To Lydia -- The Writer of Charming Letters
by Flora Ethel Myers Washer to her sister Lydia Belvedere
Finest of paper be given thee,
Who writes such beautiful letters to me!
A fairy's hand and a poet's touch
Not too little, and not too much;
Visions of beauty from other lands;
The depth of a heart that understands;
Tenderest love for all is shown;
The spirit that reaches to God's throne;
These are thine, and the will to give
To other hearts, and make them live
In the glow and magic of Fancy's power,
That brightens life through a happy hour.
Then take this box of paper white --
Silvery-edged, a thing of delight,
With ink, and pen and a quiet time,
Write me a letter to answer this rhyme.
by Flora Ethel Myers Washer to her sister Lydia Belvedere
Finest of paper be given thee,
Who writes such beautiful letters to me!
A fairy's hand and a poet's touch
Not too little, and not too much;
Visions of beauty from other lands;
The depth of a heart that understands;
Tenderest love for all is shown;
The spirit that reaches to God's throne;
These are thine, and the will to give
To other hearts, and make them live
In the glow and magic of Fancy's power,
That brightens life through a happy hour.
Then take this box of paper white --
Silvery-edged, a thing of delight,
With ink, and pen and a quiet time,
Write me a letter to answer this rhyme.
To Flora Ethel
by Lydia Belvedere Myers Wilder
Poems to her sister Flora Ethel
Poem one:
You have lit the night with many a song,
You have shortened the way when it seemed so long,
You have solved some problems too hard for me,
You have been as true as a friend can be.
You have helped me to know when Spring came back,
Its infinite wonder and sweet surprise.
You have helped in winters of storm and rack
To find gold stars in the still blue skies.
You have given me strength when the fight seemed hard,
You have given me joy when the way seemed dark.
You have healed me of many a wound and shard
You have been my Ararak and my ark.
You have brought me visions of beautiful things
And brightened my heart with fuller hope;
You have helped me to open and lift my wings,
You have helped me to rise when I thought to grope.
And you've never asked anything, nothing at all,
Quiet, contented -- my comrade so dear.
And I sing you this song with my whole heart's thrall.
Poem two:
What matter if the sun be lost?"
What matter though the skies be gray?
There's joy enough about the House,
For Flora E. comes here today.
There's news of Swallows in the air
There's word of April on the way.
They're calling flowers within the street,
And Flora E. comes here Today.
O who would care what Fate may bring,
Or what the years may take away!
There's Life enough within the Hour,
For Flora E. comes here Today!
by Lydia Belvedere Myers Wilder
Poems to her sister Flora Ethel
Poem one:
You have lit the night with many a song,
You have shortened the way when it seemed so long,
You have solved some problems too hard for me,
You have been as true as a friend can be.
You have helped me to know when Spring came back,
Its infinite wonder and sweet surprise.
You have helped in winters of storm and rack
To find gold stars in the still blue skies.
You have given me strength when the fight seemed hard,
You have given me joy when the way seemed dark.
You have healed me of many a wound and shard
You have been my Ararak and my ark.
You have brought me visions of beautiful things
And brightened my heart with fuller hope;
You have helped me to open and lift my wings,
You have helped me to rise when I thought to grope.
And you've never asked anything, nothing at all,
Quiet, contented -- my comrade so dear.
And I sing you this song with my whole heart's thrall.
Poem two:
What matter if the sun be lost?"
What matter though the skies be gray?
There's joy enough about the House,
For Flora E. comes here today.
There's news of Swallows in the air
There's word of April on the way.
They're calling flowers within the street,
And Flora E. comes here Today.
O who would care what Fate may bring,
Or what the years may take away!
There's Life enough within the Hour,
For Flora E. comes here Today!
A Sierra Colloquy
By Flora A. Bedford Myers, Pine Ridge, California, October 1893
Gigantia Sequoia! You grand majestic tree,
Come bow yourself a moment, a secret tell to me.
For many miles I’ve traveled this secret wish to know
Have dwelt in land of flowers and regions white with snow.
For wisdom deep I’m seeking, for knowledge broad and grand.
And now at last I’m standing on Sierras golden land.
And find that here is living a giant old and wise
Whose feet are planted firm in earth, whose branches reach the skies.
Thou dwell’st alone with nature, the grizzly and the deer
The tall crests towering snow-capped, their heads above thee rear
So near thou seemest to the heart of God the knowledge which I crave
Must lie in they possession, an answer I would have
How long since first thou stood here, a young and slender child,
And where are now the red men that served these forests wild,
Was the primeval forest with such grace and grandeur blest
When thou wert but an infant asleep upon earth’s breast
When were the grand Sierra first peopled by thy race?
When fir, and spruce, and redwood, and stately pines found place?
What caused the great upheaval when these mighty hills were born,
When rocks from land and water were by giant forces torn?
Is there not wealth now hidden within Sierra’s breast,
Enough to pave our nation from furthest east to west?
I listened in deep silence, that I might the answer hear,
A voice came in soft whispers, “Oh nature’s child draw near”;
Lift up your eyes toward heaven my bulk and stature see,
I stand, a silent emblem of God’s power and majesty
He placed me here long centuries before the white man bold
Had thought to shake these mountains in his eagerness for gold.
Long have I stood submissive, my makers will to do;
And fill the place by him assigned, just what he asks of you
The red man was my brother, the wild buck and the bear
Have played beneath my branches, devoid of fear or care.
But our primeval forest can be never more the same
For fear rests on our kindred now since the white man came
The ax, the saw, the auger, have laid my brothers low,
And only is there refuge amid the chilling snow.
Fierce fires have swept our forests and left us black and grim;
A few years hence we’ll be unknown to all except to Him
Who notes the sparrow’s falling, from none his love withholds,
For the last sheep of the mountains, He to His busom folds.
The white mans greed for gold-dust (which lies within the heart
Of these old grand Sierra’s) will force us to depart
For mine, and mill, and factory, and ax, and saw, and plane
Will take us from our dwelling place, ne’re to return again.
Then came a gentle murmur from this giant child of time.
As I stood in awe and rapture mid this solitude sublime,
And in thoughts there came the answer, “Go to our maker, go
Go ask of the Almighty, wouldst thou this secret know;”
Go ask of the Aurora, “Why shinest thou at night
And with such glorious radiance, earths frigid regions light?”
Go ask the sun in splendor, “Why shinest thou below
On sinful mortals pathway made rank with want and woe?”
Go ask the roaring ocean, the cause of ebb and flow?
Go ask the little rivulets why dance they as they go?
Then came the final answer from all things one by one.
We all must fill our place assigned that God’s will may be done.
By Flora A. Bedford Myers, Pine Ridge, California, October 1893
Gigantia Sequoia! You grand majestic tree,
Come bow yourself a moment, a secret tell to me.
For many miles I’ve traveled this secret wish to know
Have dwelt in land of flowers and regions white with snow.
For wisdom deep I’m seeking, for knowledge broad and grand.
And now at last I’m standing on Sierras golden land.
And find that here is living a giant old and wise
Whose feet are planted firm in earth, whose branches reach the skies.
Thou dwell’st alone with nature, the grizzly and the deer
The tall crests towering snow-capped, their heads above thee rear
So near thou seemest to the heart of God the knowledge which I crave
Must lie in they possession, an answer I would have
How long since first thou stood here, a young and slender child,
And where are now the red men that served these forests wild,
Was the primeval forest with such grace and grandeur blest
When thou wert but an infant asleep upon earth’s breast
When were the grand Sierra first peopled by thy race?
When fir, and spruce, and redwood, and stately pines found place?
What caused the great upheaval when these mighty hills were born,
When rocks from land and water were by giant forces torn?
Is there not wealth now hidden within Sierra’s breast,
Enough to pave our nation from furthest east to west?
I listened in deep silence, that I might the answer hear,
A voice came in soft whispers, “Oh nature’s child draw near”;
Lift up your eyes toward heaven my bulk and stature see,
I stand, a silent emblem of God’s power and majesty
He placed me here long centuries before the white man bold
Had thought to shake these mountains in his eagerness for gold.
Long have I stood submissive, my makers will to do;
And fill the place by him assigned, just what he asks of you
The red man was my brother, the wild buck and the bear
Have played beneath my branches, devoid of fear or care.
But our primeval forest can be never more the same
For fear rests on our kindred now since the white man came
The ax, the saw, the auger, have laid my brothers low,
And only is there refuge amid the chilling snow.
Fierce fires have swept our forests and left us black and grim;
A few years hence we’ll be unknown to all except to Him
Who notes the sparrow’s falling, from none his love withholds,
For the last sheep of the mountains, He to His busom folds.
The white mans greed for gold-dust (which lies within the heart
Of these old grand Sierra’s) will force us to depart
For mine, and mill, and factory, and ax, and saw, and plane
Will take us from our dwelling place, ne’re to return again.
Then came a gentle murmur from this giant child of time.
As I stood in awe and rapture mid this solitude sublime,
And in thoughts there came the answer, “Go to our maker, go
Go ask of the Almighty, wouldst thou this secret know;”
Go ask of the Aurora, “Why shinest thou at night
And with such glorious radiance, earths frigid regions light?”
Go ask the sun in splendor, “Why shinest thou below
On sinful mortals pathway made rank with want and woe?”
Go ask the roaring ocean, the cause of ebb and flow?
Go ask the little rivulets why dance they as they go?
Then came the final answer from all things one by one.
We all must fill our place assigned that God’s will may be done.
A Living Memory
by Susie Patience Bedford Myers
(about the youthful death of one of her daughters, either Patience or Mildred)
My absent Daughter – gentle, gentle maid
Your life doth never fade.
O! everywhere I see your blue eyes shine.
And I feel the pressure of your small warm hand
That slipped at dawn, almost without a sign,
So softly out of mine.
The birds all sing of you, my darling one.
Your day was just begun.
But you had learned to love all things that grew.
And when I linger by the streamlets side,
Where weed and bush to you were glorified,
The violet looks up as if it knew
And talks to me of you.
My gentle Daughter! With us you have stayed.
Your life doth never fade!
O! ever more I see your blue eyes shine.
by Susie Patience Bedford Myers
(about the youthful death of one of her daughters, either Patience or Mildred)
My absent Daughter – gentle, gentle maid
Your life doth never fade.
O! everywhere I see your blue eyes shine.
And I feel the pressure of your small warm hand
That slipped at dawn, almost without a sign,
So softly out of mine.
The birds all sing of you, my darling one.
Your day was just begun.
But you had learned to love all things that grew.
And when I linger by the streamlets side,
Where weed and bush to you were glorified,
The violet looks up as if it knew
And talks to me of you.
My gentle Daughter! With us you have stayed.
Your life doth never fade!
O! ever more I see your blue eyes shine.
Apple Blossoms (Poem)
"Violet in Uncle Judah's Orchard" (Oil Painting)
both by Violet Beck
Zephyrs are blowing
Pink petals in the air.
Meadow larks are piping,
"Spring is very fair."
Mocking-birds are nesting
Along the poplar lane.
Insects and bees buzz
In the flowering grain.
A young girl comes walking
Beneath the apple trees
Her dress is like the blossoms --
She carries sprigs of these.
"Violet in Uncle Judah's Orchard" (Oil Painting)
both by Violet Beck
Zephyrs are blowing
Pink petals in the air.
Meadow larks are piping,
"Spring is very fair."
Mocking-birds are nesting
Along the poplar lane.
Insects and bees buzz
In the flowering grain.
A young girl comes walking
Beneath the apple trees
Her dress is like the blossoms --
She carries sprigs of these.
A Favorite Pastime
--an excerpt from Doris Harlan's Memoirs
What a wonderful gift I received when I learned to read. I read everything on which I could lay my hands, not always good reading material, either. I recall Mom went through a phase of reading True Story and True Romance magazines. When she wasn’t around I read those but didn’t know much about what I was reading.
Grandma and Grandpa had quite a library in the Santa Cruz house. Two large, built-in bookcases separated the living and dining rooms. Those on the right were correct for anyone to read. Those on the left were not to be read by children. That was too much! Sometimes when we were all going to walk down to the boardwalk and beach, I would beg off with some vague excuse. As soon as I was alone, I was in that forbidden bookcase, reading as fast as I could. I was so disappointed as I never found anything especially interesting. To this day, I still don’t know Grandma’s standard of judging the fit and the unfit reading material. She also exercised the same censorship over the phonograph records. Naturally, the censored records were the ones we listened to when she was out of the house.
I read anything I could lay my hands on. When I learned to read I put my doll and toys away. I didn’t have a library card, but I had a friend in high school that had one. We would go to the Parlier library on Monday, and we could each get five books. We would take them back on Friday, all read, and get five more to read on the weekend. In grammar school I read all the books in the schools little library.
The Sunday Comics
I can remember hanging on every word as Dad read the funny papers to us each Sunday, in the days before I learned to read. It was very exciting to hear what happened next.
Later, when I had learned to read, there was a radio program on which someone read the comics. If I had not already gotten to them, I didn’t want to hear, I didn’t want to be cheated out of reading them for myself. I’d hold my fingers in my ears, and hum or sing or just make any kind of noise to keep from hearing the words. To this day, I want to read it myself!
--an excerpt from Doris Harlan's Memoirs
What a wonderful gift I received when I learned to read. I read everything on which I could lay my hands, not always good reading material, either. I recall Mom went through a phase of reading True Story and True Romance magazines. When she wasn’t around I read those but didn’t know much about what I was reading.
Grandma and Grandpa had quite a library in the Santa Cruz house. Two large, built-in bookcases separated the living and dining rooms. Those on the right were correct for anyone to read. Those on the left were not to be read by children. That was too much! Sometimes when we were all going to walk down to the boardwalk and beach, I would beg off with some vague excuse. As soon as I was alone, I was in that forbidden bookcase, reading as fast as I could. I was so disappointed as I never found anything especially interesting. To this day, I still don’t know Grandma’s standard of judging the fit and the unfit reading material. She also exercised the same censorship over the phonograph records. Naturally, the censored records were the ones we listened to when she was out of the house.
I read anything I could lay my hands on. When I learned to read I put my doll and toys away. I didn’t have a library card, but I had a friend in high school that had one. We would go to the Parlier library on Monday, and we could each get five books. We would take them back on Friday, all read, and get five more to read on the weekend. In grammar school I read all the books in the schools little library.
The Sunday Comics
I can remember hanging on every word as Dad read the funny papers to us each Sunday, in the days before I learned to read. It was very exciting to hear what happened next.
Later, when I had learned to read, there was a radio program on which someone read the comics. If I had not already gotten to them, I didn’t want to hear, I didn’t want to be cheated out of reading them for myself. I’d hold my fingers in my ears, and hum or sing or just make any kind of noise to keep from hearing the words. To this day, I want to read it myself!
"Nasturtiums"
Watercolor by Doris Harlan
Watercolor by Doris Harlan
Marta as "Hero" in Much Ado about Nothing
"Remembering Los Luceros" Oil and Clay, by Marta Hoyer
Enhanced photo of original
Enhanced photo of original
