The herald., 1898-06-12
BOOKS AND THEIR MAKERS
(Hditsd by Enoch Knight,

e0oltoo py Enocn kn1gnt.)
Kindness First Known In . Hospita
Hhs place seemed new and strange a
death.
The white strait bed, with others strait an,
white.
like graves dug side by side at measure,
lengths,
: And quiet people walking in and out
With wonderful low voices and soft steps
And apparitional equal care for each.
,Astonlshed her with order, silence, law:
And when a gentle hand held out a cup,
She took 1t as you do at sacrament.
Half awed. half melted-not being used
indeed.
To so much love as makes the form of love
And courtesy Of manners. Delicate drink:
And rare white bread. to which some dying
eyes
Were turned In observation. o my God,
How sick we must be ere we make men just
! think It frets the saints in heaven to see
How many desolate creatures on the earth
Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship
And social comfort, in hospital.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
In the Hospital
How the wind yells on the gulf and prairie!
How 1t rattles in the windows wide!
And the rats squeak like our old ships rig
ging-
shall die with the turn Of the tide.
Tve had a rough life on the ocean.
And a tough life on the land;
Now I'm like broken hulk in the dock
yard
can't str foot nor hand.
There are green trees in the Salem grave
yard.
BY the meeting house steps they grow;
And there they put my poor old mother,
The third in the leeward row.
There's the low red house on the corner,
With slant roof and a well-sweep be-
hind.
And yellow-headed fennel in the garden
How see It when go blind!
wish I had mug Of cold water
From the bottom of that old curb we'll.
7 wish nv mothers face was here along
side,
While 1 hear that tolling belll
There's a good crop of corn in the meadow,
And the biggest boy amt there to hoe;
THEY'LL get in the apples and the pump
kns,
But rye done my last chores below.
Don't YOU hear the norther risin'. doctor?
How 1t yells and hollers, far and wide!
tat hot a
yard
Hold on! I'm a-goin' with the tide.
ROSE TERRY COOKE.
A new writer of verse is Miss Anne
Throop of Cambridge, Mass. Her work is
said to have the indefinable form and quail
ity of Emily Dickinson's. We quote the
following as a sample:
The Gates of Night
wind-blown downthe paths of Nature.
Hand in hand;
God, let 1t happen!
Light of the moon, and blue mist simmer
ing on the darkened trees,
Still and invisible swing the gates of night.
What moment we pass in we know not till
we find
oTedtuS VI HcW ScCIctS DlOWH III tudt liz W
land.
O O o
It Is said of the late James Macdonnell
by his biographer, Mr.. Robertson Nicoll,
that ''at very early age he saw that his
function In life was to act on the higher ma
ture of man through the press, and he full
filled 1t with eminent power" Could there
be a truer or nobler definition of journal
lists function? And what gain there would
be If more journalists realized their function.
The Literary World says this of former
San Francisco fun-maker
1 hear that Mr.. Gelett Burgess, who has
been living in New York for the past year,
is shortly to make his home in London, add
ing one more to the already large number of
American writers who are now living there.
Mr.. Burgess whimsical humor is very diff
ferent from our notion of British humor;
and it will be interesting to see how he
impresses the British reader. There is no
doubt that he has great talent, and is sure
TO be widely appreciated in time wherever
he may live. In England he will probably
find plenty Of material for his keen satire.
o o o