light to recount the scenes of Lafayette's welcome on his second visit to America, and the particulars of her participation in that event. But chiefly she loved to dwell on all the way that heaven had led her, through a long and happy life, to be in her serene old age the darling little mother of her devoted daughter.

For a number of years after her arrival in San Francisco Mrs. Lynde was a teacher in the Chinese Mission. One of the most affecting features of her burial, which was very largely attended, was the presence of her Chinese scholars.

She died February 21, 1895, within six days of her ninetysixth birthday, never having been confined to her bed or to her room until the three days before her death.

RUTHELLA SCHULTZ BOLLARD.

The papers tell of nothin' else
But folly, crime an' pain;
How armies of the unemployed
Go marchin' through the rain;
How men are strikin' in the mines,
An' fightin' on the border,
An' throwin' bombs, an' gen'rally
Despisin' law an' order.

Poor creaturs! If they only knew,

There's One above that hears

An' sees their wrongs. I've found it so
Well nigh a hundred years.

Ah, yes; He hears! Th' scorner says

"He hears, but doesn't heed;

Or, if there be a God, 'tis plain

That He is deaf, indeed."

Oh, fools an' blind, that will not know

What to their peace belongs!

Oh, puny things, that undertake

To right eternal wrongs!

An' all the while God waits to bless;

Who among them hears

His gracious voice? - I've wondered now
A'most a hundred years.

A thousand ways He pleads with men,

A thousand warnin's sends

But will not force the love of those

To whom His love extends.

They suffer hunger, cold an' heat;

They tramp, they toil, they fight;
An' yet they all might dwell in peace
If Him they served aright.
His own He never yet forsook—
Better than all their fears.
For so, like David, I have found
Well toward a hundred years.

The other day I went to see

The folks that live next door;
An' there I met a youngish man,
His years about three-score.
"Is your wife livin,' sir?" I asked,

Your boys an' girls-how many?"
He said he'd never married yet,

An' so he hadn't any.

How small an' selfish such a man
In my esteem appears!

An' so they've always looked to me
For near a hundred years.

Said I, "The Christian citizen

His duty never shuns.
You'd be as rich to-day if you'd
Brought up a dozen sons.
God said at first, It is not good
For man to be alone;
Be fruitful, multiply. An' so
Have all the nations grown.
Can man improve upon the plan
That God himself uprears!

I trow not! An' I've studied it
About a hundred years.

WASHINGTON.

Read at the meeting of the Buffalo Chapter, Daughters of the American Revolution,

held February 22, 1896.]

SHE was a girl not many years from school,

And noble dreams of life still filled her thought,
And stayed her love-warmed spirit 'gainst the cool
Defiant tolerance, which sets at nought
Great hopes and aims at this, the century's end.

But he was called "blasê” and lounged through life
In fear of but one thing the Fates could send-
Emotion-vowing that no warring strife

Of nations, no vexed problem of the hour

Roused him as did a broiler overdone,

Or good champagne when badly cooled. His power
Of honest admiration was all run

To seed, and waited God's great, quickening hand
To help it rise from out its stiffened case
And grow to golden glory in the land

One day he sauntered in with ennuied face
And by her chair took his accustomed stand,
Then with a lazy tolerance glancing down,
Asked, "What's the flag for?"

With caressing hand

She touched the small .་ Old Glory" on her gown And cried "Why that's for Washington! You know What day this is, I hope?" And he replied,

With swift remembrance, "Ah! the "Washday?" So! "Birthington's wash day!" (That pun should have died Long since, from inanition!) "Poor old George!

He was of small account, but still he serves Pathetically well, with Valley Forge

As background, and the fame he scarce deserves
Wrapped 'round him, for a concourse of fair dames
To weep upon, with fond, hysteric zeal!"

She flung him a swift glance, and said, "Your claims
To learning are unique, if you can feel
Assured your words are true. I cannot find
A sympathetic answer; so beware,

Lest I defend my hero, thus maligned

By your inconclastic speech! But there-
You're not responsible!" At this he smiled,

Yet looked at her with feigned alarm and fear,
And said "Pray don't exert yourself, my child,
To argue, for my opinion's clear
Enough about the Father of our Land ;'

And 'tis scarce worth our while to bother now
About a man who took his sudden stand

Upon the hill of fame by chance, whose brow
Was crowned with laurels (chiefly from the lack
Of nobler foreheads) by a Nation's whim."
"If that were true," she said, "'twere best to stack
Our guns, and fire no more salutes to him,
Bring no more homage, and at last, forget
That such a man has lived-yet still I doubt
If men, despite your words, will ever let

The light of his far-reaching fame die out."
"Oh! Bah!" he cried, "The man's become a fad,
Which men refuse to view with honest eye.

That fiery-tongued old codger, who could add
New curses to a buccaneer's supply!

He could with ease outdrink a Tam'ny brave,
And owned a temper hot enough to cook

A beefsteak, though perhaps more fool than knave!"
She faced him then with anger in her look :
"Things are indeed come to a pretty state

When men like you rise up in judgment here With god-like calm, upon a soul so great

That it still towers ten thousand times your peer!'' She paused, and fixed him with reproachful glance, Then added, "And you are unjust, you know You are! Besides what proof can you advance Of all these accusations? None! Yet oh! How readily you brand him as profane

And drunken! (How it shames me to repeat Those words, applied to him!) It was no stain Upon him that he did what men thought meet In his day, drank at courtesy's demand,

And sometimes, too, when in malarial marsh Or frozen wood, he fought death hand to hand.

Those were the times, you know, when life was harsh; When men lived hard and died hard. Yet this man

In all his long career of trusted worth,
Never allowed himself to mar the plan

Of upright living followed from his birth.
It was his great misfortune, not his fault,
To own a fiery temper, yet he curbed
It with an iron grip. And if you halt

At the few instances, when, much disturbed,

He used a sudden oath, well, show me then

The man who never did the same! I fear

He is a creature far beyond our ken,

Yes! Like the dodo-bird, both rare and queer!"
He stopped her for a moment, then, and said,
"I may have been too strong in my remark
About the life your famous patriot led;

Yet, I contend his fame would be the spark
Which flies from burning wood, with fleeting glint,
If men but saw him as he was." She cried,
"No! But it is the spark once struck from flint
Of rock-like honor, and so broad and wide

The flame of love that it has kindled bright
In this great Nation's heart, that its pure fire
Can never die !" "Bravo!" he cried, "That's right,
A Daniel come to judgment! I desire

More wise interpretations. Come, proceed!"
She was too deeply earnest to be quelled
By laughter, so she paid his words no heed,
But said, "You think, if people now beheld
Him as he was, that Washington would be

Let low in their esteem! But you forget
How his contemporaries failed to see

The faults you find, those men whose paths were not Close side by side with his, who fought and prayed And died beneath his banner, honored him Above all other men. When undismayed

He faced grave problems, when the light was dim, And help far off, they saw the fearless soul,

The generous heart, made strong by God on high, To press with steady purpose toward the goal Of this great Nation's full security.

Why do we hesitate to honor men

Like him with all the homage love can give?
A little hero-worship, now and then,

Is worth a deal of scoffing. Our hearts live
By looking upward; and how can we rise
If peering always in the dark? Mankind
Has grown to-day so wise, so wondrous wise
That it sees naught but the hard, ugly rind,
And will not seek for the rich fruit within."

"It may be so," he said, "There is no spice In things which are all good, a little sin

Adds zest, as well as chance for sage advice; And he who criticizes argues weight

Of wisdom to himself." "Yes," she replied, "'Tis true that naught so suits us as to prate

Of others faults, in our blind, ostrich pride.
You moderns are much like those men of Greece
Who heard old Aristides called 'the Just'
With wearied ear, and that the sound might cease
Of constant praise, decided that he must
Be exiled from his friends and country, yet
No other fault or blemish could they find
But this, their petty natures could but fret
At his untarnished fame and noble mind.
And so with Washington; his virtues long

Have been extolled, and all his human faults
Denied, until we weary. Yet the strong,
Clear pæan rolls along and never halts
And why obstruct it? Why cast crashing down,
E'en though we could, the temple of his fame?