On her coffin were laid a few simple clover-blossoms, flowers she loved in life; and then, near the summit of Cheyenne Mountain, four miles from Colorado Springs, in a spot of her own choosing, she was buried.

 “Do not adorn with costly shrub or tree
 Or flower the little grave which shelters me. 
 Let the wild wind-sown seeds grow up unharmed,
 And back and forth all summer, unalarmed,
 Let all the tiny, busy creatures creep;
 Let the sweet grass its last year’s tangles keep;
 And when, remembering me, you come some day
 And stand there, speak no praise, but only say,
 ‘How she loved us!  It was for that she was so dear.’ 
 These are the only words that I shall smile to hear.”

Many will stand by that Colorado grave in the years to come.  Says a California friend:  “Above the chirp of the balm-cricket in the grass that hides her grave, I seem to hear sweet songs of welcome from the little ones.  Among other thoughts of her come visions of a child and mother straying in fields of light.  And so I cannot make her dead, who lived so earnestly, who wrought so unselfishly, and passed so trustfully into the mystery of the unseen.”

All honor to a woman who, with a happy home, was willing to leave it to make other homes happy; who, having suffered, tried with a sympathetic heart to forget herself and keep others from suffering; who, being famous, gladly took time to help unknown authors to win fame; who, having means, preferred a life of labor to a life of ease.

Mrs. Jackson’s work is still going forward.  Five editions of her Century of Dishonor have been printed since her death. Ramona is in its thirtieth thousand. Zeph, a touching story of frontier life in Colorado, which she finished in her last illness, has been published.  Her sketches of travel have been gathered into Glimpses of Three Coasts, and a new volume of poems, Sonnets and Lyrics, has appeared.

LUCRETIA MOTT.

[Illustration:  Lucretia Mott.]

Years ago I attended, at some inconvenience, a large public meeting, because I heard that Lucretia Mott was to speak.  After several addresses, a slight lady, with white cap and drab Quaker dress, came forward.  Though well in years, her eyes were bright; her smile was winsome, and I thought her face one of the loveliest I had ever looked upon.  The voice was singularly sweet and clear, and the manner had such naturalness and grace as a queen might envy.  I have forgotten the words, forgotten even the subject, but the benign presence and gracious smile I shall never forget.

Born among the quiet scenes of Nantucket, Jan. 3, 1793, Lucretia grew to girlhood with habits of economy, neatness, and helpfulness in the home.  Her father, Thomas Coffin, was a sea-captain of staunch principle; her mother, a woman of great energy, wit, and good sense.  The children’s pleasures were such as a plain country home afforded.  When Mrs. Coffin went to visit her neighbors, she would say to her daughters, “Now after you have finished knitting twenty bouts, you may go down cellar and pick out as many as you want of the smallest potatoes,—­the very smallest,—­and roast them in the ashes.”  Then the six little folks gathered about the big fireplace and enjoyed a frolic.