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had written but little previous to that time, but HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

now her pen became her solace, and from then on

until her death, August 12th, 1885, she wrote unMERICA has been the birth-place of a number

ceasingly. Her published works are “Verses of female poets that have given to their coun

(Boston, 1871); “Bits of Travel” (1872); “Bits of try some of the sweetest songs in the English

Talk About Home Matters" (1873); “The Story tongue. Women who have been revered and loved

of Boon” (Boston, 1874); “ Bits of Talk in Verse for the words of cheer and inspiration they gave to

and Prose,” for young folks, (Boston, 1876); “Mercy mankind, yet I doubt if any among them have ever

Philbrick's Choice" (Boston, 1876); “Hetty's received the same measure of love, the same

Strange History” (Boston, 1877); “ Bits of Travel amount of reverence, or have called forth the same

at Home" (Boston, 1878); “Nelly's Silver-mine: feeling of kinship as Helen Hunt Jackson. Nor is

A Story of Colorado Life” (Boston, 1876); “Letthis to be wondered at, for no other writer has ever

ters from a Cat” (Boston, 1878); “Mammy Tittletouched so closely upon kindred themes; has ever

back and Her Family: A True Story of Seventeen so nearly reached the heart and the sensibilities.

Cats" (Boston, 1881); “A Century of Dishonor” The Carey sisters probably came the nearest to this

(New York, 1881); “The Training of Children in their writings, and May Riley Smith has the

(New York, 1882); “Ramona " (Boston, 1884); faculty of clothing every-day events with a pathetic

"The Hunter Cats of Connorloa” (Boston, 1884); grace that voices the sentiments of her readers as

* Zeph: A Post-humous Story" (Boston, 1885); they could not themselves; but while these later

Glimpses of Three Coasts" (Boston, 1886); “Sonnamed have succeeded but in part in expressing

nets and Lyrics ” (Boston, 1886); “Between and giving utterance to the only half-acknowledged

Whiles" (Boston, 1887); “The Procession of tenderness within us, which we may feel but cannot

Flowers in Colorado” (Boston, 1887); with Kinney, speak, Helen Hunt has laid bare the whole recesses

Abbott, “Condition and Needs of the Mission Inof the heart. Hers was a wonderful insight into

dians of California,” published by the United States human nature. Such intuition must have been

government, (Washington, 1883). In 1883 Mrs. heaven-born. Her songs are songs of faith, made

Hunt was appointed special commissioner to look perfect through suffering So strong her faith that

into the condition of the Mission Indians of Caliothers' faith must seem weak in comparison, and if

fornia. In 1875 she was married to William S. one were for a moment led to doubt the existence of Jackson, a banker of Colorado Springs. The years a God, that doubt must take Aight in a half-hour

passed in Colorado were happy ones. Her chosen with Helen Hunt. This trust and love which pre

resting place on the summit of Cheyenne mountain, dominated in her, and which pervaded all she wrote,

four miles from her home, has never been a lonely or thought, or did, was the underlying cause of her

one, for it has been the mecca of hundreds of tourmastery over human hearts. She had suffered, and

ists, until the path leading to her grave has become by her sufferings was made strong.

Who shall say

well worn from the footsteps of those who have she was not a chosen vessel to carry the Master's

gone to pay their tribute to her who was poet, sister message to other fainting hearts ?

and friend to the whole world.

J. W. Mrs. Jackson was born in Amherst, Mass., October 15th, 1830. She was a daughter of the wellknown Professor Nathan W. Fiske, of Amherst College. She was graduated from the Ipswich

Female Seminary, Massachusetts, and from the
Messrs. Abbott's school of New York City. Her

They told me I was heir. I turned in haste, first husband, Major Edward B. Hunt, U. S. A.,

And ran to seek my treasure, lost his life in 1863 by the premature explosion

And wondered, as I ran, how it was placed; of a submarine battery he had invented. Two

If I should find a measure children, boys, were born to Major and Mrs. Of gold, or if the titles of fair lands Hunt, one living less than a year, the other dying

And houses would be laid within my hands. two years after the father's death had occurred. It was during this season of grief, the crucible I journeyed many roads; I knocked at gates; to her as yet, untried soul, that faith gained the I spoke to each wayfarer mastery, at the end of a year of bitter I met, and said, “A heritage awaits mental conflict, she came forth purified by her Me. Art not thou the bearer trial, ready to give to the world the benefit of her Of news ? Some message sent to me whereby experience for which she had paid so dearly. She I learn which way my new possessions lie?”


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And when at last I stood before his face,

I knew him by no token Save subtle air of joy which filled the place;

Our greeting was not spoken; In solemn silence I received my share, Kneeling before my brother and “joint heir."


My share! No deed of house or spreading lands,

As I had dreamed; no measure
Heaped up with gold; my elder brother's hands

Had never held such treasure.
Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed-
My brother had not where to lay his head.

The shortest absence brings to every thought

Of those we love a solemn tenderness.

It is akin to death. Now we confess, Seeing the loneliness their loss has brought, That they were dearer far than we had taught

Ourselves to think. We see that nothing less

Than hope of their return could cheer or bless Our weary days. We wonder how, for aught

Or all of fault in them, we could heed Or anger, with their loving presence near,

Or wound them by the smallest word or deed.

Dear absent love of mine. It did not need
Thy absence to tell me thou wert dear,
And yet the absence maketh it more clear.

My share! The right like him to know all pain

Which hearts are made for knowing; The right to find in loss the surest gain;

To reap my joy from sowing In bitter tears; the right with him to keep A watch by day and night with all who weep.


My share! To-day men call it grief and death;

I see the joy and life to-morrow;
I thank our Father with my every breath

For this sweet legacy of sorrow;
And through my tears I call to each, “Joint heir
With Christ, make haste to ask him for thy share.''

Dear hearts, whose love has been so sweet to know,
That I am looking backward as I go,
Am lingering while I haste, and in this rain
Of tears of joy am mingling tears of pain;
Do not adorn with costly shrub, or tree,
Or flowers, the little grave that shelters me.
Let the wild, wind-sown seeds grow up unharmed,
And back and forth all summer, unalarmed,
Let all the tiny, busy creatures creep;
Let the sweet grass its last year's tangles keep,
And when, remembering me, you come some day
And stand there, speak no praise, but only say,
“How she loved us! 'Twas that which made her

Those are the words that I shall joy to hear.


O wild red rose, what wind has stayed

Till now thy summer of delights ? Where hid the south wind when he laid

His heart on thine, these autumn nights?

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