“The bier, the bell, the grave, silence, and night; And you are laid in that cold ground, and gone. I hardly missed my love till now;--O light Of my worn, weary life, dark, dark, alone, Blindly I feel your empty pillowed place; O sacred head, luxuriant hair, and arm Through the dim hours linked in some dear embrace, Lips pressed to mine, and bosom beating warm, Breath, than the evening breath of heaven more sweet, Words faltering, passion-mixed, or sighed with prayer, Shy, soft caresses of the hand, to greet Or tell some passing need, or gentle care-- O love, all these have been; ah, woe is me, For you are gone, and these no more shall be. A MEMORY “I think the gentle soul of him Goes softly in some garden place, With the old smile time may not dim Upon his face. “He was a lover of the spring, With love that never quite forgets, Surely sees roses blooming And violets. “Now that his day of toil is through, I love to think he sits at ease, With some old volume that he knows Upon his knees. “Watching, perhaps, with quiet eyes The white clouds’ drifting argosy; Or twilight opening flower-wise On land and sea. “He who so loved companionship I may not think walks quite alone, Failing some friendly hand to slip Within his own. “Those whom he loved aforetime, still, I doubt not, bear him company; I think that laughter yet may thrill Where he may be. “A thought, a fancy--who may tell? Yet I who ever pray it so Feel through my tears that all is well And this I know. “That God is gentle to His guest, And, therefore, may I gladly say, Feel through my tears ’tis for the best, On this sad day.” WILL OF MARGARET HAUGHERY The first monument erected to a woman in this country was that to the memory of Margaret Haughery. The monument stands in Margaret Place, not far from Canal Street in the City of New Orleans. The figure is that of a woman sitting in a rustic chair, dressed in a plain skirt and loose sack, with a simple shawl thrown over her shoulders, her arm encircling a child. Prior to her death and by her last will she gave to charitable institutions of the city of New Orleans about six hundred thousand dollars. She died in 1882. Her parents were Irish immigrants, who died of yellow fever. When quite young she married an Irishman of her own rank, who also died shortly after the marriage, and a year thereafter she lost her only child. The childless widow became a laundress in the St. Charles Hotel, and afterward entered into the bakery business, in which she was eminently successful. Her whole life was devoted to charities, Catholic, Protestant, and Hebrew alike. She never learned to read or write, and could not distinguish one figure from another. Her will is signed with a mark.