In June, 1884, Mrs. Jackson met with a painful accident, receiving a bad fracture of her leg. She was taken to California while convalescing and there contracted malaria, and at the same time developed cancer. The complication of her ailments resulted in death, which occurred August 12, 1885. Her remains were carried back to Colorado, and, in accordance with her expressed wish, buried on the peak looking down into the Cheyenne Canyon. The spot was dear to her. The cabin below had been built for her as a quiet retreat, where, when she so desired, she could retire with one or two friends, and write undisturbed, alone with the primeval forest and the voices which whispered through nature, and the pure, cool mountain-air. * * * * * CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SAINT PETER’S. LOW on the marble floor I lie: I am alone: Though friendly voices whisper nigh, And foreign crowds are passing by, I am alone. Great hymns float through The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow Refrain, “Forgive them, for they know Not what they do!” With tender joy all others thrill; I have but tears: The false priest’s voices, high and shrill, Reiterate the “Peace, good will;” I have but tears. I hear anew The nails and scourge; then come the low Sad words, “Forgive them, for they know Not what they do!” Close by my side the poor souls kneel; I turn away; Half-pitying looks at me they steal; They think, because I do not feel, I turn away; Ah! if they knew, How following them, where’er they go, I hear, “Forgive them, for they know Not what they do!” Above the organ’s sweetest strains I hear the groans Of prisoners, who lie in chains, So near and in such mortal pains, I hear the groans. But Christ walks through The dungeon of St. Angelo, And says, “Forgive them, for they know Not what they do!” And now the music sinks to sighs; The lights grow dim: The Pastorella’s melodies In lingering echoes float and rise; The lights grow dim; More clear and true, In this sweet silence, seem to flow The words, “Forgive them, for they know Not what they do!” The dawn swings incense, silver gray; The night is past; Now comes, triumphant, God’s full day; No priest, no church can bar its way: The night is past: How on this blue Of God’s great banner, blaze and glow The words, “Forgive them, for they know Not what they do!” * * * * * CHOICE OF COLORS.