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Thomas Cole
Four of my favorite pictures from childhood have been...

Frederick Barbarossa
Emperor from 1152-1190 Frederick I was one of ...

Horace Greeley
Among the hills of New Hampshire, in a lonely, unpain...

Marie Antoinette And Count Fersen
The English-speaking world long ago accepted a conven...

John James Audubon
The problem why certain men and women come to emin...

David Glasgow Farragut
The possibilities of American life are strikingly ill...

Jean Paul Richter
Vasari, who wrote the lives of the Italian painters, ...

Byron And The Countess Guiccioli
In 1812, when he was in his twenty-fourth year, Lord ...

Margaret Fuller Ossoli.
From engraving by Hall] Margaret Fuller, in some respects ...

The Mystery Of Charles Dickens
Perhaps no public man in the English-speaking world, ...






"helen Jackson."






That same day she wrote her last touching poem:--
"Father, I scarcely dare to pray,
So clear I see, now it is done,
That I have wasted half my day,
And left my work but just begun;
"So clear I see that things I thought
Were right or harmless were a sin;
So clear I see that I have sought,
Unconscious, selfish aim to win
"So clear I see that I have hurt
The souls I might hare helped to save,
That I have slothful been, inert,
Deaf to the calls Thy leaders gave.
"In outskirts of Thy kingdoms vast,
Father, the humblest spot give me;
Set me the lowliest task Thou hast,
Let me repentant work for Thee!"
That evening, Aug. 8, after saying farewell, she placed her hand in
her husband's, and went to sleep. After four days, mostly unconscious
ones, she wakened in eternity.
On her coffin were laid a few simple clover-blossoms, flowers she
loved in life; and then, near the summit of Cheyenne Mountain, four
miles from Colorado Springs, in a spot of her own choosing, she was
buried.
"Do not adorn with costly shrub or tree
Or flower the little grave which 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! It was for that she was so dear.'
These are the only words that I shall smile to hear."
Many will stand by that Colorado grave in the years to come. Says a
California friend: "Above the chirp of the balm-cricket in the grass
that hides her grave, I seem to hear sweet songs of welcome from the
little ones. Among other thoughts of her come visions of a child and
mother straying in fields of light. And so I cannot make her dead,
who lived so earnestly, who wrought so unselfishly, and passed so
trustfully into the mystery of the unseen."
All honor to a woman who, with a happy home, was willing to leave
it to make other homes happy; who, having suffered, tried with a
sympathetic heart to forget herself and keep others from suffering;
who, being famous, gladly took time to help unknown authors to win
fame; who, having means, preferred a life of labor to a life of ease.
Mrs. Jackson's work is still going forward. Five editions of her
_Century of Dishonor_ have been printed since her death. _Ramona_ is
in its thirtieth thousand. _Zeph_, a touching story of frontier
life in Colorado, which she finished in her last illness, has been
published. Her sketches of travel have been gathered into _Glimpses
of Three Coasts_, and a new volume of poems, _Sonnets and Lyrics_, has
appeared.









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