 
 turned faces waiting to be kissed into full- 
 ness by the sun and the rain. 
 
 There were rolling hills farther back, and 
 quiet wooded drives — so welcome in the 
 heated days of summer. How we did en- 
 joy those rides together! for we would take 
 so much of our inheritance out of the stren- 
 uous about us, and often stole away on 
 business or otherwise, leaving only a note 
 on the office door. 
 
 Later I recall most interesting rides in 
 the night time, when I chose to ride and 
 hold horse rather than wait alone and lis- 
 ten for burglars. 
 
 One of these rides, I distin6tly remember, 
 came late in the evening after a heavy rain. 
 There was that delicious odor and coolness 
 over everything, that comes after a feverish 
 summer day has been bathed and rested 
 
78 
 
 and refreshed by a thorough thunder storm. 
 The home of the patient, Mr. Allen, was 
 a distance of nearly four miles. Half the 
 way lay through beautiful open woods. The 
 moonlight was resting soft and shadowy on 
 every obje6t, glinting and sparkling from the 
 little pools of water that stood in the road. 
 Infinitude was with us that night. We 
 left off dusting the "flaunty carpets of the 
 world" and spoke to each other as two 
 souls may, riding away in the moonlight 
 and shadows and silence. 
 
 ''This world's no blot for us nor blank ; it means 
 intensely, and it means good." 
 
 "My God, my God, let me for once look on thee 
 As though naught else existed, — we alone!" 
 
'Men and women, Gods in embryo.' 
 
 Y neighbors grew interesting 
 to me as I became better 
 acquainted. Each had his or 
 her own peculiar individual- 
 ity and setting. The old cou- 
 ple, from whom we rented our simple quar- 
 ters, were exceedingly kind and considerate. 
 I soon learned that everybody in the town, 
 after they reached middle life, was known as 
 "Aunt" or '^Uncle" So-and-so. Aunt Esther 
 and Uncle Henry were true penny-pinching 
 Yankees. They had retired from their large 
 farm to this village home, where they raised 
 their own vegetables and kept chickens. 
 
 Aunt Esther was decidedly the head of 
 the household, and though Uncle Henry put 
 in a counter claim at odd times and places, 
 he was quickly squelched by his partner of 
 fifty-five years. 
 
 Uncle Henry had not retained the full 
 vigorous play of faculties as had Aunt Es- 
 ther, but had relapsed into that semi-boyish- 
 ness sometimes seen in aged men. He doted 
 much upon a harmless affiliation with the 
 opposite sex, or "females," as he was pleased 
 to call them. 
 
8o A soul's love letter 
 
 We were scarcely settled in our rooms 
 before the dear old man took it upon him- 
 self to entertain the new do6tor and wife. 
 Especially he sought to look after the needs 
 of the young "female" wife. Aunt Esther 
 seemed to think the young people would pre- 
 fer looking after themselves. Uncle Henry 
 would hardly drop his tall spare form into 
 the chair I offered when Aunt Esther, com- 
 ing from the garden, would call out sharply: 
 
 "Henr}', I want some wood split." 
 
 Uncle Henry would quit smoothing his 
 Puritanical locks and hobble out, saying: 
 
 "Mother, there's heaps of wood split, — I 
 want to talk to the doctor's wife a minute." 
 
 Aunt Esther would have no mercy, but 
 under her breath would say, "You old goose, 
 she don't want to hear your clack! Talk to 
 me if you've got to talk." 
 
 Occasionally Aunt Esther would don her 
 best black merino dress, black fringe shawl 
 and poke bonnet for a day or two of outing 
 at the farm among old neighbors. When she 
 was fairly out of sight. Uncle Henry would 
 breathe a sigh of relief, and commence high 
 carnival, visiting among the people and en- 
 joying himself generally until her return. 
 
A soul's love letter 8 1 
 
 Upon a certain evening of Aunt Esther's 
 absence, he called to me anxiously as I 
 was passing the kitchen door: 
 
 "Beats Sam Hill what's become of that 
 loaf of bread. I had it sure this noon. 
 Mother keeps it in a jar under the shelf," 
 he said as I entered the kitchen and insti- 
 tuted a diligent search for the lost loaf. 
 
 The bread crock being empty, I lifted the 
 cover from a neighboring crock, containing 
 Aunt Esther's soft soap, and saw the tip 
 of the "staff of life" heaving above the 
 contents. It was a sorry looking loaf that 
 I produced for Uncle Henry's repast. 
 
 "Yer wouldn't know it from a side of 
 sole leather," he said, ruefully; but I men- 
 ded the matter by taking him to my own 
 table. 
 
 "Don't tell mother a tarnal word about 
 that bread," he artfully suggested. 
 
 When many weeks had passed and I 
 knew distance made Uncle Henry safe, I 
 told Aunt Esther about the bread disaster. 
 
 "The old fool!'' was all she said. 
 
"Let one more attest 
 I have lived, seen God's hand through a hfetime 
 And all was for the best." 
 
 HEN autumn came we took 
 more commodious quarters. 
 A new experience was be- 
 fore us, and we spoke to each 
 other, even as John Halifax 
 did to Phineas, witli blissful awe. 
 
 A little sail was coming out of the Un- 
 known to voyage with us in the present 
 Known. 'Tis said of one, "the mother rap- 
 ture slew her." Such happy ending I was 
 denied. My strength was passing — a day 
 of reckoning was at hand, for overdrawn 
 checks on vitality. The crisis came, and I 
 lay me down prostrate and broken. Days, 
 weeks, I hovered, a second time at the dim 
 border; then with gentlest nursing and ten- 
 derest care they brought me back to life, 
 but not to health. Slowly the fa6t dawned 
 that I was doomed to invalidism for many 
 years, perhaps for life. How bitter grew 
 the days! How unjust it all seemed! So 
 young, so happy we had been; I could 
 not understand. I will endure all pain^ 
 poverty or disappointment, I cried, only this 
 
A soul's love letter 83 
 
 one great bliss I can't surrender. Does God 
 
 make mother-love to mock it? There is no 
 
 God! The universe is indeed a charnel 
 
 house where fiends hold revel, I felt. 
 
 I was not the first child to rebel against 
 
 the discipline of the higher grade. 
 
 "Oh God, thou needest to be sureher God 
 To bear with us than ever to have made us." 
 
 Arthur, I had never been called stupid 
 in the seminary days, but I took long to 
 learn my lesson in the higher school. The 
 light commenced to break first when I went 
 out to succor others, forgetful of my own 
 heart-wounds. Even a feeble hand could 
 carry a cup of cold water and touch gently. 
 
 Burdened and distressed, disappointed and 
 childless, even so much as this can be hidden 
 away in the grateful smile of those you re- 
 lieve. Strange mission of pain ! In the pres- 
 ence of others' sorrow our own woes reach 
 their minimum. What else is it but this that 
 makes us linger enrapped before the great 
 pictures of Christ agonizing in the garden, 
 or on the cross? 
 
 What is it but this that shall revolutionize 
 society and at last make all men brothers ? 
 
 Blessedness, — happiness, came once more. 
 
"Put roses in their hair, put precious stones on 
 their breasts, see that they be arrayed in purple and 
 scarlet, with other delights ; that they also learn to 
 read the gilded heraldry of the sky, and upon earth 
 be taught — not only the labor, but the loveliness," 
 
 WAS going back to visit and 
 rest at the old farm home. 
 Three years had passed since 
 I had rode away that spring 
 morning. Varied thoughts 
 and emotions came to me as I drew near 
 the old associations. Over the railroad bed, 
 where I was riding, I had ridden with Col- 
 onel Fuller, when the road was in process 
 of construction, seven years before. 
 
 Places and farms I had known looked at 
 me familiarly, like old friends. My sister 
 met me at the station and a mile drive 
 brought us to the little huddle of houses, 
 anciently known as "The Berg." It seemed 
 the fixed chara6lers I saw sitting on the steps 
 of the grocery and just beyond at the post- 
 office must have remained faithful at their 
 posts during my three years' absence. 
 
 Hiram Brown, the tall gaunt man-gossip 
 of the place, was whittling what appeared 
 to be the same stick he held the day I left. 
 And there were Amos Whelpley and Frank 
 
A soul's love letter 85 
 
 Wilcox, sitting on their old perches — talk- 
 ing cracker-barrel politics and philosophy. 
 Passing the old blacksmith shop I caught 
 a glimpse of the ruddy face of Pat Murphy, 
 illuminated by the forge fire, and saw his 
 biawny arm in uprolled sleeve, ringing anvil 
 music, the hot iron responding in its torture 
 by giving out brilliant spark-showers. As a 
 child I had seen only the beautiful sparks, 
 — the result. Now I saw these and more, 
 — "the liery furnace" — heard the cry of an- 
 guish under the hammer, — recognized the 
 means to an end. 
 
 A call at the postoffice for the mail, and 
 then the old farm was before me asfain. 
 The windows with their blue oilcloth shades 
 and green blinds swung wide apart, seemed 
 like great sphynx eyes looking out expres- 
 sionless and solemn. 
 
 Before we reached the horse-block, where 
 the milk can stood a faithful sentinel, mother 
 was out laughing and crying all in the same 
 breath. "Oh dear, you've caught us, just 
 before we got things into place," she said 
 as we reached the front door of the great 
 farm kitchen, where Susan Green of pyra- 
 mid cake renown, stood red and perspiring 
 over the old elevated oven stove. 
 
86 A soul's love letter 
 
 "Things are a little upset," said Susan, 
 "but what muss there is you see right in 
 the middle of the floor — the corners are all 
 clean and there's plenty to eat." 
 
 In the big "spare room" another neigh- 
 boring woman was hanging up the old fam- 
 ily portraits, mottos and chromos, the usual 
 wall decorations of the ordinar}/ farmhouse. 
 
 It was characteristic of my mother to get 
 out a full force, and clean house from cellar 
 to garret whenever company was in pros- 
 pect. She could not let me rest till I had 
 taken a journey to the pantry. 
 
 "There!" she said, "I am going to see if 
 we can't get some color into your face." 
 
 Pies, cakes and other good things loomed 
 up on every side; but the milk rack, full 
 of great pans of cream-covered milk, I re- 
 marked looked most tempting. 
 
 "Well, Susan," said my mother, "bring 
 this child a bowl of bread and milk; she 
 can sit down and start on that, while the 
 ham and dandelion greens cook for dinner."' 
 
 Susan soon appeared bearing a bowl filled 
 with the richest cream. 
 
 "Now that's what we call bread and milk," 
 said mother with satisfaction, "No wonder 
 
A soul's love letter 87 
 
 you look sick, I should die if I. had to live 
 on milk and water and baker's stuff." 
 
 To go over every nook and corner of the 
 house and farm and hnd nothing changed, 
 had a certain impressiveness. The wood 
 sink, in the woodshed, where I had washed 
 dishes, pots, pans, pails and cans, to my 
 heart's content, looked at me fraternally. 
 
 Farther on, in the corner, stood Ithe tool- 
 box, with hoes hanging above, and axes and 
 saws arranged in order on the wall close by. 
 
 In the back yard grew clumps of bur- 
 dock, horseradish and comfrey in their old 
 haunts. 
 
 The flower garden was always a source 
 of delight and satisfaction. The beds were 
 losing shape by negle6t, but the collection 
 was a marvel in variety. Black-eyed Su- 
 sans coquetted with Sweet Williams over 
 the bleeding hearts that drooped sugges- 
 tivel}^ between ! Polyanthus, petunias, batch- 
 ellor's buttons and everlastings were there 
 in glory and profusion. 
 
 My mother seemed so well and happy I 
 little thought when I left at the end of a 
 two weeks' visit I should never see her 
 about the old home again. 
 
88 A soul's love letter 
 
 To me was not given the vision of the an- 
 gel in Tolstoy's story, "What Men Live By.'' 
 
 That same year mother came to my home 
 in failing health. In the four months we had 
 her with us, she grew patient and serene as 
 I had never known her to be in the hurried 
 workingdays. The something I had missed 
 when a child, I found now in this quiet, 
 resting mother. Just to hear her say, "My 
 child," was peace and contentment. 
 
 Poor tired fathers and mothers! Poor 
 tired brothers and sisters! Poor tired hu- 
 manity! How little we know of the dormant 
 sweetness in every soul! The real essence 
 of true culture was with my mother — even 
 an artistic nature and a sympathetic heart. 
 Better are these qualities than any conven- 
 tional virtue or veneer. 
 
 In the late Autumn the summons came 
 for which she had long waited, and moth- 
 er's working, care-distra6led days were over. 
 
 Shall the world forever allow these life 
 tragedies to be enacted and go on unheed- 
 ing until the work of forming falls from out 
 their hands ? Dark ages have their lessons. 
 Oh People, build more wisely — watch the 
 Master-builder! 
 
''But if a man walk in the night he stumbleth, 
 because there is no light in him." 
 
 OT long ago I listened to a 
 sermon which pleased and 
 helped me much. The min- 
 ister, a hale, hearty man of 
 years, had been retired. The 
 things he said came forth with the genuine 
 ring — simple, spontaneous. His text was: 
 
 "The strength of the young men and maidens shall 
 fail, but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew 
 their strength ; they shall mount up with the wings 
 of the eagle, they shall run and not be weary, they 
 shall walk and not faint." 
 
 When a child, his father had sent him — 
 basket in hand — to the woods, nut-gather- 
 ing. When the basket came back well filled 
 the boy felt like Napoleon at Austerlitz; 
 when it returned empty he felt like Napo- 
 leon at Waterloo. His father's greeting was 
 always the same — always gentle, be the 
 basket full or empty. At this the boy mar- 
 velled. Later he learned the do6fors had 
 feared tuberculosis, and his father had sent 
 him out on those New Hampshire mountain 
 sides to bring back — health. The frail lad 
 thought his father wanted him to bring back 
 
90 A soul's love letter 
 
 hickory nuts. The tragedy of Hfe is its 
 hickory-nut story. 
 
 Arthur, how often have we talked these 
 matters over heart to heart, even soul to 
 soul. Sometimes we have been moved by 
 the ludicrousness of it all, but the pathos 
 touched us most. We thought we saw in 
 manifestation three attributes of the entity 
 we call God: Love, Wisdom, Power. Love, 
 because we have in finite what the Over- 
 soul has in infmite. A stream cannot rise 
 hiofher than its source. Wisdom and Power 
 were self-evident in order and operation. 
 From the sacred love home, where we have 
 found each for each in the heart of the other, 
 we reach out fondly, compassionately, to a 
 universe filled with our kindred. We have 
 sworn to forgive as we would be forgiven — 
 our own weakness has taught us so much* — 
 and with labor and loyalty the days do grow 
 most tuneful. Hov/ easily the wise power 
 of Love can measure and settle our rela- 
 tions! To me this Love blends all the 
 various elements of father, mother, sister, 
 brother, friend, lover. Love — listen, angels 
 — "Truth's no cleaner thing than Love." 
 
"Oh, poet, oh, my love ! 
 
 Since I was too ambitious in my deed, 
 
 And thought to distance all men in success, 
 
 Till God came on me, marked the place and said : 
 
 'Ill-doer, henceforth keep within this line. 
 
 Attempting less than others,' and I stand 
 
 And work among Christ's little ones, content." 
 
 HOSE were dark days fol- 
 lowing my mother's death — 
 dragging, dreary times. Dire 
 thoughts chased through my 
 brain — hollow, transient. If 
 one could only sleep and never waken more 
 with that returning conscious shudder. For 
 the sake of those who loved me I waited 
 on — feeble in body, heart sick and soul out 
 of tune. I had missed my bearings, lost my 
 way in the darkness, but out of agonizing 
 shadows and Gethsemane valleys burst res- 
 urre6lion morning with rolled back stone 
 and Easter bloom. Only those lives need 
 be barren who live for self. Words of love 
 and looks of gratitude from sufferers are 
 children that never break the hearts of 
 those who brought them forth. When smiles 
 sent daggers to my heart and happy faces 
 mocked me with their joy, 'twas work and 
 sacrifice that saved me whole. Take no 
 
92 A soul's love letter 
 
 one's word — just do the thing that calls for 
 these, then tell me if great Nature compen- 
 sates. The old, the sick and forsaken were 
 sought out. Classes were organized among 
 the factory children, and life that had hung 
 around my neck like a millstone, changed 
 into a jewel bright when light shines on it. 
 
 Many of these children I found quick to 
 learn and almost all were eager and hungry 
 for knowledge. 
 
 I must tell you of little Bessie, a beau- 
 tiful girl of ten years, who interested me 
 from the first. She was one of those little 
 unfortunates that Topsy said, "jest grew." 
 The mother was living her secret life in a 
 neighboring city. I took the child to train 
 privately. Before the year came round 
 again, she had made line progress. I think 
 I have never enjoyed such pleasure in a 
 token of remembrance as came from the 
 little handkerchief Bessie brought me on 
 the Christ birthday of that year. 
 
 "Mamma cried when I sang for her," said 
 the child. 
 
 "What did you sing, little one?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, I sang 'Jewels' and 'Will there be 
 Any Stars in My Crown.'" 
 
A soul's love letter 93 
 
 ''Tell 3'our mamma I wish to see her/' 
 1 said. 
 
 "I wanted mamma to come today, but 
 she said you wouldn't want her," answered 
 the innocent one. 
 
 ''Tell her I do want her, sweetheart," I 
 said, guessing the probable reason of the 
 woman's sensitiveness. 
 
 The following afternoon a faded-looking 
 woman rang the bell diffidently. 
 
 "I am Bessie's mother," she said timidly. 
 
 I took her hand and asked her in. It was 
 a moment before she spoke; then she said 
 with emotion, " I know what folks think of 
 me, but I want to thank you.'' 
 
 I could not speak. Something in the 
 woman appealed to me. I felt somehow 
 she had been more sinned against than 
 sinning, and up against this thought stood 
 another, best expressed in those lines from 
 "Aurora Leigh," which you remember, Ar- 
 thur, I quoted for you once before, when we 
 sat watching the begrimed workers flock 
 from the mills and facSfories toward their 
 wretched homes in the slums: 
 
 *'Poor, blind souls, that writhe toward heaven along 
 
 the devil's trail ! 
 Who knows, I thought, but He may stretch His 
 
 hand, and pick them up. 
 
94 
 
 'Tis written He hears young ravens when they cry, 
 
 and yet they cry for carrion ! 
 Oh my God, and we who make excuses for the rest, 
 
 we do it in our measure," 
 
 Why, this woman too, was a child of the 
 King! Were we not sisters? When she 
 left her cheeks were tear stained. I think 
 my own eyes were not dr}^ 
 
 Arthur, would anyone but you understand 
 if I speak the truth and say I felt a spiritual 
 uplift from conta6t with this woman of the 
 street ? So art often moves me — great poems, 
 great pi6fures. Sublime cathedrals, and Na- 
 ture, too, so affe6f me, when alone I let them 
 speak to me. 
 
 And here was this sister whom people 
 called an outcast, striking the same chord — 
 producing the same vibration — the same 
 inspiration — wonderful ! 
 
 The hours seemed fraught with benedic- 
 tion. The brooding Mother-Presence was 
 very near; but a gossipy neighbor called 
 and broke the spell. She grated harshly, 
 like the laugh of rude boys when the play 
 is at the climax, or the slamming of heavy 
 doors when the church is hushed in prayer. 
 
'^Wc shall rest, and Faith, we shall need it, 
 Lie down for an y^on or two, 
 Till the Master of all good workmen 
 Shall put us to work anew\" 
 
 E were debating the question 
 should we give up our sim- 
 ple life and enter the struggle 
 in a larger town. It took us 
 long to decide, the liberty we 
 enjoyed was not easily surrendered. We 
 pi6lured a home of our own, such as I had 
 visioned even as early as that first visit of 
 Aunt Sarah Silvering, with garden, flowers, 
 and above all, the freedom of the country. 
 Over against this stood the possibility of 
 larger advantages, broader associations and 
 friendships, offered by the cit}^ 
 
 There were days when we imagined we 
 bought a lot, built our house, laid out our 
 garden, planted our seeds and felt the satis- 
 fa6lion of creation. Then came days when 
 we longed for the fri6lion and stimulus of 
 the crowd, and the dear garden flowers — 
 daflbdils and daisies — seemed to hang their 
 heads and talk of rank disloyalty. 
 
 We betrayed our first love. The city 
 won us in the end. 
 
g6 A soul's love letter 
 
 We adjusted ourselves to our new en- 
 vironment by degrees, and drew about us 
 our own "select few." To be in the "friend- 
 ship of the many," spontaneous with those 
 who are not upon your plane, is to court 
 misunderstanding. To cater, be other than 
 yourself, is to stultify and dwarf. With 
 crampings and caterings, conventionalities 
 and corsets, what wonder that society pro- 
 duces so many insipid nonenities who make 
 a safety-valve of fads and fashion. 
 
 If your spiritual Hebrew, crushed and 
 persecuted, can no longer breathe out poetry 
 and sing psalms, he can concentrate his 
 powers upon commercialism, until your Job 
 and David differentiate into Shylocks, to 
 sway a scepter — money — more powerful 
 than any royal family of modern Europe. 
 
 Shall we be wise? To conserve force 
 is not enough. Dire6l it well, else ruin 
 results. 
 
Par. "Oh, but to find a wise man. A wise man!" 
 He?'. "Yes, indeed, a wise man !" 
 
 ISTORY went on making. 
 Financial anxiety was be- 
 coming a thing of the past. 
 What a jump forward will 
 the old world take when 
 
 "No one shall work for money and no one shall 
 
 work for fame ; 
 But each for the joy of the working." 
 
 A young legal man of fine fibre once said 
 to me, "I tell you this is killing me. You 
 see I'm on the fence. Over on one side I 
 see brotherhood, altruism; over on the other 
 it is 'every man for himself and the devil 
 take the hindmost!' If I fail it is because 
 I am not God enough for one, nor beast 
 enough for the other." 
 
 Much the same thing faces the young 
 man who dabbles in lotions and potions. 
 
 Indeed, a member of the Veritas Club, 
 a minister, says that the merchant, the ban- 
 ker, the manufa6lurer and the dentist, as 
 also the lawyer and the do6tor, got to quite 
 frankly discussing the blufis, fakes and tricks 
 of their vocations, one night, when he was 
 compelled to suggest changing the subje(?t. 
 
Life struck sharp on death makes awful lightning." 
 
 N epidemic of diphtheria 
 that swept the city during the 
 winter after our arrival, left 
 desolation in many homes. I 
 knew each case, as did the 
 do6tor himself Schools were closed, and 
 every home was in fear and trembling, 
 never knowing when the dreaded thing 
 might enter. It was not rare for every 
 child in a family to be taken. 
 
 I remember one case, where the pros- 
 perous, happy parents had never before 
 suffered bereavement. Within six days 
 their two beautiful children were stricken 
 fatally. Little Clarence was apparently 
 convalescent, when the father came for the 
 do6for in breathless haste. 
 
 "Do(5for, my boy cannot speak aloud," 
 and catching my husband by the arm with 
 a look and tone that combined threat and 
 helpless appeal, he said, "Don't you dare 
 let that child die!" 
 
 Two hours later, the man entered the 
 office with halting gait and hardened face. 
 I broke the silence forcefully. "Dear man," 
 
A soul's love letter 99 
 
 I said, "others endure even greater loss." 
 "Oh don't talk to me like that," he flashed 
 out, reproachfully, "It won't feed a hungry 
 man to know that others starve." 
 I felt helpless. He left repeating: 
 "Nothing to live for — nothing to live for." 
 Before the week ended they made an- 
 other little sleeping place for ten-year-old 
 Annie, beside her brother Clarence. 
 
 A week later, the father sought me out, 
 and taking my hand, said quietly: 
 
 "I had to learn — but I'd be so thankful 
 to just have little Annie back again." 
 
 Lore, 
 
"Don't fear. It's all going to come out right, dear." 
 
 GRAY hair in the coil of 
 brown turned the current of 
 my thoughts that morning 
 when I found myself stand- 
 ing before the glass at thirty 
 years. I looked back over the pathway I 
 had traveled, up to this full womanhood, and 
 somehow the valley and the mountain top 
 experiences blended into a wonderfully har- 
 monious whole — a beautiful pi6lure. 
 
 So some scientists claim the inharmoni- 
 ous, rasping noises of lower earth blend 
 together in the upper atmosphere, making 
 mellow music. 
 
 Brush and hand-mirror lay in m}^ lap, idle. 
 Thirty years ago ! In the old wood-bottomed 
 rocking chair I saw a little heap of proto- 
 plasm, cradled in white and carefully guard- 
 ed. How strange! Scarcely self-conscious, 
 helpless, it lay there. And I wondered if 
 my mother felt as I knew too well I should 
 feel, if I owned all myself — a little thing 
 like that. They gave it a name to distinguish 
 it from other little protoplasmic masses, and 
 then the little mass learned to feel "I am I" 
 
A soul's love letter ioi 
 
 over against ''You are you,'- — and history 
 commenced. The little "I am I" mass went 
 out to look for happiness, even as others 
 before it had done from the very beginning. 
 
 There were baby days, then little toddler 
 days; little school girl days — dark days — 
 ambitious days — love-hungry days — disap- 
 pointing days — days of temptation. 
 
 "Oh how thankful I am today," burst 
 from me, "how I love everybody — every 
 differentiated soul atom ever sent into this 
 strange old world." 
 
 The little children passing, — I wanted to 
 kiss them; the hardened-looking laborers, — 
 wanted to take their hands, and even the 
 woman gossip across the street, who said 
 such unkind things, — yes, I loved her too. 
 This was a red-letter day when I could sing 
 with Pippa: 
 ''God's in his Heaven; all's well with the world." 
 
 I was growing stronger each day. The 
 world would call us happy and prosperous. 
 The home we had seen in mind so longf 
 was to become a reality. Days of economy 
 were over. Those summer days we spent 
 our spare time talking over and arranging 
 the details of the new home. 
 
I02 A soul's love LETTER 
 
 At last all the worry and bustle was over. 
 Contentment was with us. We had been 
 settled a week. I walked from room to room 
 and looked and looked. 'Twas all so dear. 
 From the hall where the old clock stood, 
 at the top of the stairs, (we had made a 
 special effort to get this rare old clock), I 
 would go the rounds, satisfying that some- 
 thing which only a woman can understand. 
 Into the parlor at the left, where almost 
 everything was "perfectly new," I went, 
 feasting and satisfied. There were the new 
 curtains, rugs and odd chairs that I had 
 taken so much time in sele6ting, with the 
 thought, "I'll get something good, for Fll 
 have it all my life." 
 
 In the right corner stood the piano. In 
 the opposite corner stood my dear book- 
 case, with the books peeping from behind 
 the curtains which were half drawn. The 
 white, asbestos-lined gas stove threw its 
 flickering light and pleasant glow over all. 
 Yes, it was just as it should be, I felt, as 
 I passed on, through the folding doors, into 
 the adjoining large room, all our very own. 
 Open grate, books and periodicals, — this 
 room had the verv smack of home. 
 
I03 
 
 We had come into our new possessions 
 in September. It was an October evening 
 when we sat there making plans, still look- 
 ing into the future, still hoping, dreaming. 
 
 "I am very happy, very happy," he said, 
 drawing my chair more closely, and look- 
 ing into my eyes questioningly, as if he saw 
 the faintest shadow still deep down there. 
 
 '^It's all going to come out right, dear," 
 he said in answer to a little tear that would 
 force to the front while I answered bravely, 
 smiling: 
 
 "Oh that's just a joy evidence. You know 
 tears always come when I am very happy." 
 
 November of that year caught up a hand- 
 ful of 06tober days, as she came, and gave 
 them to us lavishly. But the days were 
 growing shorter, and more leaden, as the 
 annual Thank Day approached, which I 
 had planned to celebrate with friends and 
 regulation turkey dinner, in my own new 
 home. 
 
 You say, Arthur, I do not seem to you 
 like other women, but I am a woman after 
 all. Women, men, the best of us splen- 
 didly human, "Divinities playing fool." 
 
 I arranged my menu in mind — saw my 
 
I04 A soul's love letter 
 
 new china and table accessories dainty, 
 snowy and resplendent, — but I did not see 
 all. The arrow that flieth in the dark was 
 pointing toward my happiness, but I did 
 not see it. How important seemed those 
 salads and pastries, till the sharp twang of 
 the bowstring brought me awake amid 
 the everlasting verities. Yes, I had been 
 sleeping, dreaming. We should celebrate 
 Thanksgiving, but not together. He had 
 just time to repeat again: "It's all going 
 to come out right, dear," — then the great 
 mystery of mysteries closed about him, and 
 closed about me, while I walked alone. 
 
s 
 
 'Think you it was only John on the Isle of Patmos 
 that saw the heavens open?" 
 
 ERHAPS this, too, was a 
 dream from which I should 
 presently awaken. I had of- 
 ten dreamed dreams I wished 
 to stay, of something warm 
 and dear, nestling in my arms, and drink- 
 ing at my breast. Yes, perhaps it was all 
 a dream, but the hushed hours wore on, 
 doors closed softly, people came and went 
 whisperingly, sad faced friends kissed me 
 tenderly, and I began to feel I should never 
 waken to find this dreadful thing untrue. 
 With dry, sleepless eyes I looked, trying 
 to realize, trying to penetrate, trying to reach 
 with focussed love-thoughts this one who 
 always knew before. No answer came. 
 Then a silent soul-cry went forth that must 
 have vibrated to the uttermost parts of the 
 universe for response. I waited — the an- 
 swer came back sure enough: — 
 
 '* Don't fear! It's all coming out right, dear." 
 
 O limitless, exhaustless God-forces! 
 There was no more tumult. Yes, there 
 would come tired days and lonesome days, 
 valley days and mountain top days; but 
 
io6 A soul's love letter 
 
 these must come from the external person- 
 ality. I had the secret of His presence 
 where my soul could always hide. 
 
 Never think, Arthur, the vi6tory was an 
 easy one. They brought me back — how 
 cold it was! The faint odor of flowers 
 about the rooms made me heart-sick. Ev- 
 ery room, every corner suggested our hap- 
 piness — a memory. As they sang, so I re- 
 peated prayerfully, "Lead, kindly light," 
 walking again through the desolate rooms 
 of my home, — home ? I had now no home, 
 such as men rear, builded by hands. Even 
 my simple childhood home was no more, 
 and I thought of the one who said: 
 
 ''The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air 
 have nests." 
 
 What to do, — where to go, must be thought 
 of with all the rest, and many days I stag- 
 gered blindly, as one cruelly smitten, see- 
 ing not the next step; but ever and anon 
 that soul-voice sent its vibrations into my 
 soul's innermost sandluary — the Holy of 
 Holies — and the "peace that passeth under- 
 standing" settled over all for the moment, 
 while I rested satisfied. 
 
"To tame 
 My mind down from Its own infinity, 
 To live in narrow ways with little men, 
 A common sight to every common eye." 
 
 VIDENTLY I must remain 
 quiet for the winter, at least 
 until matters material could 
 become adjusted to a new 
 regime. For company's sake 
 and to defray expenses, roomers were sug- 
 gested. A modest notice in the "ad" column 
 was soon answered by a young physician, 
 who took, not only such books and instru- 
 ments as were at his disposal, but, liking 
 the location, took the offices and hung up 
 his new sign. 
 
 A young Danish minister who had charge 
 of the spiritual welfare of a small flock of 
 his countrymen in the South End, was the 
 next roomer, who took up his abode in 
 the house for the winter. 
 
 And now I commenced to realize more 
 than ever that life meant only a series of 
 experiences, turning points. Nothing was 
 permanent or secure, but transition and 
 life-essence. 
 
 So broken on the potter's wheel, I felt 
 
io8 
 
 every one must be my friend and helper. 
 But I grew to know what the banker who 
 shook my hand so cordially with moist eyes 
 meant when he said, ''Anything we can do 
 for you will make us most happy." 
 
 More difficult to understand was the 
 whispered counsel of the woman who said, 
 
 ''Aren't you afraid to keep these two 
 men roomers?" 
 
 To my answer that I really enjoyed them 
 both in my house, that they were consid- 
 erate and courteous, she said, 
 
 "Hm! You do not know the world." 
 
 Well, if I didn't I should have to learn. 
 
 I can understand why animals rend each 
 other in hunger or passion. I can even ex- 
 cuse my kind, when they strike, burn, rob 
 and murder, if thwarted or wounded by a 
 person or system, when they reach out for 
 gratification ; but I could never yet under- 
 stand that hideous impulse developed in 
 many, perhaps all human animals, to sow 
 destru6fion out of pure heedlessness or 
 maliciousness, to make another poor and 
 not enrich themselves. 
 
 If there is no scientific explanation of 
 this thing, here is an opening for a new "ism." 
 
A soul's love letter 109 
 
 So runs my thought; but what am I? — 
 An atomic center caught in the spiral of 
 evolution, even as a million others, yea, 
 even as every manifesting, vibrating uni- 
 versal atom. The same origin, the same 
 road to travel, the same destiny, and this 
 my soul seems to realize right well. 
 
 Formalities, red tape and business had 
 been gone through with during that long 
 winter. I could call matters practically 
 settled. I vv^ould sell everything and go 
 east to Boston town itself. My nerves 
 asked for a change. The doctors advised 
 it, — I would go. 
 
"To sell the boat and yet he loved her well ; how 
 many a rough sea had he weathered in it." 
 
 IKE Enoch, so felt I, as the 
 last of my household gods 
 passed into cold, stranger 
 hands. All except my dear 
 books. I could carry half a 
 dozen of them, small burden and great com- 
 pany; the rest a friend stored for me. 
 
 Thirty years I had fun6lioned, evolved, 
 ran, walked, up and down, in and out, here 
 and there, along the roads, lanes and by-paths 
 of western New York and northwestern 
 Pennsylvania. I could not go away without 
 emotion. Tears followed one another over 
 my cheeks as the jarring, plunging, shriek- 
 ing train moved rapidly away with me that 
 day toward the New England metropolis. 
 Memories came thronging thick and fast, 
 as the shadows lengthened over the land- 
 scape and shut out from my sight the fa- 
 miliar scenes of a lifetime. 
 
 "And had not his heart spoken with That which 
 being everywhere lets none who speak with it seem 
 all alone, surely the man had died for very solitude." 
 
"At times I almost dream 
 
 I too have spent a life the sage's way 
 
 And tread once more famiHar paths." 
 
 OMING into the South Ter- 
 minal station, next morning, I 
 thought of the woman who 
 said if she couldn't be in 
 heaven, she was glad to have 
 gotten as far as Boston. 
 
 I found a suitable boarding place with 
 little trouble, revelled in soap and water, 
 took a short nap, dressed, ate luncheon and 
 went out for to see. A step brought me 
 to the public library on Copley square. 
 
 What an accumulation was before me, of 
 the best thoughts, of the sanest ones, of all 
 time! For three thousand years or more 
 rockets had been sent out into the dark- 
 ness, to signal other voyagers sailing over 
 the ocean of experience, who cried out: 
 "Watchman, what of the night?" 
 
 A blue rocket, a white-light rocket, a 
 blood-red rocket; but the spe6trum reveals 
 about the same elementals. I found Sargent 
 had left a portion of his soul on the walls, 
 which I should study later. 
 
 In a glass case I saw two bronzed hands, 
 
112 A soul's love letter 
 
 one a slender, veined woman's hand, repre- 
 senting the hand that wrote "Aurora Leigh," 
 clasped in the strong, manly hand that wrote 
 — well, everything, "Pippa," "Saul," "Rabbi 
 Ben Ezra," and made Andrea Del Sarto say 
 to Lucretia: 
 
 "Your soft hand is a woman of itself, and mine 
 the man's bared breast she curls inside." 
 
 The public garden was the place for rest 
 that afternoon. I could watch the jostling 
 people out on Boylston and Tremont streets 
 as they hurried along up and down. Where 
 were they going? What was the haste? 
 Universal space before them and eternit}^ 
 back of them. No chance of missing — 
 doomed to get there. 
 
 I read on a monument through the trees: 
 "And there shall be no more pain." 
 
 I thought I could believe it all, and more 
 perhaps than was intended, for the monu- 
 ment commemorated the discovery of ether 
 by a Boston physician. Even so much was 
 advancement — a great blessing. But may 
 the time not come when a larger meta- 
 physics shall indeed help our physics? 
 
"The Divine relation which in all times unites a 
 o^reat man to other men." 
 
 EVERAL days I spent visit- 
 ing places of historic interest, 
 until a hazy afternoon found 
 me at Mount Auburn. You 
 know too well, Arthur, the 
 painful ravishment that comes to the soul 
 who meets God face to face, and alone. 
 Did those of old time feel something of this 
 when they said, '^No one can look upon 
 His face and live?" They had their burn- 
 ing bushes, too. 
 
 Out of the hurry and scurry, rumble and 
 jumble of the city of the living, into the 
 peaceful serenity of the city of the dead. 
 Such dead! Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes, 
 Sumner, Brooks, Agassiz, Choate, Channing, 
 Booth, Charlotte Cushman and Fanny Fern, 
 — only a few months ago they were jost- 
 ling along with the crowd, down Boylston 
 street, out Tremont, over there in the busy 
 metropolis. Where were they this day when 
 I came so far to see them? I wanted to 
 tell them I had seen their signals afar off 
 and felt more secure in the darkness. 
 On the plain marble slab before me I read: 
 
114 ^ soul's love letter 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 
 Born 1807-D1ED 1882. 
 
 Some years before in a tiny cell, lay the 
 latent creations of the man who was to come 
 forth and be known as Henry Wadsworth 
 Longfellow. The dormant cell, touched by 
 another cell, felt the shiver of life and be- 
 gan to stir. Days passed, and that little cell 
 — clothed in its right mind — walked among 
 its kind, self-conscious, brother-conscious, 
 God-conscious; suffering, but singing. 
 
 The myriad of thought entities sent out 
 from this soul centre, that touched my own 
 years before, now came thronging back. 
 Listening, the charming metre of " Hiawa- 
 tha" beat upon me once more. I heard the 
 priest saying again to Evangeline: 
 
 *'Man is unjust but God is just. 
 And finally justice triumphs." 
 
 Bending lower, I fancied I could hear 
 Paul Fleming reading aloud to Mary Ash- 
 burton, out among the Swiss hills: 
 
 ''Into the Silent Land! 
 
 Ah, who shall lead us thither? 
 
 Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather. 
 
 And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 
 
 Who leads us with a gentle hand 
 
 Thither, oh thither. 
 
 Into the Silent Land?" 
 
A SOUI.'S LOVE LETTER II5 
 
 Then came reje6lion, the struggle and the 
 vi(5lory, for Mary's heart did not awake until 
 she read "Hyperion.'' 
 
 I drew away relu6lantly from this one 
 who knew so well the story of strength 
 and suffering. 
 
 I heard Lowell plead again that day for 
 brotherhood and human freedom. Holmes 
 grew genial over the teacups, and Phillips 
 Brooks talked of deep things with childlike 
 simplicity. 
 
 I saw Charlotte Cushman and Edwin 
 Booth walking the boards again, thrilled and 
 thrilling, and Louis Agassiz working pa- 
 tiently — deciphering the story of the earth, 
 written on her rocks and fossils. 
 
 Climbing the tower, dizzily I looked off 
 over the smoky city. The dome of the State 
 House loomed up proudly on Beacon Hill. 
 Trolley cars were crossing and recrossing the 
 Charles, steam cars and ferry boats were in 
 sight, carrying their loads of human freight. 
 So far I saw. But clouds closed about the 
 things I fain would see. 
 
 Goethe's last words were, "More light." 
 Hugo plead for an extension of life that the 
 unwritten volumes pent up within his mar- 
 
ii6 A soul's love letter 
 
 vellous brain might come forth into the 
 light of day. 
 
 This cannot be all, I thought, God will 
 never allow such waste, — in the universal 
 economy all is safe. 
 
 The lights of Cambridge shone through 
 
 the rain and mist when I changed cars for 
 
 Boston; but "the feeling of sadness and 
 
 longing that my soul could not resist," had 
 
 left me, when I sang in the chapel, before 
 
 leaving Mount Auburn, 
 
 ''Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee, 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 That raiseth me." 
 
"Well to live long and see the darkness breaking, and 
 
 the day coming ! 
 The day when soul shall not thrust back soul that 
 
 would come to it." 
 
 'VE met something out here, 
 Arthur, that points toward 
 heaven as surely as the buds 
 and tender grass. A young 
 girl of seventeen years, taken 
 from school and companionship five years 
 ago to do the household work and care for 
 an invalid mother. She gives me the soul 
 touch and I give her a few small things in 
 the way of orthography, etymology, syntax, 
 etc. The balance shows me the debtor. 
 Yesterday she handed me lines which I 
 copy as I know you will be interested: 
 
 ''THOUGHTS. 
 
 In perfect trust she waits 
 
 Nor cares what the morrow may bring forth. 
 
 Why should she, one little soul, 
 
 Go struggling through this life.^ 
 
 Had she not suffered much — 
 
 Enough to learn, that struggle as she might, 
 
 She could not change the laws 
 
 Of One who gave her Life. 
 
 Is it not better to accept His will.? 
 
 Does she not know that all is for the best.? 
 
ii8 A soul's love letter 
 
 Love, beauty, in all the simple life around, 
 
 The flowers, the birds, and rolling hills — 
 
 Simple did I say? Dear one, 
 
 Simple because we cannot understand 
 
 The purpose of that great Almighty hand 
 
 That rules this world 
 
 And all the worlds unknown to human mind.' 
 
 '*She sat by the window idly musing, 
 
 Watching the throngs of souls that passed her by. 
 
 Some with impatient feet were hurrying 
 
 The sordid pleasures of their life to test. 
 
 Would they drain the cup to find 
 
 In its bitter dregs dissatisfa6lion, 
 
 Telling their lives were spent in waste? 
 
 Here passes a face so lonely and so sad, 
 
 There another with halting gait and crime-marked 
 
 face : — 
 How she longs to take their hands. 
 To make their tired souls glad. 
 Telling them that by the grace of God, 
 Here waits a longing sister soul 
 Striving to reach the same great goal. 
 She turns away. They would not understand. 
 *Oh for the time,' she murmurs, 
 'When we can take each other's hand 
 With perfect love and sympathy, 
 Then we shall understand.' 
 There are many years to wait, dear. 
 Uncounted in the great forever, 
 Years in which our souls must grow. 
 Before we all shall reach that goal. 
 And merge in one great Universal Soul." 
 
I^ 
 
 There's a lump in my throat, and tears 
 come as I write of this little one who 
 comes so near and dear. Good stay with 
 her. Shut in so many years she cannot 
 ring the bell at a neighbor's door without 
 great fear and trembling. I imagine she 
 could rap with some confidence upon other 
 doors, for instance the house of many man- 
 sions not made with hands, where real 
 swell quality dwell, too. That would be a 
 case of the Old Folks at Home — kinship. 
 These are some of the wayside weeds that 
 the world tramples upon unheeding. Trans- 
 planted to some Gardiner estate what would 
 we get then? 
 
''Awaking with a start I depart, 
 
 Whither 1 know not ; but the hour's gone by.** 
 
 UITE a little time had come 
 and gone since I stepped 
 from the train that morning, 
 a stranger in a strange land. 
 But I had learned to love 
 Boston and its people. The stern New- 
 England winter was past and spring days 
 were with us at last. 
 
 My first outing, I decided, must be a 
 visit to old Concord. 
 
 The day came at last, a perfe6l day, when 
 even the cattle, as the seer says, lie on the 
 ground and think great thoughts. 
 
 I placed a light lunch in my hand-bag, 
 and started out early. It would be another 
 one of my days — dream-days I'll call them. 
 Arthur, do we not all see beautiful pictures, 
 hear wonderful melodies, live Christ-like in 
 our dream-world? Gladly then would we 
 too send up a rocket — hold up our signal, 
 saying, "Behold! fellow mortals, this I see, 
 this I hear, this I dream." 
 
 What wonder we feel misunderstood 
 when our instruments are faulty, or we 
 fail in manipulation? 
 
A soul's love letter 121 
 
 "Take you to all important points ma'am!" 
 said the eager hackman, handing me a neat 
 descriptive card. The day was before me, 
 I chose to walk. 
 
 Out past the old cemetery the road led 
 me, until I recognized the place where for 
 many years lived the unostentatious man 
 who sent the schools to school — Ralph 
 Waldo Emerson. 
 
 God had indeed let loose a thinker on 
 His planet when this one came. 
 
 I took my way to the orchard opposite 
 the house, sat down under the trees and fell 
 to musing and hero-worshipping, as I sur- 
 veyed everything in detail. I found nothing 
 unusual, — there were the out-buildings, the 
 trees, the woodpile — quite commonplace. 
 Why, how and where did he find it all? 
 
 True, it was a beautiful spot of earth, — 
 this Concord round about; but cold and heat 
 and famine and fear could come here, too, 
 bringing the story of hunger and pain. 
 
 I sat on — ceasing for the time to be "im- 
 portuned by emphatic trifles." But three 
 girls on wheels coming down the Lexing- 
 ton road wakened me with that shock which 
 comes when the a6tual crushes into the ideal. 
 
122 
 
 " Do you think she looks pretty, mornings, 
 in that red wrapper?" asked Number One. 
 
 "No, but she thinks she does," answered 
 Number Two. 
 
 "Isn't this the old Emerson place," said 
 Number Three — and they were out of sight. 
 
 Getting up slowly and brushing the dust 
 from my skirt, I moved on, out the Lex- 
 ington road a short distance, to the old 
 homes of Hawthorne and Alcott. 
 
 Alcotts, father and daughter, almost as 
 beautiful to contemplate as that other royal 
 pair, Robert and Elizabeth Browning. 
 
 Nearly opposite these places, I found a 
 half dozen men, working with a road ma- 
 chine. An old Irishman stood leaning upon 
 his shovel as I approached. When asked 
 for information regarding these places of 
 interest, he appeared very willing to open 
 his stock of knowledge. 
 
 "Ye shpake to a man of fifty year in the 
 town, lady," he said proudly. "I married 
 me woman from the home of Misther Em- 
 erson, yonder, I did." 
 
 I was interested and the old man con- 
 tinued with animation: 
 
 "That Misther Emerson was no man for 
 
A SOULS LOVE LETTER 1 23 
 
 money-makin' at all. He wuz jist great on 
 that ere stuff, philosophy — he wuz." 
 
 He then proceeded to relate the story of 
 the sage failing to teach a young calf to 
 drink from the pail, when his Bridget came 
 to the rescue, with the practical device ol 
 introducing her finger into the calf's mouth 
 and leading it to the milk so. 
 
 As I left, the man said, shaking his head, 
 thoughtfully, "Well, I'm thinkin' as how 
 God made ivery wan good fer suthin' er 
 other, and there haint no two of us alike, 
 ye moind." 
 
 It was late afternoon when I climbed the 
 ridge in Sleepy Hollow, and threw myself 
 down — tired, near the grave of Emerson. 
 
 The cool, mossy ground beneath me and 
 the shady canopy trees above, no roar, no 
 smoke, no screeching nor combat here. 
 
 Overhead, through the foliage, I watched 
 a soft, fleecy cloud, sailing along serenely. 
 Where was it going? What was its mission? 
 
 Off through another opening in the green, 
 the crescent moon hung pale and filmy as 
 the cloud itself. Somewhere, other eyes — 
 tired eyes — happy eyes — were looking up at 
 
124 A SOULS LOVE LETTER 
 
 this same cloud and moon — wondering, fear- 
 ing, waiting, trusting. 
 
 And that moon was looking down, per- 
 haps, on the old farm home, with mother's 
 neglected flower garden and the thousand 
 and one familiar nooks and corners of the 
 early days. 
 
 Then my thoughts ran along to my own 
 broken home, and another grave far away, 
 marked by a simple stone, on which vv^as 
 written: 
 
 "It's all going to come out right, dear." 
 
 Even then, while I laid my hands firmly 
 on the altar bars, all unconscious, I was 
 drawing near the brink again, where through 
 long days and months the forces let me 
 hang balancing over black abysses in seem- 
 ing mockery. Darkened stairways! Cries 
 and sobbings! Mother voices. Trust and 
 slumber. 
 
"And by a sleep so say we end the heartache, and 
 The thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to." 
 
 IE Still, dear." The words 
 sounded strange and far 
 away, but I obeyed with 
 childlike trustfulness and 
 forgot again. 
 
 It was midnight when I opened my eyes 
 and tried to understand. Oh yes, the white 
 bed, the screen, the dim light, the nurse 
 bending over me, yes, and the pain. 
 
 "It's all over," said the sympathetic girl, 
 kissing me gently — and then I remembered. 
 
 Long weeks of illness, ministering hands, 
 but stranger still, the hospital, iodoformic 
 odors, the anaesthetic room, the cone over 
 my face, the first choking sensation — then 
 peace and forgetfulness. 
 
 Oh! brother, friend, when they told me I 
 might never go about again, I had a chance 
 to test my philosophy, and it stood the test. 
 But in those first waking moments great 
 weakness was upon me. Weakness of body 
 and weakness of spirit; and I could not be 
 grateful for their hot water bags, their salt 
 solutions and their strychnine hypos, that 
 gave me back to consciousness. 
 
126 A soul's love letter 
 
 I wanted to go back to the land of for- 
 getfulness — into the silent land — and cross 
 no more bridges. The road I had come 
 seemed so rough and mountainous, I was 
 so tired — I never wanted to contend any 
 more; but Nature heeded not. Who and 
 what was I to be heeded ? Just that same 
 restless, unsatisfied protoplasmic mass that 
 had wasted so much energy, scrambling for 
 happiness, ever since that othei day, when 
 she, or rather it, was thrown out into ob- 
 je6tive existence with a cry. 
 
 And so I lay there, helpless, and thought 
 and thought, my mind circling round and 
 round ever to the same point, like a man 
 lost in a deep, dark forest. Sometimes I 
 was in the seventh heaven, trusting, serene, 
 most satisfied; then with a turn of the wheel 
 fear was upon me. Beads of perspiration 
 moistened my pallid face at the thought of 
 accumulating expense — no home, and the 
 sordid world out there grinding. 
 
 Who can understand the correlation of 
 the higher and the lower, or explain the 
 blending of physical, mental and spiritual? 
 
 Is the One Force, the basic principle, the 
 real essence in everything, pressing on in 
 
A soul's love letter 127 
 
 advanced or retarded evolutionary proces- 
 ses? "Is nothing either good or bad, but 
 thinking makes it so?" 
 
 There I lay so still, and thought. So 
 many things to think about ! So many 
 questions to be answered! So many prob- 
 lems to solve! 
 
 In other crises I had learned the secret? 
 but we forget so easily. Persistent self! 
 Source of all our annoyance! O God! 
 must these things be, ere we shall think — 
 ere we shall think? 
 
''The place seemed new 
 And strange as death. 
 The white bed, with others 
 
 Like graves dug side by site, at measured lengths, 
 And quiet people walking in and out. 
 With wonderful low voices and soft steps." 
 
 HE additional expense made 
 me almost glad the private 
 rooms were all occupied, and 
 so the fourth day I was taken 
 into my little corner, in ward 
 C, to make room for the newly operated. 
 The grotesque dress of the convalescents 
 served a purpose in taking my attention, 
 momentarily, out of the circuit it had been 
 traveling. Old gray wool and cotton skirts 
 often hung below the unironed blue ging- 
 ham "mother Hubbards," and in many cases 
 the gray cotton socks worn were unmated. 
 But what were faded gowns and cotton 
 socks where so much sorrow lingered.^ Over 
 in the second bed a young Swede woman 
 lay dying. Each evening, after a day of la- 
 bor, came the devoted young husband, who 
 spoke broken English, and looked all that 
 anxious love could express. 
 
 "Take me home, no one loves me here!" 
 said the woman, as she threw herself fran- 
 
A SOUTHS LOVE LETTER 1 29 
 
 tically and her talk grew more wild and 
 delirious. 
 
 No special attention could possibly be 
 given by the already overworked nurses 
 of that great municipal institution. Dying 
 woman, tired nurses, worried doctors, charit- 
 able donors and magistrates, all were caught 
 and held vicSlims by the greedy monster of 
 commercialism. 
 
 Nineteen hundred years had passed since 
 a manger-born One taught, "Inasmuch as ye 
 have done it unto one of the least of these, 
 my brethren, ye have done it unto Me." 
 
 We call ourselves His followers and here 
 was how we followed, singing psalms, wav- 
 ing palms, erecting great cathedrals to the 
 glory of God and the memory of millionaires. 
 
 O consistency! Much I marvelled. Yes, 
 compassion was in the world; earnest, honest 
 men and women, working along the lines 
 of expediency, while the tragedy stalked 
 before all eyes and Christ was crucified 
 again daily. And Arthur — I could not help 
 it — in all reverence and sincerity, I grew 
 to think that perhaps there were more fools 
 in the world than hypocrites. For what 
 sane person could ever hope to live the 
 
I30 
 
 Golden Rule in a social order, founded on 
 competition, that fosters selfishness and all 
 that is anti-Christ ? Anyone in such a sys- 
 tem, who carries altruism farther than the 
 Sunday school class, will very quickly be 
 overtaken b}^ the poorhouse or the insane 
 asvlum. 
 
 I could not blame the tired nurse who 
 said, crossly, of that neglected, dying sister, 
 '^Well, she's getting all she pays for!" 
 
 That nurse was talking "business." She 
 had become immersed to the ears, soaked 
 full of an economic environment that calls 
 the unit of value the Almighty Dollar, dis- 
 regards precious human life, tells us we are 
 living in an arrested era, that competition 
 is the law of life, quotes "the survival of 
 the fittest," and comes back at you with the 
 idea of future reward and the "utility of 
 sorrow." 
 
 No — I had not forgotten— I believed then 
 as now, that the whole tendency, through 
 long stretches of time, must be toward bet- 
 terment; I tried to keep serene, but evolu- 
 tionary battles may be quite as deadly as 
 those of revolution. I was a silent witness 
 to only a detail of the struggle of the ages 
 
A SOUI.'S LOVE LETTER I3I 
 
 when I lay helpless on my white cot and 
 saw the coming of that husband. White 
 serenes and silence were about the little 
 bed he had visited so faithfully. He was 
 poor, he was unlearned, he was helpless — 
 ''crunched in the jaws of a theft" — but he 
 had a heart, made of common, mortal heart- 
 stuff — he had loved and was bereaved, like 
 others. 
 
 Where flowed the wealth created by this 
 hard-worked son of earth, that the woman 
 he loved must suffer and die in acknowl- 
 edged negle6t? 
 
 Creation and accumulation — poverty and 
 exploitation — would this old world ever 
 work its way out of sordid materialism ? 
 Would men, seeing the women who bear 
 their children die negledled, keep their 
 anger forever? 
 
 I kept thinking. 
 
''One arrives at art only by roads barred to the vulgar- 
 By the road of prayer, of purity of heart ; 
 By confidence in the wisdom of the Eternal 
 and even in that which is incomprehensible." 
 
 WENT to the city by trol- 
 ley yesterday, and some more 
 experiences came to me that 
 I feel like telling you. One 
 concerned chiefly a certain 
 hoboish looking individual who sat at the 
 further end of the seat I had chosen. There 
 were three passengers when I boarded the 
 car, but it began to fill rapidly as we ap- 
 proached the city. As time passed, your 
 democratic sister was pushed along into 
 closer relations with brother hobo. One 
 seating space was left, and T peeked out of 
 the corner of my eye at my neighbor. Hat 
 slouched, coat shiny and frayed, as were the 
 pants; shoes rusty and full of holes — out 
 of one great hole protruded a toe, taking 
 wisely nature's line of least resistence. The 
 hands, neck and ears, so near, brought to 
 mind the advertisements overhead, telling 
 of porcelain baths and ivory soap that floats. 
 Unshaven face, teeth, hair, nails — but just 
 here came the fat woman, one of the typi- 
 
A soul's love letter 
 
 ^33 
 
 cal kind loaded with shopping utensils and 
 an umbrella to poke into your ear and 
 knock against your hat. Puffing, panting, 
 perspiring and red in uncomfortable cloth- 
 ing, yet under all circumstances smiling and 
 beaming — God bless fat women ! The lady 
 must be seated. My right hand neighbor, 
 of the wizzen, thin- lipped variety, looked 
 at me menacingly and nudged me along. 
 Closer proximit}' to my friend on the left 
 brought into operation other sense centers. 
 01fa6tory nerves were carrying up messages 
 and up went the nose in revolt. Auditory 
 nerves told of the wheezy, rattling breath- 
 ing, and I counted the blocks to the next 
 transfer station. 
 
 No, Arthur, I didn't for a moment shift 
 my basic idea of brotherhood. To be con- 
 sistent does not necessarily mean that one 
 must eat, sleep, converse upon art or philos- 
 ophy with a black man, a hobo or a wood- 
 chuck. Just be merciful. Don't put your 
 heel upon their necks. In due time great 
 evolutionary forces sweeping round about 
 will take care of them. Hands off ! That 
 hobo has all eternity and all space to clean 
 up in. 
 
"Sick and in prison and ye visited Me; I was a 
 stranger and ye took Me in." 
 
 OUR weeks had passed at the 
 hospital. I could sit up and 
 walk about carefully. I was 
 told I could soon go home. 
 _ Go home! And then I fell 
 to planning. 
 
 The next day a plainly dressed, serene 
 looking woman halted before my bed and 
 asked the privilege of placing some relig- 
 ious literature upon my table. "We are 
 told 'whom the Lord loveth He chas- 
 teneth,'" said the gentle voice. The face 
 and voice won me. 
 
 I answered, "Something says 'fear not.'" 
 A gleam of pleasure shot out from the 
 woman's eyes. She asked, "When do you 
 go home?" 
 
 A word of explanation, and she led me 
 to the dressing room, as gently as a sister. 
 Arrangements were made for my removal 
 without delay. 
 
 That evening found me resting on the 
 sofa in the cosy sitting room of a wood- 
 carver's simple home, while "mother set 
 the table" in the neat kitchen dining room 
 
A soul's love letter 135 
 
 adjoining; then waited with me until six- 
 thirt}^ when "Pa" and Walter, the son, 
 came from their work. 
 
 ''God bless this food to our bodies' use," 
 prayed the father, as we bowed our heads 
 reverently over the supper table, "bless the 
 stranger who has come among us, strength- 
 en her, body and soul, so that she may not 
 die, but live and declare the works of the 
 Lord." 
 
 The beauty and simplicity in this home 
 calmed the troubled waters of my restless 
 spirit. 
 
 Three months I lived with these God- 
 people, away from rasping, sordid things; 
 and then, growing stronger, I went back 
 into the vortex with my faith once more 
 strengthened in babes and sucklings. 
 
 When we run against an obstacle in the 
 dark we realize our rate of speed. I found 
 I was gathering momentum somewhat again 
 when they handed me a telegram : " Father 
 is failing, can you come?" 
 
 Shout, contend, press and counter-press 
 in human pandemonium! Let me go aside 
 to refle6f a moment, to take myself into the 
 presence of the old mystery and the Silence. 
 
^'All the happy silent lovers, 
 All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous 
 
 and the wicked. 
 All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all 
 the dying. 
 
 Pioneers ! O Pioneers ! " 
 
 OOR, dear father. I didn't 
 know how much I loved him 
 until I entered the quiet room 
 with its faint medicinal odors. 
 The pure white of the linen 
 about the sick bed made a fitting back- 
 ground for a face of character, intensified 
 by days of pain and waiting. The fine, firm 
 mouth, acquiline nose, and dark, deep -set 
 eyes, beneath a square forehead, spoke of 
 other things than stumps and stones and 
 sordidness. Mayhap one of Carlyle's trage- 
 dies had been enafted here — the cramping 
 of a nature with capacity for grand achieve- 
 ment. 
 
 I had always been timid and distant with 
 my father until this moment when all re- 
 serve was gone — I knew him, and he knew 
 me. O shy, strange something deep within 
 — magic working, inherent — we know you 
 when you show yourself, and we trust, as 
 babes suck sureliest in the dark. If all else 
 
A soul's love letter 137 
 
 be lies and vanity, here is reality. It was 
 a joy those few remaining days, to sit by 
 that bedside holding the hand that had lost 
 all hardness, and tell in parts and snatches 
 this story of my life, even as I am telling 
 it to you. Sometimes sweetly and serenely, 
 often brokenly, but always for the sake of 
 confiding — oh, confiding the thing on our 
 hearts to those who understand, and under- 
 standing, love ! All along the life journey 
 new surprises were lying in wait for me. 
 I was continually chancing upon the rarest 
 gems hidden away in rubbish piles and 
 obscure places. Earlier or later, even so 
 had the treasure houses of the heart and 
 soul opened up to me. Friend, lover, 
 mother, brother, and now I had found a 
 father. 
 
So mothers have God's license to be missed." 
 
 OTHERS, yes, and fathers 
 too; and I should soon be 
 missing mine. But it is not 
 for those who know and love 
 to walk despairing and un- 
 consoled when separation comes. No, it's 
 of some one gone away who did not know, 
 but should have known. True soul com- 
 munion comes very near bridging over 
 the chasm between the living and the 
 dead. But to sit at the same table with 
 one who does not speak your language, 
 does not know — here is space indeed, that 
 no wire or wireless message can ever 
 overcome. 
 
 Today so runs my dream. 
 
"Who in all this world 
 Has never hungered? Woe unto him who has 
 Found the meal enough!" 
 
 ND now came my turn to 
 listen. Father and daughter 
 each to other, confessed and 
 confessor. And when stript 
 of all detail, how very much 
 alike look the heart experiences of all men. 
 Onward, up the way led us through baby 
 days, the boy days, the dreaming days, the 
 ambitious days, the crushed in the bud days, 
 fall into line, march with the van days, to 
 the hardened, no way out days. Turn, turn, 
 grind, grind, till the vital fires burned low, 
 the wheels moved slowly, belts slackened 
 and the clatter and clang of machinery 
 dropped into an almost painful hush. ''Yes, 
 little girl," said my father one evening as 
 I lay with my head beside his on the pil- 
 low, ''Yes, even helpless and pained as I 
 am now, I am feasting upon you every mo- 
 ment and wondering what happiness might 
 mean, if we could go over it all and have 
 mother back again. No, no, not with things 
 as they were, God knows; but with some 
 social arrangement more human, more adap- 
 
140 A soul's love letter 
 
 ted to love, life and liberty. Some order 
 where men did not make it a business to 
 deal in blood and flesh. Yes, I know, I am 
 just as guilty as any of them. I tried to 
 grab and plunder myself, regardless; but, 
 evidently, my genius didn't lie in that di- 
 rection. Perhaps I wasn't one of the Attest 
 to survive, that they tell so much about. 
 I guess nobody wants anyone but the Attest 
 to survive, but will the test of the fittest 
 always be as it is in the tiger's jungle? It 
 looks as if something else ought to enter 
 into things. To be fighting and plundering 
 always to find out who's fittest doesn't seem 
 like peace on earth or good will, does it? 
 It sounds strange to hear your father talk 
 of peace and good will, doesn't it, dear, but 
 it's come to me at last that we are some- 
 thing; more than animals, Mabel. Plato would 
 find himself outdone in a prize fight, and* I 
 imagine Jesus wouldn't feel much at home 
 down amidst the bull and bear business of 
 Wall street. 
 
 "When men began to take wives, and 
 children followed, we find love and mutual 
 interest came into affairs. The family and 
 tribes came about first, then cities, states 
 
HI 
 
 and nations arose. It looks now as if some 
 still greater combine of the world's forces 
 must result sooner or later, No, child, I 
 don't imagine that everybody will become 
 angelic in a moment. We've been creeping 
 along up, it's quite a distance yet to the top. 
 Once we thought we couldn't rid ourselves 
 of black slavery, but we did, and now we 
 have to deal with white slavery. It won't 
 do to get discouraged, but go right on break- 
 ing shackles. We may say to men, ^Be free, 
 be free,' but they can't be very free with 
 society sitting on their backs. We may 
 preach to men, 'Be good, be good,' but how 
 can they be very good and be at war all the 
 time. All business is founded on competi- 
 tion, competition means war. Golden Rules 
 and war can't mix, any more than oil and 
 water. I wonder men don't see there's a 
 screw loose somewhere; but I didn't myself 
 until I was almost crushed alive in the old 
 machine. We've been in this condition of 
 things so long we really do not know what 
 brutes we have become. Things happen 
 around us every day that would shock, or 
 ought to shock a civilized man; but it's like 
 the night, so common we don't think any- 
 
142 A soul's love letter 
 
 thing about it. If a widow has a few pen- 
 nies laid by for a rainy day, and a fittest 
 to survive fellow comes along and robs her 
 of her little sum, she may starve or go on 
 the street. Nobody cares. The}^ call such 
 men clever fellows and pass it along. 
 
 ''And then to think of the great waste to 
 the world in invention and beautiful things! 
 Crusts, clothes, corners to stand in, come up 
 for first consideration. Side issues take their 
 chances. But men love to express and cre- 
 ate, and we get some things w^orth while 
 now and then in spite of it all. But what 
 would we have if men stopped trying to 
 trip each other, and all pulled together? 
 The thought of my own wasted life doesn't 
 so much hurt me now, as the thought of 
 my own hardness and cruelty. But, Mabel, 
 when you sit here and stroke my head, I 
 feel it means forgiveness, and I guess they'll 
 all forgive me. I couldn't see any way out. 
 You know one grows dazed, benumbed. If 
 it's a shoestring or a seat in the synagogue, 
 selfishness controls. No, child, I'm not tired. 
 It rests me to talk to you. It gives me more 
 confidence to walk out into the darkness, 
 though I really never feared. I guess after 
 
LETTER 143 
 
 all it will be all right somewhere." After 
 musing a moment father continued, "Human 
 love teaches us a great deal. Oh! if I had 
 taken time to love more. I might have — 
 well, no matter. I remember the summer 
 morning, j^ears ago, when 3^ou lirst came. I 
 let you cuddle your little soft face in my 
 sunburnt neck a moment, your warm baby 
 breath was upon me, your tiny life pulses 
 throbbing with blood so like my own, and 
 great swells of feeling vibrated through me. 
 God, such love! but it's a moment out of 
 years. Then the panic of '73 came rushing 
 down upon us, and I forgot — forgot and 
 became a machine, and worse, for machines 
 can't get tired and anxious, hard and cruel. 
 Insanity! And still they tell us we must 
 keep up this coniii(5f forever — contend and 
 fight and murder because men grow so! 
 
 "Later your brothers came and filled the 
 house with books — books of the head and of 
 the heart. I picked up bits here and there. 
 I opened my eyes — commenced to think 
 again, and I found however reasoning and 
 methods may differ, men deep down are 
 brothers. They all love love, and hate hate. 
 Then came the new and satisfying conscious- 
 ness that the whole grand drift is toward 
 world-wide brotherhood. What a dream! 
 

 
 
 
 m 
 
 
 ''I say to thee do thou repeat, 
 
 To the first man thou niayest meet, 
 
 On road, highway, or open street, 
 
 That we and he, all men move 
 
 Under a canopy of love. 
 
 Broad as the blue sky above. 
 
 That anger and fear and pain 
 
 All are shadows vain. 
 
 That death itself shall not remain." 
 
 HE clock struck out the clear 
 stroke of one, and I started 
 up nervously. "Don't, don't 
 child," said my father gently, 
 "I've been watching you rest 
 and it seemed almost like that other time 
 over thirty years ago." "But," I suggested, 
 "the medicine, father!" "Oh, I know, but 
 there's better medicine than bottles hold." 
 I gave the quieting potion to my patient 
 and replenished the wood lire to keep out 
 the chill of early spring, then returned to 
 the bedside. I would not call my brother 
 as usual that night, for I felt much refreshed 
 with my three hours sleep. My father, how- 
 ever, was insistent, and I complied. When 
 I bent to kiss the hot, eager lips and fore- 
 head that waited for me on the pillow, he 
 held me a moment, and then said, "Yes, you 
 
A SOUI^'S LOVE LETTER 1 45 
 
 must go, dear. I forgot again and talked 
 too much. 'Twas all jumbled up, too; but 
 did you hear, Mabel, when I said that all 
 men love love, and hate hate? The whole 
 thing only amounted to that anyway; don't 
 ever forget it — now go. Good night." 
 
 Quiet, but with wide open eyes, I lay on 
 my bed a long time that night, thinking. 
 How transparent things appear, sometimes, 
 when we step aside and focus the mind 
 upon them? How strange it was that the 
 world could ever make me forget who I 
 was! But when you're out of it, the belts 
 fly and the wheels hum, and you just for- 
 get, that's all. What a strange thing it all 
 was? — so unreal, so unsatisfying, yet we 
 hugged it so. And I wondered if I should 
 ever forget again — like the rest' — they go 
 so fast — they push, they trample — but deep 
 down, love, love — love. 
 
 The sun was streaming into the room, 
 making leafy shadows over the basket quilt 
 that covered the bed, when I awaked. I 
 listened to the sounds within and without 
 doors to determine the hour. It must be 
 nine o'clock, I thought. Martha was placing 
 the milk pans and pails on the long board 
 
146 A soul's love letter 
 
 near the door of the summer kitchen. The 
 man was already in the field plowing, and 
 calling fretfully to the horses when the plow 
 struck against a root or stone. Huge, crude, 
 lumbering John — deep down did he have a 
 rudimentary love of love, and hate of hate? 
 Out came Martha again, whistling snatches 
 of ragtime — buxom, hearty Martha, joking 
 and flirting with John in her harum-scarum 
 way — does she, too, stand for love of love, 
 and hate of hate? The doctors carriage 
 halted at the gate, and dressing hurriedly I 
 met him in the hall as he was leaving. 
 
 "Your father seems better, girl, in many 
 ways since you came home," said the good 
 man; "but there isn't much to build on; the 
 heart's weak, you know; he and I are both 
 pretty well done for — seen our best days — 
 not much like when I brought you to them, 
 a morning like this, years ago. I've boys and 
 girls all around the country; brought 'em 
 first, and then took 'em through the mumps 
 and measles and whooping cough — ought 
 to know 'em from start to finish. Never ex- 
 pected to see you so well and rugged. Well, 
 I've got to be jogging," said the do6lor, look- 
 ing at his watch. "Sam Bowen's boy stepped 
 
A soul's love letter 147 
 
 on a rusty nail last week; got a pretty bad 
 foot out of it. Over at Mile's they've got 
 scarlet fever." Then with a cheery "Good 
 morning," he drove away down the hill, his 
 old buggy clattering over the stony road. 
 
 The morning had the fresh, frosty touch 
 of April in it. I caught up a shawl from the 
 hall and walked about for some time, noting 
 the silent influences at work preparing for 
 later exhibitions of triumph in creation. Ar- 
 thur, do you really think there are those who, 
 in all the years, never feel the rare touch of 
 Nature as I felt it that morning? How 
 poor must be the soul like that! 
 
 When I returned to the sickroom, I found 
 my father, as the do6tor had said, brighter 
 and more hopeful than he had been for days. 
 It was towards evening that he appeared 
 drowsy and asked to have the room dark- 
 ened. The great transition was at hand. In 
 the morning when I was alone in the hushed 
 room and took that cold, unresponsive hand 
 in mine, I breathed softly the words, "All is 
 well — all is well!" Another life that had 
 touched my own closely had gone out — 
 gone away — Gone — gone, we say as we 
 reach out like babies. How limited! How 
 limitless! The Universe! Eternity! 
 
*'As I walk, solemnly, unattended. 
 Around me I hear that eclat of the world- politics 
 produce, 
 The announcement of recognized things, science. 
 The approved growth of cities, and the spread of 
 inventions, 
 I see ships (they will last a few years). 
 The vast factories, with their foremen and workmen. 
 And hear the endorsement of all, and do not obje6l 
 to it." 
 
 ERE I writing a story, Ar- 
 thur, I could weave in ever}^ 
 thing beautiful, and make 
 everybody good and happy, 
 but reality is always more 
 strange and relentless than fiction. 
 
 Four weeks had passed since my father 
 fell asleep dreaming of love, and now they 
 put into my hand a tiny bit of paper. 
 Only twelve thousand dollars; but a mil- 
 lion broken things, hideous and misshapen, 
 were represented by that innocent scrap 
 that lay before me. I crushed it tightly 
 to see if drops of blood oozed between 
 my fingers — no blood appeared. 
 
 My plans for the future were soon re- 
 solved upon. I would go out to see, to feel, 
 to know the world of men and women. I 
 would place my finger upon the pulse of 
 
H9 
 
 fevered humanity — find a cure for civiliz- 
 ation — be another fanatic let loose upon 
 the planet. Audacit}^! Think of it! To 
 wander alone about battlefields strewn all 
 over with bleached bones, cannons and 
 crosses. To push a woman's face against 
 the loaded guns. But then, some things 
 are safe b}^ reason of their very insignifi- 
 cance, as mice, they tell us, escape from 
 burning buildings unhurt, or tiny birds that 
 flit all round dangerous places unnoticed 
 and uninjured. 
 
"I see the menials of the earth laboring, 
 
 I see the prisoners in the prison, 
 I see the defective human bodies of the earth, 
 I see the blind, the deaf and dumb, idiots, hunch- 
 backs, lunatics. 
 I seethe ranks, colors, barbarisms, civilizations — I 
 go among them — I mix indiscriminately. 
 And I salute all the inhabitants of the earth." 
 
 VEN so I went, even so I 
 mixed, even so I saluted all 
 the inhabitants of the earth. 
 I worked with them, I sat 
 with them, I felt with them, 
 I learned from them. I climbed rickety stairs. 
 I descended into cellars and basements, and 
 as I worked my way deeper and deeper into 
 human life I became ever more and more 
 conscious of the staggering needs facing the 
 children of men. In sweatshops and smoky 
 kitchens I took my place, and, oh! how I 
 grew in love and compassion. I stood long 
 hours behind counters in great department 
 stores, wearing the perfunctory smile in fear, 
 but here rested the difference — I was free. 
 To an atomical student, dissecting a dead 
 body is revolting enough, but to be chained 
 to a putrid carcass as were these — whew! 
 — les miserables. And let no man think the 
 
A soul's love letter 151 
 
 haggard, pinched, ungroomed bodies of the 
 working men or women indicate indelicacy 
 of feeling or so much inferior human stuff 
 of head and heart. As I know men and 
 women, plebian and patrician are dipped 
 originally out of the same vast reservoir. 
 Manicuring doesn't count. 
 
 Problems, problems! Everyway we turn, 
 up before us stands some sphynx, looking 
 frank and solemn, saying: ^^Read my secret." 
 Economic problems, race problems, sex 
 problems — too much talked about — all cried 
 out: "Read my secret! read my secret!" I 
 wandered on, questioning, testing, waiting. 
 
 Many months and many miles were be- 
 tween me and that time and place over two 
 years before when my father said, "Mabel 
 remember deep down all men love love, 
 and hate hate." What had I found? How 
 had I changed? Not at all, only the old 
 glamor was gone. The far away, the great 
 things, had been brought near and handled. 
 The poor and despised things had been lifted 
 up, and scratching the surface of each and 
 all, I found — myself. Humanity was indeed 
 a solid, a unit, rising or falling together. On 
 the one hand perverse collar-buttons, damp 
 
152 A soul's love letter 
 
 salt-cellers, bread and butter struggles — 
 hideous Mr. Hydes; on the other soul-stirring 
 music vibrating in serene love atmospheres 
 — joyous Dr. Jekylls. Savage or escaped 
 felon, do you not from ambush or hiding 
 place sometime look up in awe and prayer 
 to the immensity of silence and stars? I 
 know you do. I am you — you are me — 
 give me your hand. The source of life is 
 One. So, and even more so, I grew to feel 
 toward the men and women I met. Mys- 
 tically mingled gold and dross, animal and 
 angel — bondmen forever — rushing along 
 out there to and fro through space in eter- 
 nity. Never a moment anywhere but want- 
 ing to be somewhere else. Never having 
 so much but they wanted more. God pity! 
 Not very far from me the best; not very far 
 away the worst. They were me — my very 
 self indeed. 
 
 That day, in a distant land, I reached an- 
 other climax. In the old weary way I threw 
 myself down and looked off over the city 
 and the river, to the distant blue hills, and 
 beyond. 
 
 Yes, it was true. Deep down men did 
 love love, and hate hate, and on this hung 
 
A SOULS LOVE LETTER I 53 
 
 all the law and the prophets. Something 
 seemed to say, "Go back, child. You have 
 seen the ruins of Tyre and Carthage; you 
 have wept in Galilee and Gethsemane, but 
 there is that which shall outlive cities and 
 sorrows, it is the leaven of love down deep 
 working in the human heart, bringing about 
 the liberty of love at the end of ages.'" 
 
''You must be just before, in fine, 
 See and make me see, for your part. 
 New depths of the Divine." 
 
 OU know very well, Arthur, 
 the rest of my story. Child- 
 ren of two hemispheres, we 
 met. All that wealth and 
 culture could give left you 
 still hungry; all that discipline and denial 
 could do left me still expectant. In cap and 
 gown you found me going about softly, bind- 
 ing up bruised and broken bodies, and that 
 was well. But w^onders never cease in the 
 realm of spirit — you came, and that was 
 better. I awoke, and that was best. Other 
 daughters should be raised up to carry cups 
 of water to moisten fevered tounges. I must 
 go out there where souls were afevered and 
 thirsting for the water of life. 
 
 Lo, 'twas a great day — my day! The 
 message of the little farm girl, who wept 
 alone for a sickened, selfish world, burst 
 forth at last ! It was simply the old love 
 story that men, through all the ages, had 
 been struggling to externalize in art and in- 
 stitutionalism. But the later message spoke 
 of more than love and truth and beauty in- 
 
A SOULS LOVE LETTER I 55 
 
 herent at the heart of all things. It discussed 
 ways and means of realization, and feared 
 not: — 
 
 A new transition time was now at hand 
 — foices were falling into line. As slav- 
 ery had given place to feudalism, and 
 feudalis7n to capitalism^ so in turn capi- 
 talism was to be replaced by Socialism, 
 In a relieved economic state, with mutual 
 obligations and advantages for all, should 
 the great co-operative aggregation usher 
 in 7nore quickly the riper day of TRUE 
 INDIVIDUALISM, made perfea in a 
 voluntary federation of the world. Away 
 with a p7'ofit system that brutalizes men 
 and prostitutes women — then stones the 
 wo7nen and kills off the men in commer- 
 cial warfare! Call to mind the Great 
 Non-Resister who drove out money-chang- 
 ers, but said to another, "Neither do I 
 condemn thee, go, and sin no more!' 
 
 Small wonder it was that the multitudes 
 waited, listening for the voices of prophets 
 crying in the wilderness; and when they 
 heard, responding cried, "Refresh us again, 
 for we do faint.'' The world had grown very 
 
156 A soul's love letter 
 
 weary with slums and shambles — with the 
 wailinofs of women and little children in the 
 market places, while many ran to and fro 
 and knowledge didn't increase very fast. 
 High time it was for men to much marvel; 
 due time for murmurings to go abroad of 
 race solidarity and brotherhood. Pruning- 
 hooks, plowshares and peace, against swords, 
 sabres and strenuosity every time. 
 
 When heads have bumped up against 
 some little abstra6l things like love and jus- 
 tice long enough, comes a realization that 
 principles possess weight and dimensions 
 just as surely as stocks, stones and Stand- 
 ard Oil. Yes, humanity can be trusted. It 
 will not eat husks for long when there is 
 enough and to spare at the old home. In 
 pursuit of happiness? The world is large 
 enough for blessedness. 
 
 And to think we have lived to see the 
 larger day breaking ! To take our place 
 and work together! 
 
 What would one have?— LIFE! 
 
 The accounts balance — close the ledger? 
 lock the desk, go home and rest till the 
 morrow cometh, when new strength shall 
 be given for the new task. 
 
''Developed whence shall grow spontaneously 
 New churches, new economics, new laws 
 Admitting freedom, new societies 
 Excluding falsehood ; He shall make all new." 
 
 HAT a long letter I have 
 written! Since its commence- 
 ment, early spring has passed 
 along into midsummer. Many 
 many times have I wished 
 you were with me here, meditating and 
 refreshing, while the life-processes unfold 
 more and more abundantly about me. With 
 you here joy would be almost complete. 
 Often I lie down on the ground and 
 watch the little creatures chasing about in 
 the soft mould, among leaves and grasses. 
 I wonder if their schemes 
 
 "Gang aft aglee 
 And leave them naught but grief and pain 
 For promised joy." 
 
 A small world is theirs to us, Arthur, 
 but perhaps great God-like creatures are 
 looking in on us, as we disport ourselves 
 in and out, among the timber of this earth. 
 
 Yesterday I broke a milkweed stalk, to 
 see the creamy sap gush out profusely. 
 
158 A soul's love letter 
 
 Rich Nature! And today I broke a spray 
 of blackberry bush, which always reminds 
 me of the bride in white waiting for the 
 bridegroom. 
 
 Yes, so we met. And you said we two 
 part not again. And here we stand, in the 
 year of our Lord nineteen hundred and four 
 — two tiny soul centers — talking of love 
 and the deep things — children prattling — 
 brooks babbling — waves talking to each 
 other along the shore. 
 
*'For narrow creeds of rig^ht and wrong which fade 
 Before the unmeasured thirst for good ; while peace 
 Rises within them more and more. 
 Such men are even now upon the earth, 
 Serene amid the half formed creatures round, 
 Who should be saved with them and joined with 
 them." 
 
 OW my letter is finished, I 
 come back — back to the 
 world and work — back 
 where men throw themselves 
 under Juggernaut cars, mis- 
 sing the meaning. But rest secure. At the 
 center, lixed firmly into the innermost na- 
 ture of things, rests the germ necessary for 
 corre6ling all errors. Everything shall re- 
 turn and renew, and that on forever. We 
 are building but one step of the stairs lead- 
 ing up to the Altar — let our foundation be 
 placed on the rock and not on a slippery 
 place. In coming days, as in our own day, 
 breakers and builders shall be raised up as 
 necessity demands; precedent and prejudice 
 reign but for a while — then come upheav- 
 als and rendings asunder. The poor world 
 all lacerated and grown weary to very heart- 
 break, welcomes the new poet, prophet. 
 
i6o A soul's love letter 
 
 artist, great soul who, gathering together 
 the scattered fragments of the imperisha- 
 ble, gives out other poems, sermons, pic- 
 tures, systems, for men to live by for a 
 season. 
 
 Where shall the limitless end? What 
 shall be the morning? To look off into 
 the future, and see men still forming and 
 destroying, like little children playing in the 
 sand, tests trustfulness and patience for the 
 moment. 
 
 Still the voice says: "Not in time or 
 space, but within lies the land you seek — 
 the land of promise — Behold! Be." 
 
 And beholding, I cry aloud, "Oh Lord, 
 my soul breaketh, for the longing that it 
 hath for Thy judgments at all times."