The other:
"The problem of Existence here when tried,
God remains God though matter returns to dust;
The fool can read this truth; but, if denied,
Does spirit return to be from what it came?
Is there reunition of love with God as at first?
The Brahmin trusts his soul even higher, its flame
Refines in th' Nirvana that absorbs its load,
Though this divine psychism seems lotus flowed,
Seems spirit inane as that on flowers bestowed;
Islamism prepictures the voluptuary's abode
Of Love unending: It is 'Love, love, love,'
Which souls have cried since eons began to move."
Now it is an infinite relief to turn from this inflated but would-be stately style to the homely diction of the Sweet Singer, as found in the Sentimental Song Book. Her book of verse is small and insignificant, and has not the prosperous, self-satisfied appearance of Mrs. L.'s volume, with its gold letters shining from a green cloth background. At the top of its paper cover the price is modestly given: 25 cents. Then is printed: "The Sweet Singer of Michigan Salutes the Public," with a likeness of the author directly beneath. She is depicted as a strong, masculine woman with heavy, black eyebrows, large, black eyes, and a mass of coarse, black hair tumbling over her shoulders in a way that makes one think that she has washed and sunned it, and has forgotten to put it up again. She wears a sort of crown or band at the top of her head. There is nothing in the homely face, with the squat nose and thick lips, that would betray sentimentalism, and yet those honest eyes were probably continually suffused with the tears for which her ultra-sensitive nature was responsible. Below her picture follows this simple introduction, without reference to any "laudable ambition," "acquisition of knowledge," or "cultivation of inherited gifts."
* * * * *
"Dear Friends: This little book is composed of truthful pieces. All those which speak of being killed, died or drowned, are truthful songs; others are 'more truth than poetry.' They are all composed by the author.
"I was born in Plainfield, and lived there until I was ten years of age. Then my parents moved to Algoma, where they have lived until the present day, and I live near them, one mile west of Edgerton.
"JULIA A. MOORE."
* * * * *
Among those pieces "which speak of being killed, died or drowned,"—and it was on these melancholy topics that she was at her best—are four poems which deal with the sad history of the House family. They seemed to have had the most abominable luck. When they couldn't get shot or induce the small-pox to hasten their departure from this world of care, they passed away for no reason at all. Somehow they just could not keep alive. Martin House is the first of whom she speaks. He enlisted with a friend in the federal army at Grand Rapids. The final stanza of "The Two Brave Soldiers" discloses their fate—
"It was down in old Virginia
Those noble soldiers fell,
In the battle of Hanover town,
As many a one can tell.
They fought through many a battle
And obeyed their captain's call,
Till, alas, the bullets struck them
That caused them to fall."