However, more than for anything else, perhaps, Phoebe Cary will be remembered for her lyric, _One Sweetly Solemn Thought_. Not long before she died she heard a story of something which this little poem had accomplished, which made her very happy. A gentleman going to China was entrusted with a package for an American boy in China. Arriving at his destination, he failed to find the boy, but was told that he might discover him in a certain gambling house. As he sat and waited, he watched with disgust and loathing the dreadful scenes going on about him. At a table near him sat a young boy and a man of perhaps forty, drinking and playing cards; they were swearing horribly and using the vilest language. At length, while the older man shuffled and dealt the cards, the boy leaned back in his chair and half unconsciously began to hum, finally singing under his breath Phoebe Cary's hymn, _One Sweetly Solemn Thought_. "Where did you learn that hymn?" cried the older gambler abruptly. "At Sunday School at home," replied the boy, surprised. The older man threw the cards on the floor. "Come, Harry," he said, "let's get out of this place. I am ashamed that I ever brought you here, and I shall do my best to keep you from entering such a place again." Together the two passed from the gambling house, and the man who watched them learned later that they were both true to their resolution to live a different life. NEARER HOME _By_ PHOEBE CARY One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home to-day Than I ever have been before; Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea; Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown! But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the silent, unknown stream, That leads at last to the light. Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm: Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism. Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think, Father, perfect my trust; Let my spirit feel in death That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith! PICTURES OF MEMORY _By_ ALICE CARY Among the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Nor for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; [Illustration: IN THAT DIM OLD FOREST] Nor for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best.