A cheerful little room in the East wing of St.Margaret's Hospital,Kansas City,Kansas;an invalid chair wheeled up to a window over looking the street;and the eager,expectant face and the warm hand clasp of the occupant,Mrs.Cornelia M.Stockton,assures the visitor of a hearty welcome.
Greatly enfeebled by long illness and with impaired sight,this bright,little woman's keen interest in current events and the latest best seller puts to shame the half-hearted zeal of the average woman.
For four years,Mrs.Stockton has lived at St.Margaret's,depending upon the visits of friends and the memory of an eventful life to pass the days.Prominence in club work in her earlier years has brought reward.The History Club of Kansas City,Kansas,of which she was once a member,each week sends a member to read to her and these are red letter days to this brave,patient,little woman.
Mrs.Stockton began writing very young.When a little girl,back in the village of Walden,New York,she stole up to the pulpit of the church and wrote in her pastor's Bible:
I have not seen the minister's eyes,And cannot describe his glance divine,For when he prays he shuts them up And when he preaches he shuts mine.
She was born in 1833in Shawangunk,New York,and came to Kansas City in 1859,living in Missouri some years but most of the time in Kansas City,Kansas.
In 1892,she published a limited edition of poems,The Shanar Dancing Girl and Other Poems.dedicated to Mrs.Bertha M.Honore Palmer,her ideal of the perfect type of gracious and lovely womanhood.
The Shanar Dancing Girl was first written for the Friends in Council,a literary club of Kansas City,Mo.It has received the encomiums of Thomas Bailey Aldrich,John J.Ingalls and others for its beauty of expression and dramatic qualities.Invocation,an April idyl;The Sea-shell;and Mountain Born sing of the love of nature.In the Conservatory;My Summer Heart;and Tired of the Storm hint of sorrow and unrest and longing.Then in 1886,Compensation was written.Irma's Love For The King is a favorite;also,Sold'--A Picture,written for her daughter,yes,but she never came.
The Sorrowful Stone Mrs.Stockton considers her best.
The story without a suspicion of rhyme,And dim with the mists of the morning of Time,Is told of a goddess,who,wandering alone,Did go and sit down on the Sorrowful Stone.
We find our Gethsemane somewhere,though late;The Angel of Shadows throws open the gate.We creep with our burden of pain,to atone,For all of life's ills,to the Sorrowful Stone.
Above is the vault of the pitiless stars;The trees stretch their arms all blackened with scars;The gales of lost Paradise are faintly blown To where we sit down on the Sorrowful Stone.
From a Poem Vagaries'warns of--the product of the age and clime,We do too much!grow old before our time,Yet--would we stray to Morning Hills again?Unlearn sad prophecies,and dream as then!
Ah,no!with sense of peace the shadows creep,There droppeth on tired eyes the spell of sleep--
We left the dawn long leagues behind,and stand,Waiting and wistful in the Evening Land!
The patient Nurse of Destiny,at best,Leads us like children to the needed rest!
A ghostly wind puts out our little light,And we have bid the busy world Good Night!