Just at the close of evening,
When the sunlight fades away,
Little Henry he was dying,
In his little crib he lay,
With the soft winds around him sighing,
From early morn till close of day.
One of Julia's poems opens out in such a cheerful, pleasant way, that I wish I could give it all, but space forbids. She tunes her lyre so that it will mash all right, and then says:
Come all kind friends, both far and near,
O, come, and see what you can hear.
Then she proceeds to slaughter some one. In looking over her poems one is struck with the terrible mortality which they show. Julia is worse than a Gatling gun. I have counted twenty-one killed and nine wounded, in the small volume which she has given to the public. In giving the circumstances which attended the death of one of her subjects, and the economical principles of the deceased, she says: