In comparing the two sisters, it is noticeable that the poems of Alice are more thoughtful and more melodiously expressed. They are also marked with a stronger originality and a more vivid imagination. In disposition, Alice was pensive and tender, while Phoebe was witty and gay. Alice was strong in energy and patience and bore the chief responsibility of their household, allowing her sister, who was less passive and feminine in temperament, to consult her moods in writing. The disparity in the actual intellectual productions of the two sisters in the same number of years is the result, not so much of the mental equality as of the superior energy, industry, and patience of the elder. The considerate love and delicacy with which Alice and Phoebe Cary treated each other plainly indicated that they were one in spirit through life, and in death they were not long separated. Alice died at her home in New York City, February 12, 1871, in her fifty-first year. Phoebe, in sorrow over this bereavement, wrote the touching verses entitled “Light,” and in confidence said to a friend: “Alice, when she was here, always absorbed me, and she absorbs me still. I feel her constantly drawing me.” And so it seemed in reality, for, on the thirty-first day of July, six months after Alice Cary was laid to rest in Greenwood Cemetery, New York, Phoebe died at Newport, Rhode Island, whence her remains were removed and laid by her sister’s side. The two kindred sisters, so long associated on earth, were re-united. The influence they have left behind them, embalmed in their hymns of praiseful worship, their songs of love and of noblest sentiment, and their stories of happy childhood and innocent manhood and womanhood, will long remain to bless the earth and constitute a continual incense to their memory. Besides the published works named above, both Alice and Phoebe left at their death uncollected poems enough to give each name two added volumes. Alice also left the manuscript of a completed novel. * * * * * PICTURES OF MEMORY. (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; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies, That lead from the fragrant hedge, Coqueting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, It seemed to me the best.