EISTEDFODD

Each bard of Wales, who roams the kingdom o'er

Each year salutes his chief with stanzas four;

Behold us here, each bearing verse in hand

To greet the four-leaved clover of our band.

Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

FIVE O'CLOCK WITH THE IMMORTALS

The Sisters Three who spin our fate

Greet Julia Ward, who comes quite late;

How Greek wit flies! They scream with glee,

Drop thread and shears, and make the tea.

E. H. Clement.

If man could change the universe

By force of epigrams in verse,

He'd smash some idols, I allow,

But who would alter Mrs. Howe?

Robert Grant.

Dot oldt Fader Time must be cutting some dricks,

Vhen he calls our goot Bresident's age eighty-six.

An octogeranium! Who would suppose?

My dear Mrs. Julia Ward Howe der time goes!

Yawcob Strauss (Charles Follen Adams).

You, who are of the spring,

To whom Youth's joys must cling.

May all that Love can give

Beguile you long to live—

Our Queen of Hearts.

Louise Chandler Moulton.

MRS. HOWE'S REPLY

Why, bless you, I ain't nothing, nor nobody, nor much,

If you look in your Directory, you'll find a thousand such;

I walk upon the level ground, I breathe upon the air,

I study at a table, and reflect upon a chair.

I know a casual mixture of the Latin and the Greek,

I know the Frenchman's parlez-vous, and how the Germans speak;

Well can I add, and well subtract, and say twice two is four,

But of those direful sums and proofs remember nothing more.

I wrote a pretty book one time, and then I wrote a play,

And a friend who went to see it said she fainted right away.

Then I got up high to speculate upon the Universe,

And folks who heard me found themselves no better and no worse.

Yes, I've had a lot of birthdays and I'm growing very old,

That's why they make so much of me, if once the truth were told.

And I love the shade in summer, and in winter love the sun,

And I'm just learning how to live, my wisdom's just begun.

Don't trouble more to celebrate this natal day of mine,

But keep the grasp of fellowship which warms us more than wine.

Let us thank the lavish hand that gives world beauty to our eyes,

And bless the days that saw us young, and years that make us wise.

"May 27. My eighty-sixth birthday. I slept rather late, yesterday having been eminently a 'boot-and-saddle' day.... The Greeks, mostly working-people, sent me a superb leash of roses with a satin ribbon bearing a Greek inscription. My visitors were numerous, many of them the best friends that time has left me. T. W. H. was very dear. My dear ones of the household bestirred themselves to send flowers, according to my wishes, to the Children's Hospital and to Charles Street Jail."

"May 28.... A great box of my birthday flowers ornamented the pulpit of the church. They were to be distributed afterwards to the Sunday-School children, some to the Primary Teachers' Association; a bunch of lilies of the valley to Reverend Hayward's funeral to-morrow. I suddenly bethought me of Padre Roberto, and with dear Laura's help sent him a box of flowers for his afternoon service, with a few lines of explanation, to which I added the motto: 'Unus deus, una fides, unum baptisma.' This filled full the cup of my satisfaction regarding the disposal of the flowers. They seemed to me such sacred gifts that I could not bear merely to enjoy them and see them fade. Now they will not fade for me."

Among the many "screeds" written this season was one on "The Value of Simplicity," which gave her much trouble. She takes it to pieces and rewrites it, and afterwards is "much depressed; no color in anything." From Gardiner she "writes to Sanborn" for the Horatian lines she wishes to quote. ("Whenever," she said once to Colonel Higginson, "I want to find out about anything difficult, I always write to Sanborn!" "Of course!" replied Higginson. "We all do!" At this writing the same course is pursued, there is reason to believe, by many persons in many countries.)

It is remembered that in these days when she was leaving Gardiner at the last moment she handed Laura a note. It read, "Be sure to rub the knee thoroughly night and morning!"

"Why," she was asked, "did I not have this a week ago?"

"I hate to be rubbed!" she said.

"July 1. Oak Glen.... Found a typed copy of my 'Rest' sermon, delivered in our own church, twelve years ago. Surely preaching has been my greatest privilege and in it I have done some of my best work."

"July 2. Unusually depressed at waking. Feared that I might be visited by 'senile melancholia' against which I shall pray with all my might.... Began Plato's 'Laws.'"

Plato seems to have acted as a tonic, for on the same day she writes to her daughter-in-law, expressing her joy in "Harry's" latest honor, the degree of Doctor of Laws conferred by Harvard College:—

To Mrs. Henry Marion Howe

Oak Glen, July 2, 1905.

Thanks very much for your good letter, giving me such a gratifying account of the doings at Harvard on Commencement Day. I feel quite moved at the thought of my dear son's receiving this well-merited honor from his alma mater. It shows, among other things, how amply he has retrieved his days of boyish mischief. This is just what his dear father did. I think you must both have had a delightful time. How did our H. M. H. look sitting up in such grave company? I hope he has not lost his old twinkle. I am very proud and glad....

She was indeed proud of all her son's honors; of any success of child or grandchild; yet she would pretend to furious jealousy. "I see your book is praised, Sir!" (or, "Madam!") "It probably does not deserve it. H'm! nobody praises my books!" etc., etc. And all the time her face so shining with pleasure and tenderness under the sternly bended brows that the happy child needed no other praise from any one.