Newark N.Y.
July 15. 1884.My dear Gertrude.
It seems months since we bade each other good-night, on that sabbath evening, only two weeks ago. It was too bad that we missed the good-bye in the morning. I ought to have run up to your room before I went down stairs, and nothing but Mr. Osburn's scowls and scolding prevented my going back, when I found you were not there. But I saw you in the window; yours was the last face in the old Sem.
We had a pleasant trip to N.Y. Edith Derby accompanying us from Springfield. At N.Y. my aunt from Poughkeepsie met us, also Marie Switzer, who was visiting at Washington Heights. My aunt had some shopping to do, and telling me that she would meet me at the steamer "Mary Powell" at half-past three, left us to the tender mercies of Marie. We sepnt three delightful hours together, visiting Brooklyn Bridge and seeing the sights of the city. Then I bade good-bye to dear old Jo, - what was left of her, for she was fast dissolving in tears - and Marie went with me to the street-car which took me to the river.
O, that ride up the river! I should never attempt to describe it. The light and shade in the mountains; the Palisades; new vistas of beauty and delight opening to view at each turn of the river. It was grand! a sight that I shall never forget.
I staid in Poughkeepsie over night and started for home at ten o'clock on Tuesday morning, arriving at Newark that evening. It seems so good to be at home again. I am very happy and contented, but I miss you girls and long to see you. I didn't realize how much you were to me until I had to live without you.
May I give you some words of Mary Clemmer, that I wanted to say to you on that "last" day, but did not have the opportunity?
"Oh, what shall I do, dear,
In the coming years, I wonder,
When our paths which lie so sweetly near,
Shall lie so far asunder?
Oh, what shall I do, dear,
Through all the sad tomorrows,
When the sunny smile has ceased to cheer
That smiels away my sorrows?
What shall I do, my friend,
When you are gone forever?
My heart its eager need will send
Through the years to find you never.
And how will it be with you,
In the weary world, I wonder,
Will you love me with a love as true,
When our paths lie far asunder?
A sweeter, sadder thing
My life, for having known you,
Forever with my sacred kiss,
My soul's soul I must own you.
Forever mine, my friend,
From June to life's December;
Not mine to have and hold,
But to pray for and remember.
The way is short, O friend,
That reaches out before us;
God's tender heavens above us bend,
His love is smiling o'er us;For sorrow or for laughter;
I'll lay the hand you love in yours.
In the shore of the Hereafter."Your dear letter cheered me and made me glad. How are you feeling now? Tell me truly, dear.
I am so sorry you have to entertain company this summer when you should do nothing but rest. I wish you would tell me when you write just how you are. I feel anxious about you, when I don't hear. My darling, I wish I could have you with me always.
I should like so much to read "Adam Bede" with you. Probably I cannot commence it until week after next, for I expect to spend next week in Sodus, with Kittie Clark. Papa and mamma want me to go away for a little while, although I am nicely rested now. I feel like a new creature after these weeks of rest and freedom from study. But the young people here expect me to be lively and make myself agreeable - so I have had to learn Lawn-tennis and roller-skating, besides attending parties &c.
I found when I reached home, that there was a vacancy in the Academy here, and as I want to stay at home very much, for one winter, I applied for it. I am to have a pleasant room, scholars from ten to twelve years old. So far a year, you will know where to find me. I haven't a copy of the class-poem. I am sorry.
I have a beautiful thing in "Ripe Wheat" written by a Newark lady some years ago.
"We bent today o'er a coffined form,
And our tears fell softly down;
We look our last in the aged face,
With its look of peace, its patient grace,
And hair like a silver coin.
We touched our own to the clay-cold hand
From life's long labor at rest;
And among the blossoms white & sweet,
We noted a bunch of golden wheat,
Clasped close to the silent breast.
The blossoms whispered of fadeless bloom,
Of a land where fall no tears;
The ripe wheat told of toil & care,
The patient waiting, the trusting prayer,
The garnered good of years.
We know not what work her hands had found,
What rugged place her feet;
What cross was hers, what blackness of night,
We saw but th pteace, the blossoms white,
And the bunch of ripened wheat.
As each goes up from the fields of earth,
Bearing the treasures of life,
God looks for some garnered grain of good,
From the ripe harvest that shining stood,
But waiting the reaper's knife.
Then labor well, that in death you go,
Not only with blossoms sweet, -
Not bent with doubts & burdened with fears,
And dead, dry husks of the wasted years,-
But laden with golden wheat."But, my dear girl, it is too bad to impose so upon you the first time. I didn't intend to write so long a letter - but what if I should tell you that I haven't said all I want to you? Your benediction has followed me, through these last days, since I received your letter. It has helped me and stayed with me.
I bless you today and every day, my friend.
Lovingly,
Carrie.