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[p. 59] giving credit to Carrie Smith, as Whittier did not wish to claim the originality of the idea.

A book of the poem, with the flowers printed in outline, was published for the use of classes in painting. It was one of a series compiled by Marion Kemble, and printed by S. W. Tilton & Co. of Boston, making a very artistic and attractive volume.

Miss Smith's poems also appeared in the Portland Transcript, Somerville Citizen, and other papers of note. These attracted much attention and gained her many friends and admirers, and many felt a great loss when Carrie Smith died in 1889. Nevertheless she is not forgotten, especially when each spring ‘Jack’ preaches again in our midst.

Among the poems written, one is quite appropriate here, as it seems a fitting requiem to ‘Jack’ as he steps out of ‘his pulpit.’

Autumn's children.

The little gypsy wild-flowers, that so fearlessly were seen
Uplifting brilliant banners from their grassy tents and green,
Have perished in their loveliness, 'neath the destroying blast,
As the first born of Egypt when Death's chilling angel passed.
Autumn is mourning—mourning for her beauteous children dead;
With wailing, sobbing voice of grief laments her darlings fled.
Stained crimson by the tears of blood her smitten heart hath shed,
All slowly fell the maple-leaves upon their humble bed;
And where, in constellations bright, star-flowers upraised their eyes
Unto their sister-stars that smiled upon them from the skies,
Autumn hath wreathed a blue mist-veil above her joys that died,
To sadly hide their sepulchre — the barren, bleak hillside.

Twining white, waxen bells around their hair—a numerous band,
No longer in the meadow-grass the lady's tresses stand;
And at her mirror-brook no more, like a bright, brilliant queen,
Gazing at her rich, crimson robe, the cardinal flower is seen.
The golden-rod no longer flings its yellow plumes on high;
From the clover's nodding globe no more is fragrance wafted by;
No more the lady's-slippers call unto their neighbor-flowers;
‘Come, buy these shoes the fairies made—these golden shoes of ours!’

No longer, armed with sharpest thorns, the royal thistle stands,
As if to say: ‘Who dares touch me with rude and careless hands?’

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