BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL HOOPER, NELLIE JAN - APRIL 1876[*Nellie*] Ilion, N. Y. 76 Dear Alice: - "Yours received contents noted", as papa's business letters say. Don't abuse your productions! That "Last night" was very perfect in rhyme, rhythm, [wording generally] general wording: - also very especially your style. I enjoyed it, but at first I thought the "spirit" took you to some house in which the most interesting part of your life had been passed & then I thought he or she led you into some vault, as the entering in seemed to finish up everything, & lastly I didn't know what to think. Your poor eyes! I don't believe they'd fail you if you were in perfect health, I am afraid your health is weak in some other way. & that affects your eyes, as is so often the case. - As to that dream, its merelytwo miles of doggerel. - However, a sick child must have all its whims humored. - I am so glad you have energy enough left to call names. "Little beast", & "young vipers", sound like old times! - Nevertheless look out! - If you had kept me much longer waiting for a letter I should have suddenly appeared at your door, travelling bag in hand. - Next time I shall surely appear, & then what will Mrs Stone say? - Ben is always teasing me about you. yesterday when I said I had not heard from you for ever so long, he said "neither have I, I think she must be dead!"- & he's always saying "Tell Mrs Stone if she'll pay my expenses, I'll come & bring Alice down." Today he said "Tell Alice I want to see her more than any other girl in the world" He is the plague of my life. - he's always seizing my wrists & making me go on my knees or pinching me at mealtimes & making me squeal, or pretending he has a letter for me when he has not. This last trick of his drives me frantic, which delights him immensely. - Will you never send me one of your compo's? I don't see why you shouldnt. - Today is beautiful! - Blowy, sunny, cloudy, inspiring! - Now for stuff & nonsense!- - I Dreamed - 1. My dream was this: - An ashen sky In which a dull, red arrow was set: - And one long field, draped drearily In grasses, long & cold, & wet. - 2. Across the field I held my way Trembling with wild, unreas'ning fears "Turn back!" - my faint heart seemed to say Yet on I came; - more near & near. - 3. More near to That! - O fear! O dread! - Amidst the long, dank grasses; white - A form, - like of the shrouded dead Lay stiff. & rigid, in my sight.- 4. I knew that it was you; - my one.One friend, whose hearts have constancy Has cloudless kept my summer sun. And kept the roughest sounds from me.- 5. I knew that it was you: & fright Was less than love, & on I step Beneath the dead mans ghostly light To where your body lay, & slept.- 6. "Ah, love! - The grass is withered, yet With drenching rain, & poisonous dew, And you hi there unburied yet. - I hasten on to cover you.-" 7. I touched your shroud.- the staring moon I swam round & round in dizzy whirl.- And round my head (half [?] in swoon) A thousand waters seemed to swirl - 8. When suddenly I seemed to know That which had seemed your dreary pull, Was a rich robe as pure as snow That round my living limbs did fall! - 9. And there with patient, upturned face And folded hands, - in perfect rest You lay, & smiled with wondrous grace While gently heard your quiet heart. 1) A light too pure for my dark form 10. Played round about you, white & clear Like [perfect] sunshine, when it follows storm So sweet, - I did not venture near. And then I knew, that what I felt 11. Was filled with horror & dispair. Seemed nothing to a soul that dwelt In sight of God's love;- any where.- 12 For minded that dank, long, grass you lay2) The awful moonlight did not cease - [And it'll] Yet round your lips did ever play that smile of great content & peace.- Where! you failed to surfeit me, but I think I have done it. - for you, I mean.- Don't expect me to send you so much rubbish again. Please remember me to your mama & papa.- My appetite for D. continues voracious.- I don't believe you'll understand the meaning of my [eff.?]- Now Goodbye. N. E. H. aged only 17I like having the class, but I can't teach them anything,-I don't know how at all. If I try all the year I shall never teach them the relative positions in life of Saul, David, & Jonathan-I am afraid,- I am so sorry, dear, that your eyes trouble you so. Lizzies eyes have been quite bad lately,- inflamed, & giving her considerable pain; She keeps bathing them with milk & water, applied with a rag, & finds it relieves her much,- I append a miserable scrap of rhyme, quite unworthy to be read by those poor, beautiful eyes of yours, my A. Goodbye- Nellie Hooper Ilion, N.Y. [*Nellie 76*] Dear Alice: I'm sorry I ever mentioned a novel - it's not a novel I never tried to write a novel, I shall never be able to write a novel, the word novel in this first letter was altogether a mistake. As to the story, it has no plot, the heroine was a young poetess of impulsive & peculiar temperament, an altogether impossible character; she had a chum, a sort of volcano, absurd "crater"; the principal [chacte] character was an unhealthy, lazy vegetable thirty five years of age, whoboarded for some time at "her" house. The principal enjoyment I got out of my puppets, was making them take walks together, & launching out into diffuse descriptions of summer scenery, which descriptions were intertarded by scraps of unnatural dialogue. There were some other characters of course to be introduced, but there was really no plot that could be called a "plot" in the whole thing. I cannot write anything that needs patience & perseverance. I fear I never shall be able. Do send me whatever plots or plot you have in your head now. I feel as if it would refresh me. I think your last poem had something peculiarly beautiful about it, thought it was even mournfuller than the one that came before it. I didn't suppose you meant that you "stoop to drink" at the "tearful sound" instead of the fountain, and I didn't suppose you meant the [ice?] dripped beside the brick, but the water from it. However, in both cases anyone would know what you meant. Dear me! I never wrote such a stupid letter before, did I? I feel too blank to write at all. Did I tell you I had taken a Sunday school class? I have, & have taught it three successive Sundays. It consists of seven little girls five of whom can read. I find it horridly hard workThe Sorrowing Heart and the Winter Sea Why are thine eyes downcast, Why heart of mine keep dropping tear & sigh Each sadder than the last? Ah why! Ah why! Where are the skies of June? My heart in mournful minors made reply Where all the roses fair that swung against the deep blue vault of air? Where is the scented grass thridded with strawberries? Where is the fragrant, cool, softhanded breeze that broke the lakelets glass? Where is the book that sang its happy revel While over it no hearts beat on in tune? Where doth dead Summer lie? Bring back the days gone by Or cease to chafe my grief Since naught can give relief With idly questioning "Ah why! Ah why!" "But, heart of mine" I said If you think it highly ridiculous that as heart should cast down it's eyes, & drop tears & sighs & all that, I shall not blame you. I'm ashamed of thisThough summer leith dead. And the thick snowflakes hide the cold grey sky, Fear not, the Spring will greet thee by & by And Summer close behind her will appear. And gladden all the year, With fervent heat flung from ?welcoming sky "Alas, thy words are wild" Answered my hear, & wept. "Ah, well away! When that my Summer smiled I laughed in glee; but that was yesterday I know not what tomorrow has in store. But this at least I know, The air is full of snow, I had any time of joy, it is gone! Let me in peace my desolation mourn. From these grey rocks & bare, Unto the weary, ever restless sea, While spirit like grey clouds float over me, I utter my despair. And hear it answered in a passionate moan, That sobbing ebbs & swells to wail & groans The awful voice o' the main From hoarse with crying at some inward pain Which ne'er doth bate or cease; The voice of an unrest to deep to know of peace.And loneliness & scorn Of self & all the world, grown dull & less For falsehood in you born The world holds nothing sweet, or good, or rare, Since thee, whom I did trust Had proved a liar. O most false, proof fair My hopes are in the dust. Which lugubrious jingle is part of a stupid ? terse thing, or comes in it. I told Lizzie your family news & she laughed. I don't think she made any remarks. I can't think of any appropriate remarks, except "Such is life" & that isn't appropriate Its an abnormally chilly day & I feel cold & dull. (but just now a peculiar effect was produced on the landscape by a sort of half sunlight shining through the driving rain & howling wind in a weird, unnatural way. I wish you have have seen it) Please answer this sooner than it deserves, & I'll be more rational next time. I understand how busy you must be. Affy Yours, Nellie Ilion, N.Y. March 13th _ 76 Dear Alice: Thanks for first part of your composition. the "Siege of Langtoft" promises to be an interesting affair; the rythm matches the theme admirably & the description is bold, & fine. I think. John Erskine's idea of detaining the cavaliers, & giving his friends more time for flight is noble; is the incident historical, or original with you? I do not write much lately & what I do write is not worth reading. The last thing I've taken in my head to try, is writing essays (?). On "Silence" "A Night in a CountryChurch " ___ " Sunlight " ___ " Underneath" ___ & such subjects, they're stupid, but it causes me to ramble on about nothing in particular, & I do it to scare off the 'blues' sometimes. The last thing I sent you wasn't pretty. Don't tell lies! It was a stupid little rhyme that any school girl in Christendom might have written. Only that no one would invest time writing such stuff but Nellie Hooper. I'm tired of having you say "your last was pretty", "your last was very pretty" "I thought some part of your last quite pretty" & so on. I know what that means, but you shouldn't even lie in word. I know you don't mean to, of course. But if a thing isn't worth comment, don't comment on it. What a cross little mortal I am! Alice, I'm bound to go to England this summer, if I pawn my nose, to get the passage money. You cannot imagine how the wish grows in me. Such lots of things draw me in that direction. I don't know what dripping I have for you, really, my pain pen is nearly drained out, & I fear that I will be sometime before I replenish it. with which unhappy figure, I give up. Untrue. What is the rest of life but weariness But weariness & pain Day following dull day is dreariness Nights full of bitter bane. What is the rest of life, my love, my own Now thou are lost to me What but a void, voiced with a hollow moan Of utter misery. What is the rest of life, but emptinessMarch 18th __ 76 Ilion, N.Y. Dear Alice: Firstly: You've a very bad memory if you remember my nose as "small", it was always a monstrosity & is the most prominent feature. Secondly, O villain, you never need thanks one for attempting to praise your rhymes, for I never do it. I heartily & sincerely admired & enjoyed "The Siege of Langtoft", & if my expressions of pleasure were constrained & not as rapturous as you might have expected, it was probably because I was jealous. Thirdly; Don't be amused of nothing. You are at fault in supposing that you know my likes& dislikes in regard to poetry. Martial music & martial poems, were always my delight, & a tale of heroism, well told in verse, is a real treat to me. Fourthly: (How I wish I had you in my clutches) my taste is decidedly not for the melancholy & sentimental, my dear. The poetry that I write in that strain does not express my character or preference for that style at all. & is only the outcome of a blue or lazy mood: & you can no more know my taste in such things, by what I send you than you could know a book, by hearing the "and" & "the" & "of" more frequently used on its pages. Fifthly: the impudence that can call such declarations, "information" ought not to go unpunished! You see, I have not received your opinions with "due submission" & I cannot forbear telling you that I fear you have wasted "much study" if the opinions expressed in your last are the result. Well, dyspepsia is sufficiently unpleasant, as I happen to know & I'm sorry for your sake) that my last "drip" felt like it. It was probably composed when I was suffering from the aforementioned. I shall not send the "blank verse" for its worse than the rhyme, theres only a little of it & you would not be at all interested in the specimen. I was going to send you a long scrawl called "An Interim" but decided that it was too melancholy & sentimental. I send instead a very faulty & stupid bit, I've just made & I'm afraid it's rather melancholy, but how can a child who always has cold feet, a backache, & a bad conscience, write jubilantly I would propose that this "stuff" has an ill fitting name. "A Song of Degrees" Ah strike your stings, my minstrel, & give us troubled chords That speak strong pain & agony & light obscured by cloud Pathetically strong & brave, & sweeter than all words Perplexed sweetness, where the Joy is low, & pain is loud Now strike your strings, my minstrel, in full & tender tones That speak of patient prayer, that shuts all discontent from sight Of one who will not come to God, with weeping or with groans, But with pale lips can say, "O God, what'er thou dost is right Now strike your strings, O minstrel, & bring forth music low Strong in its weakness, gathering more strength with every strain And rising, swelling grandly, as waves that swell & grow, Telling of peace unspeakable, bow out of deadly pain.O minstrel, for the finale thy notes are weak and poor no earthly harp or earthly voice, can give us music fit to tell the triumph of a soul made free forevermore By battling with a deadly sin, and overcoming it! (One sat alone and thoughtful, his face was very white As if a struggle fierce had long had wore his strength away Yet with a smile he greeted the pale, uncertain light that spoke this end of darkness, and the appearance of day) Stuff! - When I wrote it first I had the last verse first. - you'll notice I've put "your" in three verses, and "they" in one - read'em all one way;- either way let me have lots of "grease" in your next. - Mama is in Boston, I hope you'll see her before she returns home. She has been to hear Robert Collyer! Write soon- Yours as usual Nellie Hooperabout ceasing to respect my judgement. I don't think anything of yours as regard my rhymes. My dear, I know what I sent you last to be absolute doggerel! I think yours had considerable force and aptness of expression in it, I enjoyed reading it: I have just been reading "the Last Days of Pompeii" but my one hurried reading hardly did it justice. If you've read it I suppose you remember the horror "Arbaces" gave you, and the scorn you felt for the languid luxurious Greek patting and pinching and examining the gladiators while he betted upon them and you probably sympathized in the gladness and beauty of "Glaucus" life and pitied the sadness and tragical news of "Lydia's" as much as I did. Nellie Ilion, N.Y. February 7th, 76 Dear Alice: The idea of taking that character for yourself! not one of my characters was taken from life, and the "volcano" was not intended to be at all like you: she was a tall statuesque blonde and her volcanic fire well hidden under the surface. And the "young poetess" wasn't me, wretch!!! Her name was Barbara, and I think I made her as unlike myself as possible. Don't jump at conclusions so! I'm sorry I've hardly any dripping on hand of such as I have, accept excuses if possibleFrom the sketch of your story which you give me, I should imagine it might be intensely interesting, you have chosen to put your principal characters in trying positions and I have no doubt I should be immensely interested in see how they untwist themselves. I wish you could conveniently send me a chapter or two. The thing I have liked writing out here is a series of letters, I have in my mind. I have written a letter-&-a-half only. "Letters from Obscurity" (by a Servant girl pro tem.) the title. You see I can screw up my courage to tell you of my sillinesses, at home I am either "frowned down" or laughed down & either treatment is almost equally disagreeable. I don't tell them at home when I try to do anything new, except sometimes Lizzie. I have not read anything of H. Kingsley's, but your plot reminded me a little of one of Charles Reades, "Never too late to Amend" I think, you'll remember the courier who went to Australia and stuck to "George" so, & the English heroine, - but theres only the faintest suggestion. How could you be pleased with my last, don't talkThe Soul's Blossoming. That in the sun alway O tender plant, thy happy lot to be, The golden summer day Is a rare boon to thee — For sharp & stinging hail Shall smite thee to the earth, on which you green and cold rain shall not fail Nor biter drenching dew. And clouds shall veil thy sun Through dismal weeks, while thou dost droop & pine And wish thy days were done O tender plant of mine. Yet this is that thy growth May fair & strong, & glad & perfect be The rain & sunshine both Are needful unto thee So though the storms may come, And enemies are round thee everywhere, Unfold thy richest bloom, And fear not to be fair. (Bosh!)You see, I have actually put "thee" & "you" in the same line in the second verse, an unpardonable error, but I could not see how to alter it, & I felt so lazy, -- I feel the need of a mentor, or at least a chum, round, to whom I can say "What rhymes with "beast" & receive the answer "feast" or "east" or "least" with a most helpful promptness, --- Shall I send you a parcel of poison for the aggravating "boy" ? Or perhaps a dose of my rancid & unwholesome "dripping" would be more effective. I think it would, -- I'm glad you had the grace to be surprised that you were pleased at my "stuff". Won't you be glad to be reminded of a most grand & wonderful verse in Psalms? I came on in the day before yesterday, & it helped me. "The eternal God is my refuge, -- underneath are the everlasting arms?" (Write some, my friend Ever Yours Nellie. April 4th - 1876 Ilion, N.Y. Dear Alice: My math, through being long bottled had grown exceedling strong, when the arrival of your letter, this M, appeased it, & with my usual weakmindedness, I forgave you at once; & am answering immediately as you see. Mary happened to be up to dinner, & I read your message aloud; also selections from your remarks concerning Ben, at which he merely grinned & flushed a little. He was twenty yesterday & kept Lizzie & I, from nine to eleven, last evening, in perfect paroxysms of laughter as a sort ofcelebration, I suppose. - I never saw anyone with such a genius for making people laugh at nothing. & never appear to, - I’m afraid if mama gave you much information concerning me, she had to let you see what a wretched little animal I am. As Ben said last night with glazing eyes & outstretched finger “Wor-r-r-m! Worm! Wor-r-rm! - I scorn to notice you!” There is something very pretty in the Bosh.” you sent me (I don’t consider it bosh!) & it reminded me of a talk we had, as we walked down beside those high side stone steps in Roseville, concerning sunshine & shadow; one of us going in ‘ for purple twilight, & mod shadows, & all cool & restful shade; - & the other expressing her preference for the rich golden sunlight, or the languid pleasure of basking in strong light & heat, & enlarging on all tropical delights. - I forget which was which, but remember the conversation well. - You speak of my last as “uncommon”, - I cant quite sure whether you mean uncommonly good or bad: - I thought, when I sent it, that you would come down on it severely - I think of several faults in it now. - There is a something of self-aberegation in your last poem that is not seen in many of yours. - By the way. Ben offered to copy all of the pieces you had sent me, on the typewriter, - but I didn’t encourage the idea. - I send you this time a most doleful scrawl which might almost make me worthy of the character you gave me, liking marky things. - Bother! - I shall have to use another piece of paper. - Excuse me for rambling on so. - Write me a good long letter next time to make up for your delay. - shortly, Nellie Hooper — Farewell! — 1 Without, the raving winds do never cease Without, fall icy, slanting spears of rain; — Within is peace. — – No care, no toil, no bitterness, – no pain, – – The winter night for her is mild in vain — 2 Without, the heavy skies forever weep, Without, the rotting grass bend shivering, – – But she doth sleep; – [3] – She cares not that the birds have ceased to sing – She fears not winter, – longing not for spring. 3 Without, the branches bare, & brown, & thin, Clash drearily, & drop the last dead leaves; But, O, within, (So little for earths misery she grieves) 'Tis calm as sunshine is on gathered sheaves 4. Without, heaves angrily the oceans breast The waves toss white hands of beseeching high — Within, is rest. Though all unrestful, earth, & sea, & sky. – She doth in quietness & patience lie. – 5 Without, tolls solemnly a passing bell Without, the black robed mourners walk & weep, – So dear, farewell!— While we our watch of sorrow sadly keep Unknowing & uncaring thou dost sleep.— There! - there's rubbish for you! — Liz thinks "Vane'"s poetry in the Woman's Journal, is something in your style & isn't quite something that you do not contribute under that nom de plume; I don't think you are "Vane" at all. Goodby, dear. Twice, yea, & thrice, & kept my heart aflame – And helped me keep my weakness in control. I waited long, ah long, & all in vain But still I wait, & hope, & do not fear. – I smile & hope. – & know the end is near The end of trial, discontent, & pain. – Waiting for an assuréd end is sweet. And pain that ends in triumph good to bear:– Aye that I wait for is so high & rare That I can tread on thorns with patient feet. E.N. March 29th Lullaby! Lightly I lay thee to rest, Sweetly I sing to thee, baby mine How wouldst thou like to change for the nest That the little rooks sleep in, high in the pine Where the black mother pecks them to hush their cries And winds wail the wildest of lullabies. Lullaby, babykin, soft & warm Sleep within reach of motherkin's arm. I append a scrap to show a style I drop into occasionally. – Write soon. Afl'y Yours Nellie Ilion, N.Y. Aprin 17th –76 Dear Alice: – Ben gave me your letter, postmarked April 9th.– today. the wretched boy had been carrying it round in his pocket. – that's why you haven't had a letter before this.– I have been suffering from horrid influenza the last week, & wandering round the house with red nose & eyes, wondering in a sturry voice "why Adice didden wride" – If mama said that about me I am astonished! I had no idea I was either quiet or companionable. I have a distinct remembrance of certain afternoons when mama has told me to dress& then come & sit with her in the sitting room, & I knowing that sitting with mama meant serving, have managed to slink off, to waste my time in scribbling verses, or reading scraps of Tennyson or Shakspere. – Hela's, Alice! How little new reading I get. I sometimes quite long for a book which shall present me with an idea, utterly & wonderfully new, – which shall have power to rivet my attention, & awaken my enthusiasm as almost any book could once. — Vane does write very pretty verses, I think, I've enjoyed reading them. — I acknowledge my "tendency to funerals" as you express it, & cannot think why it is so, but my verses will run into a minor key. Perhaps when I've had some real sorrow, I shall write in a more cheerful vein. The name of your last "drop" was an enigma in itself. The song was very pretty & very much in your style (how could it be otherwise?) but not so well put together & not quite in such a pleasant rhythm as usual, I thought. — I liked it though, & sometimes to like a thing is more than to admire it. – I am terribly afraid that I sent you what follows once before, & lately: but must risk it, as I've hardly anything on hand. Tell me whether I did or not. — Waiting. I walked through deepest shadow, but my heart Was scarcely sad, – though shaded by the gloom I looked beyond, & saw sweet summer bloom And let fair Hope fulfill her noble part. I watched through dreariest night, but yet my soul Was scarcely wearied, – for a whisper came The Fight of Faith. 1. Like as the armed Knighte, Appointed to the fielde, With this world wil I fight. And faith shal be my shilde. 2. Faith is that weapon stronge, Which wil not faile at nede: My foes therefore amonge. Therewith wil I procede. 3. As it is had in strengthe And forced of Christes waye, I wil prevaile at lengthe. Though all the devils saye naye. 4. Faith of the fathers olde Obtained right witness, Which makes me verye boldeTo feare no worldes distress. 5. I now rejoice in harte, And hope bides me do so; For Christe wil take my part, And ease me of my wo. * * * * * * * * I am not she that had My anker to let fall For every drisluige mist My shippe's substancial. I wish I could honestly apply the last verse to myself. — Please remember me with love to Miss Stone. — Bless you for thinking of the "round o's" I 'grinned' at the idea, – but liked it. — Finally — Goodbye! — ILION, N.Y. FEB. -24TH.-1876 DEAR ALICE; - I NEARLY FINISHED A LETTER TO YOU TWO DAYS AGO, BUT LOST IT, AND SO MUST BEGIN AGAIN. - I THOUGHT YOUR LAST ''DRIP'' VERY PRETTY! - HOW COULD YOU USE THE ADJECTIVES ''STRIKING'' AND ''TOUCHING'' IN REFERENCE TO THAT STUFF OF MINE; YOU KNOW IT WAS DOGGEREL. I WAS GREATLY SURPRISED THAT YOU DID NOT SCOLD ME FOR THE AMOUNT OF DRIPPING SENT LAST TIME. I AM GLAD YOU HAVE A CALLA LILY IN BLOOM; - I CONSIDER THE CALLA ONE OF THE MOST WONDERFULLY BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS EVER CREATED. - I HAVE A CROCUS IN BLOOM IN A VASE, IT IS LILAC AND WHITE, AND VERY DELICATE AND LOVELY,: AND I HAVE A HYACINTH, JUST BUDDING. - BEN HAS PUT A BLACK RIBBON ON THE TYPE-WRITER; DON'T YOU LIKE IT BETTER THAN THE VIOLET PRINT! - YOU THINK IT ODD THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW SO LITTLE ABOUT MY LIFE, MY FRIENDS,- DAILY OCCUPATIONS AND INTERESTS &C. - WELL YOU KNOW AS MUCH OF ME AS I OF YOU; - I DO NOT GO "TO SCHOOL; - I OCCUPY MYSELF WITH A LITTLE HOUSEWORK, A LITTLE SEWING, A LITTLE READING, AND A LITTLE WRITING. - I SPEND MY EVENINGS AT LECTURES, OR PRAYER-MEETINGS, OR AT HOME READING, OR PLAYING CHESS, OR PRACTICING A LITTLE. - I HAVE NO PARTICULAR FRIEND BESIDES YOURSELF, THOUGH THERE ARE TWO GIRLS HERE WITH WHOM I AM VERY FRIENDLY, AND WHOM I LOVE VERY MUCH, IN ONE WAY,- BUT THEY ARE A LITTLE MORE MY FRIENDS THAN I AM THEIRS, AND THAT IS NOT PERFECT FRIENDSHIP. I DO NOT GET MUCH NEW READING OF THE SORT I WANT: - AND WOULD GIVE ALMOST ANYTHING TO BE ABLE TO GET HOLD OF SOME BOOKS. HERE FOLLOWS A SHORT AND SILLY RHYME, - THE UNATTAINABLE.--- 1. -O FAR AWAY! -HOW PASSING FAIR DOTH SEEM THE SKY'S HORIZON IN THE EVENING GLOW, WHILE ON ITS ROSE-FLOWER TINTS I GAZE AND DREAM. - AND CRUSH THE FIRST SWEET SNOWDROP GROWING LOW BESIDE MY FEET; - LONGING FOR THINGS FAR-OFF, AND TRANSIENT-SWEET. - 2. -O FAR AWAY! -ACROSS THE HEAVING SEA I WATCH THE WHITE-SAILED SHIPS, SO GRANDLY FAIR [SKIMMING LIKE] SKIMMING LIKE GIANT BIRDS;- AND LOST TO ME IS THE PURE SHELL, TWISTED IN FASHION RARE, SUNK IN THE SAND, CRUSHED AND DEFACED BY MY TOO CARELESS HAND. 3. -O WONDROUS WISE! TO GAZE AT FAR-OFF GOOD AND KNOW NOT OF THE LOVELINESS NEAR BY! - 'TIS ALL AS IF ONE PALE AND EAGER STOOD AND WHILE ON OTHER'S BLOOMS HE CAST HIS EYE, CARED NOT, NOR KNEW THAT FAIRER BLOSSOMS ON HIS OWN GROUND GREW. - --------------------ASININE! -NOT AN IDEA, OR PRETTY EXPRESSION IN IT. 'HORRID! - BAH! DID YOU EVER HAPPEN TO READ AN "ODE TO THE DEITY." FROM THE RUSSIAN, -BEGINNING "O THOU ETERNAL ONE, WHOSE PRESENCE BRIGHT" I LEARNT THE FIRST VERSE OF IT, AND IT'S FOREVER RUNNING THRUOGH MY HEAD, -I SHALL HAVE TO LEARN THE OTHER VERSES AS AN ANTIDOTE. TELL ME HOW YOU GOT THROUGH YOUR EXAMINATIONS: - AND ANY NEWS OF YOURSELF THAT YOU CAN THINK OF: YOU HAVE NOT KEPT ME POSTED IN REGARD TO APS HEALTH LATELY. - MY AP. HAS BEEN ACTING ABOMINABLY OF LATE, AND ALMOST DRIVES ME CRAZY; - HE FREQUENTLY MAKES ME VERY BLUE. - WELL, I MUST NOT WRITE TOO LONG A LETTER, SO ADIEU. - ANSWER PROMPTLY, AND REST SAFELY UNDER THE BLESSING OF YOUR - YOUR YOUR "LITTLE WRETCH" NELLIE M. HOOPER- A. S. BLACKWELL - [*Feb 24, 1876 Nellie.*] Melrose Circle of the Florence Crittenton League