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Browsing named entities in a specific section of Laura E. Richards, Maud Howe, Florence Howe Hall, Julia Ward Howe, 1819-1910, in two volumes, with portraits and other illustrations: volume 1. Search the whole document.

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d. What is so wonderful and funny? Oh, my dear, she said, breaking again into laughter, it is nothing It is the most ridiculous thing! I was only trying to translate fiddle-de-dee into Greek! This was in her ninety-second year. But we are still at the breakfast table. Sometimes there were guests at breakfast, a famous actor, a travelling scholar, caught between other engagements for this one leisure hour. It was a good deal, perhaps, to ask people to leave a warm hotel on a January morning; but it was warm enough by the soft-coal blaze of the diningroom fire. Over the coffee and rolls, sausages and buckwheat cakes, leisure reigned supreme; not the poet's retired leisure, but a friendly and laughterloving deity. Everybody was full of engagements, harried with work, pursued by business and pleasure: no matter the talk ranged high and far, and the morning was half gone before they separated. Soon after breakfast came the game of ball, played a deux with daughter or
) She enjoyed all this hugely, but the fatigue was followed by distress so great that the next morning she thought she should die with her door locked. (She would lock her door: no prayers of ours availed against this. In Boston, an elaborate arrangement of keys made it possible for her room to be entered; at Oak Glen there was but the one stout door. On this occasion, after lying helpless and despairing for some time, she managed to unlock the door and call the faithful maid.) On June 30 she writes:-- Oh, beautiful last day of Junel Perhaps my last June on earth.... I shall be thankful to live as long as I can be of comfort or help to any one ... July 12.... Sherman to Corse [Civil War], Can you hold out till I arrive? Corse to Sherman, I have lost an arm, my cheekbone, and am minus one ear, but I can lick all hell yet. July 30. Have felt so much energy to-day that thought I must begin upon my old philosophizing essays.... Could find only Duality of Character. Wh
October 17th (search for this): chapter 32
er, and she would rest quietly with her hand in his strong hand. On Sunday evening the younger physician thought her convalescent; the elder said, If she pulls through the next twenty-four hours, she will recover. But she was too weary. That night they heard her say, God will help mel and again, toward morning, I am so tired! Being alone for a moment with Maud, she spoke one word: a little word that had meant good-bye between them in the nursery days. So, in the morning of Monday, October 17, her spirit passed quietly on to God's keeping. Those who were present at her funeral will not forget it. The flower-decked church, the mourning multitude, the white coffin borne high on the shoulders of eight stalwart grandsons, the words of age-long wisdom and beauty gathered into a parting tribute, the bugle sounding Taps, as she passed out in her last earthly triumph, the blind children singing round the grave on which the autumn sun shone with a final golden greeting. We hav
April 6th, 1841 AD (search for this): chapter 32
indignation, my own mistakes, and desiring to help young people to avoid similar ones. The ninetieth birthday was a festival, indeed. Letters and telegrams poured in, rose in toppling piles which almost — not quite — daunted her; she would hear every one, would answer as many as flesh and blood could compass. Here is one of them:-- Most hearty congratulations on your ninetieth birthday from the boy you picked up somewhere in New York and placed in the New York Orphan Asylum on April 6th, 1841. Sorry I have never been able to meet you in all that time. You [were] one of the Board of Trustees at that time. Respectfully and Thankfully, Wm. Davidson. I was then about five years old, now seventy-three. Writing to her friend of many years, Mrs. Ellen Mitchell, she says:-- Your birthday letter was and is much valued by me. Its tone of earnest affection is an element in the new inspiration recently given me by such a wonderful testimony of public and private estee
October 1st, 1909 AD (search for this): chapter 32
sult H. Richards about some of these particulars. He is a man of some sense. You are, bless you, not much wiser than your affectionate Ma. Returned to Oak Glen, after the celebration, she writes:-- To her son and his wife Oak Glen, October 1, 1909. .. I found my trees still green, and everything comfortable. I did not dare to write to any one yesterday, my head was so full of nonsense. Reaction from brain-fatigue takes this shape with me, and everything goes higgle-wiggledy, hi-cfor kindest entertainment, and best of love, Your very affectionate Mother and Ditto-in-law. To George H. Richards Her man of business and faithful friend. Though of her children's generation, she had adopted him as an uncle. Oak Glen, October 1, 1909. Dear Uncle George,-- I got through all right, in spite of prospective views, of fainting fits, apoplexy, what not? Trouble is now that I cannot keep calling up some thousands of people, and saying: Admire me, do. I wrote it all my li
f personal feeling and interest infusing an insensible antagonism into our relations with each other. Now, I said, the comparison being removed, we no longer stand cornerwise to each other, but so that we can fit into line, and stand and act in concert. . . . Newport. I begin to feel something of the labor and sorrow of living so long. I don't even enjoy my books as I used to. My efforts to find a fit word for the Biennial [of the General Federation of Women's Clubs, to meet in Boston, June 22 and 23] are not successful ... . She soon revived under her green trees, and enjoyed her books as much as ever: got hold of her screed, wrote it, went up to Boston to deliver it, came back to meet an excursion party of Biennial ladies visiting Newport. (N. B. She was late for the reception, and her neighbor, Bradford Norman, drove her into Newport in his automobile at a terrific clip. On alighting, Braddie, she said, if I were ten years younger, I would set up one of these hell-wagons
l feeling and interest infusing an insensible antagonism into our relations with each other. Now, I said, the comparison being removed, we no longer stand cornerwise to each other, but so that we can fit into line, and stand and act in concert. . . . Newport. I begin to feel something of the labor and sorrow of living so long. I don't even enjoy my books as I used to. My efforts to find a fit word for the Biennial [of the General Federation of Women's Clubs, to meet in Boston, June 22 and 23] are not successful ... . She soon revived under her green trees, and enjoyed her books as much as ever: got hold of her screed, wrote it, went up to Boston to deliver it, came back to meet an excursion party of Biennial ladies visiting Newport. (N. B. She was late for the reception, and her neighbor, Bradford Norman, drove her into Newport in his automobile at a terrific clip. On alighting, Braddie, she said, if I were ten years younger, I would set up one of these hell-wagons myself! )
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