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# The Voice

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Voice"
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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Voice", a poem by Matthew Arnold
* "The Voice", a poem by Rupert Brooke
* "The Voice", a poem by Gladys Cromwell
* "The Voice", a poem by Sophia May Eckley
* "The Voice", a poem by Richard Watson Gilder
* "The Voice", a poem by Hannah Flagg Gould
* "The Voice", a poem by Walter de la Mare
* "The Voice", a poem by Sara Teasdale
* "The Voice", a poem by Clara Augusta Jones Trask
# The Musical Box

This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Musical Box", a poem by Hannah Flagg Gould
* "The Musical Box", a poem by Mary Whitwell Hale
# Washington (Wallin)

Written in Swedish in 1837, English translation published in Prärieblomman (1900).
Take, countryman, thy glass in hand, And drink with the American Unto the Father of his Land, Creator of his country’s plan. Where, in the nations’ Pantheon, Thy honored Vasa proudly towers He rears to his great Washington A monument, the peer of ours.
O Freedom, child of heavenly birth, Sent to release a shackled race, Erase the boundaries of earth, And bring the nations face to face; Where’er thy spirit men inspired To battle ’gainst a tyrant’s might, The pulses leap, the souls are fired With shouts for Victory and Right!
’Twas by thy stroke, O Liberty, The noble patriot was knighted, Who glorified with victory Virginian fields, by tyrants blighted; ’Twas at thy call he rose and fought To settle internecine quarrels And then his peaceful homestead sought, His temples wreathed with Fabian laurels.
’Twas thy commandments that he taught When for a people, tried and loyal, The laws of right he wisely wrought, A nation’s chief, benign, but royal, In council with the wise and good, Enfolded in the statesman’s toga, He sat as firm as e’er he stood At Trenton, Yorktown, Saratoga.
When bubbles of a moment’s fame Must pass oblivion’s fatal muster, And many a toasted princely name On memory’s vault shall lose its luster, Then, graced by centuries of renown, The civic chief shall sit for aye, Without a scepter or a crown, The sovereign prince of Liberty.
In memory’s pilgrimage we wend To where the sod the hero pillows. No mourning flowers their fragrance lend, Nor grace his tomb the weeping willows;
But love of law and liberty, And good will unto every mortal Guard against wrong and tyranny The hero’s grave, his country’s portal.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Washington

This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Washington", a poem by Eliza Cook
* "Washington", a poem by Hannah Flagg Gould
* "Washington", a poem by Johan Olof Wallin
# The Frost (Gould)

* "The Frost", in Poems That Every Child Should Know
* "The Frost", in Poems
# Poems (Gould, 1833)/Apprehension

POEMS.
# The Maniac

This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Maniac", a poem by Dorothea Primrose Campbell
* "The Maniac", a poem by Hannah Flagg Gould
# The Wounded Bird

This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Wounded Bird", a poem by Sarah Elizabeth Carmichael
* "The Wounded Bird", a poem by Hannah Flagg Gould
* "The Wounded Bird", a poem by Katherine Mansfield
# Light-Line Phonography (Gregg)/Notes on the Alphabet

Layout 2
NOTES ON THE ALPHABET.
Consonants.—S is represented by a small quadrant traced in any direction downwards as ? same ? sap ? sale. TH is a small quadrant traced in either direction upwards as ? month, ? breath, ? than. H is always followed by a vowel, and may generally be denoted by the elongation of the vowel sign as ? hat ? him, ? hood.
Vowels.—The circle may assume the form of a loop where more convenient, as ? teach, ? chat, ? lip. The upward hook may be traced ? and the downward hook ? where these forms are more facile, as, ? or, ? more; moon, ? mood, ? much. The diphthong ī may be traced in any direction as ? might, ? tire, ? try. might. Its distinguishing curl may generally be omitted in practice.
# The Desert Sun/1972/Winblad

Marguerite Van Rensselaer Schuyler (1891-1972) in The Desert Sun on February 10, 1972.
Winblad
Desert Hot Springs — Services were held today for Marguerite Winblad, 81, under the auspices of the order of Eastern Star and American Legion Auxiliary at Desert Mortuary Chapel. Mrs. Winblad died at a convalescent hospital in Fontana after a long illness. She had lived in the desert area for 32 years. Survivors include her husband, Anthony, Desert Hot Springs; three sons, Norman, Baldwin Park; Earl, Carson, California; Russell Staderman, North Rose, New York; a sister, Janet Seaman, Long Beach; a brother, Roy Duyckinck, Holiday, Florida; 12 grandchildren and 12 great grandchildren. Interment is in Desert Memorial Park, Palm Springs.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was legally published within the United States (or the United Nations Headquarters in New York subject to Section 7 of the United States Headquarters Agreement) between 1929 and 1977 (inclusive) without a copyright notice.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Dedication

Dedication
this Book is dedicated with understanding and love to all unwedded mothers, and to their innocent children whose fathers are usually not known to the world . . .
Nan Britton
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 4

There was in Marion a very attractive and extravagant woman whose name, let us say, was Mrs. Henry Arnold. Gossip had it that Mrs. Arnold and Warren Harding were very friendly, and gossip-mongers wondered how Mrs. Harding could be so blind to such a mutual infatuation.
These things reached my ears from the girls at school whose parents kept in close touch with anything smacking of scandal, and very likely discussed these things around the family table. I know I never heard them from my father or mother.
But this knowledge of what was currently thought concerning Marion's leading citizen and one of Marion's most ​beautiful women did not move me to condemnation of either Mr. Harding or Mrs. Arnold. Rather did I sympathize with her in her regard for him, for I could conceive of nothing save a very high-minded friendship existing between him and anybody. And wasn't it quite possible that she too thrilled to her very finger-tips under his smile? The only thing I regretted was that I was not her age, and that I had not travelled in Europe, and that I was not "in society" or in any kind of position to attract his notice.
Mrs. Arnold had a lovely daughter, Angela, I will call her, about my own age, with golden curls, who had every indulgence loving parents could bestow, and my jealousy was directed solely toward her.
Very often the Harding car would whiz by our house, which was then on East Center Street, on Sunday afternoon, and I knew the occupants were headed for Bucyrus, a town some miles north-east of Marion which distance constituted a "nice drive" from Marion. Once, I remember, there were in the car Mr. and Mrs. Harding, Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, and their daughter Angela, as well as Frank the chauffeur, and of course the bulldog. I was sitting on our front porch. Mrs. Harding waved and blew me kisses and Mr. Harding doffed his hat and bowed. How I envied Angela! I would retire on such nights a most unhappy little girl. But I knew they would be coming back later on in the evening and so I would stay awake. My bed was alongside the window and the window screen opened on hinges like a door. I would swing wide open the screen and hang out of the window. I could see about fifty or sixty feet of street from that window and that part of the street was lighted by the corner street light. But even though it had not been lighted I would have recognized the smooth buzzing of those wheels as the great car sped swiftly past the house on its return from Bucyrus. Many a time I have waited until I knew he was safely back in our town.
Angela Arnold, knowing of my adoration for Mr. Harding, one time stopped my sister Elizabeth on the street and told her ​to "tell Nan" that her hero had been up to call upon them and had sat the bottom out of one of her mother's favorite chairs! The truth of it was that it was probably a frail chair and Mr. Harding's weight had broken it.
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 6

Our neighbors, the Sinclairs, lived in a large brick house on the outskirts of town, which was surrounded by a spacious lawn dotted with rose bushes of all varieties. Tall trees lined the drives and walks and shaded the grounds throughout.
Mrs. Sinclair often sent her hired man to our house with a basket of lovely green vegetables, fresh from her own garden. Oftener, she would telephone mother to send one of the children with a pail and she would have Emma the cook send back some of the creamy milk of which they had had an over-supply that evening. It often fell to me to "fetch the milk."
In spite of Mrs. Sinclair's solicitude concerning the gossip about my frank declarations of love for her husband's friend, she often suggested to me, with a twinkle in her eye, "Why don't you stay a little while, Nan? Your hero is coming home with the judge to play cards!" But instead of wanting to linger, I would pick up my heels and fly out the door.
One evening about sunset I swung my pail of milk back and forth as I sauntered leisurely toward home. My eyes were fixed on the grass along the sidewalk where sometimes wild flowers raised their dainty faces and seemed to ask to be gathered. I had just stooped to pick a particularly pretty wild poppy when I looked up—to see Warren Harding approaching! ​It was too late to retreat, so I walked bravely toward him, one hand literally seeming full of buckets, the other clutching the stem of my pretty wild flower. I wished fervently, in my visible nervousness and hidden delight, that the ground would open and swallow me, bucket, flower and all. My knowledge of father's talk with Mr. Harding, coupled with the more intimate knowledge of the adoration I had been so publicly boasting, intensified my confusion a thousandfold, and my face burned pitifully.
I did not seem to be advancing, though he seemed to be steadily drawing nearer, and I knew that he recognized me for he began to smile and take off his hat. Then, with a bow that could not have been more gallant had I been a titled lady, and the same smile which has won even the hearts of his enemies, he bade me, "Good evening!" To this day I have not the slightest idea whether I found my voice to answer, but I remember I momentarily recovered sufficiently to look up at him, while all the way home I exulted, "Isn't he wonderful! Isn't he wonderful!"
(Years later, in May of 1917, when Warren Harding made his first trip to New York in my behalf, he himself asked me if I remembered the incident and confided that the desire to possess me had been born in his heart upon that occasion—the occasion which had so long been enshrined in my own heart as a wonderful memory.)
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 8

In June of 1913, when I was a Junior in high school, my father passed on. We had very little money, but my mother managed to keep us together for a year and a half or so. She went back to teaching and was given a position in the Marion Public Schools. My baby brother John was about eighteen months old. My older sister Elizabeth was the pianist ​in a local theatre, a moving picture house. However, we girls continued to chum with the "best people" up to the time we left Marion, which was in 1915.
My mother had often thought she would like to do Chautauqua work, and it was in this connection that after father's passing she took occasion to consult Mr. Harding. He had had some experience in this line for I remember my mother took me one Sunday afternoon to hear him, and afterward allowed me to go up and shake hands with him and tell him how much I enjoyed his speech, for which hesitating utterance I received one of his loveliest smiles and a courtly "Thank you kindly, thank you kindly!"
It was upon the occasion of my mother's visit to Mr. Harding's office that Mr. Harding, inquiring how "Nan" was, and being assured of my continued admiration of him and any cause he sponsored, said ruminatively, "Mrs. Britton, maybe I can do something sometime for Nan." I walked for days in the clouds after mother had repeated this to me.
Before we broke up our housekeeping and left Marion, the people had elected Warren G. Harding United States Senator from Ohio. Even in the face of my own difficulties—being thrown upon the world with absolutely no equipment except a high school education and possibly some innate common sense—I felt an ecstatic elation over this victory for my beloved hero, and when Miss Abigail Harding "dared" me to go out to his house and congratulate him, it took less urging than courage to do so. Mrs. Harding came to the door in a pink linen dress. I braved her all right and asked if I might be permitted to speak to her husband. It was late afternoon and he was playing cards with his regular "bunch." He came out, and I shall never forget his smile—I do not think now it would be too much to say it was a smile of genuine appreciation, for so he assured me in later years—and I thrilled unspeakably under the touch of his hand. Mrs. Harding stood pat; it even seemed to me she curtailed any lengthy remarks Mr. Harding might have been tempted to make just to please me by draw​ing his attention to the gentlemen in the other room who were waiting for him. But she could have nothing to do with the pressure of a hand-shake which was Mr. Harding's seal of sincere cordiality to me.
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 10

In the fall of 1916 my Chicago benefactors put me on the train for New York and at the Pennsylvania Station in the Big City I was met by Mr. Carter. I was put immediately in school; the school selected was the Ballard Secretarial School ​for Girls which is an endowed school housed in the Y. W. C. A. Building, which building, Central Branch, was at that time down on 16th Street between Broadway and Fifth Avenue.
I entered six weeks late but through the out-of-school-hours' tutoring of my dear teacher and friend, to whom I will give the name of Miss Helen Anderson, I was enabled to catch up with the class very quickly. I studied hard. The Carter family was an intellectual one and Mr. Carter early began to dictate to me in the evenings, which was a great help. I received A's in everything when the spring came and I was graduated.
In early spring, in April I believe, there was a request made to the Y. W. C. A. Employment Bureau for a stenographer for one whom I shall call Mrs. Emma Laird Phelps, publicity manager for Ignace Paderewski, the famous pianist, and I went to be interviewed. I had several hours in the afternoons which I knew I could devote to this work and in that way make some extra expense money. Mrs. Phelps hired me after giving me some trial dictation, and I was launched upon my first stenographic position! During this employment I had occasion to do some special work with Mme. Paderewska and in this connection I met her famous husband.
Inasmuch as I had, when in high school, not been allowed much freedom where boys were concerned, I knew comparatively little about them. I had had my ideal American in my heart for years and all others paled into insignificance beside him. True, I had endeavored to weave romance several times into friendships with boys I had known in Marion, after I became almost seventeen years of age and was a junior in high school, when mother permitted a few "dates"—few and far between. But somehow these fellows, as well as those I met after I left Marion—in Cleveland and in Chicago—all seemed to have things "wrong with them."
However, I was beginning to receive attentions from men whom I would meet even casually, and the fact that I was able to hold a secretarial position, and had been the only one in my ​class at Ballard to attempt such a thing before graduation, strengthened my faith in myself and tended to dignify me in my own estimation.
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Foreword

Foreword
The author desires to express gratitude to the many public-spirited men and women who have shared her earnest in the cause sponsored by this book; also to those friends whose knowledge and review of the facts herein recorded have contributed to their chronological correctness.
The author early sought legal counsel regarding the use of the letters from which she has quoted in this book, and others unmentioned by her. She was advised that the copyright of these letters remains with those who wrote them and she has therefore been obliged by law to paraphrase them or quote only partially. The originals of all these letters from President Harding, Mrs. Ralph T. Lewis (Abigail Harding), Mr. Heber Herbert Votaw, Mrs. Heber Herbert Votaw (Carolyn Harding), Tim Slade (as he is called in this book), Hon. James M. Cox, Democratic nominee for President in 1920, Mr. C. E. Witt of the Picture Publicity Bureau of the Republican National Committee during the Harding Campaign, and others, are in the possession of her publishers and may be read by any persons whose request appears justified.
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 12

I did not comply with Mr. Harding's request for a letter of recommendation, not immediately securing it and not wishing to hold up my reply to him. I really felt I might likely be able to secure it and send it to him in advance of his answer to my letter of the 11th.
But May the 15th brought, to my surprise, a reply to my second letter sent the 11th. This letter too was written in longhand and was somewhat longer than the first one. In the corner of the stationery this time were the words, "Senate Chamber."
If the first letter contained what I chose to regard as statements of rather more than conventional import, the second letter only served to confirm my belief.
He wrote that he had every confidence I would succeed—". . . an ambitious young woman of your character and talents must succeed." He spoke of having to break down the civil service bars to secure a place for me, adding, "I must ask it as a very personal favor, with the advantage of your good father having been a loyal supporter of the party in power." However, he immediately assured me that he did not hesitate "to apply the purely personal appeal" and was glad to do it for me. He merely wished to be satisfied on one point—could I take dictation?
​"You write a fine letter, your intelligence is of the high Britton standard. . . . I will have no doubt you will make good from the very start."
It pleased me immensely to read, "I like your spirit and determination. It is like I have always imagined you to be." Like he had always imagined me to be. Then he had thought about me! Even speculated as to what I was like! ". . . I shall rejoice to note your success," he wrote.
"I knew you had gone out to contest with the world and win your way, but I had no detailed knowledge . . ." Why, there was the implication that he had wondered, had perhaps even wanted detailed knowledge and of course hadn't dared to betray his interest! Wonderful that he had thought about me!
He expected to be in New York within the next ten days and, he said, might definitely advise me in advance of his coming, and again he assured me, "It will be a pleasure to look you up."
I liked the last line of his letter. ". . . always know of . . . my very genuine personal interest in your good fortune."
A skylark amid the clouds could not have been happier than I during the intervening days between my receipt of this letter and the arrival of its author. I would often speak sharply to myself when occasionally I touched earth long enough to realize the source of my joy and light-heartedness, "Don't make a perfect fool of yourself, now, Nan. He hasn't said anything which actually means much . . . and naturally he would take a fatherly interest in any girl who might seek help from him . . ." But my spirits would not be downed! I talked to the birds. I arose earlier than usual to stand and gaze out of my window and dream. I examined my face carefully in the mirror. I planned exactly what I should wear. My Chicago benefactor had recently sent me $50 with which I had purchased a new gray tailored suit, and I would wear a dark blue sailor hat, the crown covered with grey veiling.
# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 24

One time Mr. Harding visited Senator Weeks at his place in the White Mountains along with some of the "other fellows," as he called them, and came down to New York on his way to Washington after a season of "chopping wood." I met him at the Grand Central Station and we dined at the Belmont Hotel, downstairs in the grill. He had had a speaking engagement which he had filled enroute to New York, and had spoken in a tent, he said. It had been dark when he made his way in through the rear entrance of the tent and he had fallen over one of the cables supporting the tent and scratched his hand terribly. He used to tell me things like this with a sort of embarrassment, as though he were ashamed of admitting them, and the very manner of telling increased my sympathy a thousandfold.
​I think it was during this particular visit at Senator Weeks' that he had become ill. He had a particularly sensitive stomach, and he had eaten too much lobster. He said they had had lobster for luncheon, and were all gathered together when the chef came in and asked Senator Weeks what it should be for dinner. Mr. Harding spoke up and said laughingly, "Lobster!" and he had been taken seriously and they had dined on lobster that night. And he had overeaten. He said he was so ill and his fears about whether or not he would recover were so great that he almost confessed his relationship with me to someone up there, in order that they might carry out his plans for a suitable settlement upon me. I never liked the idea of even talking about "settlements"; it made things seem so final.
Once I met Mr. Harding in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where he delivered an address at the local armory. I arrived there to find he had already gone on the platform. So I wrote a note and despatched it to him by messenger. He left immediately and came out to meet me in the lobby of the armory, where we stood and talked until it was time for him to go back to the platform. I remember how he instructed me to return immediately to New York after he had finished speaking, because they were taking him to the local Elks' Club and he could not see me anyway. He used to remind me of my father in his solicitude for my getting home safely. But I waited, and after he had had time to reach the Club I phoned him and asked if I couldn't go on over to Washington with him that night. I said I could come back the following day. "Why, dearie, they're stopping a special train for me—a through train—and I couldn't explain having you with me. Now you take the first train back to New York and I'll be over soon, I promise you!" Which I did of course. And he kept his promise.