barks of trees, oak-leaves, bunches of acorns, single sprays of apple-blossoms.  Last Spring he found two robins building a nest in a cherry-tree:  he placed his camera near them, and attaching a fine wire to spring the shutter, took a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Robin Redbreast laying down the first coarse straws for their nest.  Then he took a picture every day for thirty days of that nest—­from the time four blue eggs are shown until four, wide-open mouths are held hungrily for dainty grubs.  This series of photographs forms an Epic of Creation.  So, if you ask me to solve the question of whether photography is art, I’ll answer:  it all depends upon what you picture, and how you present it.

Christina Rossetti focused her thought on the beautiful object and at the best angle, so the picture she brings us is nobly ordered and richly suggestive.

And so the days passed in study, writing, housework, and caring for old ladies three.  Dante Gabriel, talented, lovable, erratic, had gotten into bad ways, as a man will who turns night into day and tries to get the start of God Almighty, thinking he has found a substitute for exercise and oxygen.  Finally he was taken to Birchington, on the Isle of Thanet (where Octave found her name).  He was mentally ill, to a point where he had through his delusions driven away all his old-time friends.

Christina, aged fifty-one, and the mother, aged eighty-two, went to take care of him, and they did for him with all the loving tenderness what they might have done for a sick baby; but with this difference—­they had to fight his strength.  Yet still there were times when his mind was sweet and gentle as in the days of old; and toward the last these periods of restful peace increased, and there were hours when the brother, sister and aged mother held sweet converse, almost as when children they were taught at this mother’s knee.  Dante Gabriel Rossetti died April Ninth, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-two.  His grave is in the old country churchyard at Birchington.

Two years afterward the mother passed out; in Eighteen Hundred Ninety, Eliza Polidori died, aged eighty-seven; and in Eighteen Hundred Ninety-three, her sister Charlotte joined her, aged eighty-four.  In Christ’s Church, Woburn Square, you can see memorial tablets to these fine souls, and if you get acquainted with the gentle old rector he will show you a pendant star and crescent, set with diamonds, given by the Sultan during the Crimean war, “To Miss Charlotte Lydia Polidori for distinguished services as Nurse.”  And he will also show you a silver communion set marked with the names of these three sisters, followed by that of “Christina Georgiana Rossetti.”

And so they all went to their soul’s rest and left Christina alone in the big house with its echoing halls—­too big by half for its lonely, simple-hearted mistress and her pets.  She felt that her work was done, and feeling so, the end soon came.  She died December Twenty-ninth, Eighteen Hundred Ninety-four—­passing from a world that she had never much loved, where she had lived a life of sacrifice, suffering many partings, enduring many pains.  Glad to go, rejoicing that the end was nigh, and soothed by the thought that beyond lay a Future, she fell asleep.