tion to new heights of recognition, is-also a marvelous entertainer, telling stories as only he—and possibly his distinguished grandfather—could tell them. Here, again, came her neighbor, “Lady Babbie” herself, the sweet and gracious Maude Adams, with a posy of old-fashioned flowers from her own garden. Here John Burroughs, from the rustic balustrade of “Yarrow,” introduced to his hostess the most unfamiliar of her other loved neighbors,—the birds,— naming each as it perched near or flitted by. Hither her most intimate and cherished friend of many years, Mrs. Lucia Gilbert Runkle, and the well-beloved Miss Sarah C. Woolsey, Mrs. Candace Wheeler, Mrs. Ruth McEnery Stuart, Mrs. Elizabeth B. Custer, brought the sunshine of their presence, and brightened her days as she had brightened theirs. And hither, during her last illness, thronged her other Onteora friends—men and women of generous and gentle hearts—with all manner of neighborly kindnesses and messages of homage and affection.
It is a consoling thought that, when the final summons came, it found her in this peaceful home, where loving hands and hearts ministered to her to the last.
The simple funeral services were held in the Onteora Church, on Wednesday, August 23d. They included the singing of the hymns “Lead, Kindly Light” and “Abide With Me,” The service, read by Rev. Henry Charles Stone, the resident clergyman, was followed by the reading of Mrs. Dodge’s own poem, “The Two Mysteries”—the poem that, for so many, has shed a clear light where the way was dark. For her who wrote them, the childlike faith which inspired the lines had always illumined the Valley of the Shadow. “I had to give up one of my boys,” she once said, and added, in the same tender tone: “but I don’t think God feels about death as we do.”
A beautiful and touching tribute was offered by the children of Onteora, who preceded all that was mortal of their friend down the woodland way to the church, and, on the return of the funeral procession, carried reverently in their hands some of the floral offerings with which affection had beautified the chancel. For one of these—a great cross of yarrow —the children had gathered the blooms; and next day at the private interment, this cross was laid as a fitting remembrance, upon Mrs. Dodge’s grave in Evergreen Cemetery, near Elizabeth, New Jersey.
It is sad indeed to record her death in the magazine which was her life-work and her greatest pride for so many years. Her unfailing gentleness and courtesy endeared her to all those who were associated with her in her editorial tasks. Each of them remembers with tender gratitude many a special act of kindness, a word of help or warm encouragement fitly spoken; a letter of good cheer or of earnest praise. No one ever came really to know Mrs. Dodge without being better and happier for it—and the impression which she made was strengthened by closer acquaintance. As intimacy grew, so did admiration, She was always greatest to those who knew her best.
Mrs. Dodge would have been the last to claim the entire credit for the success of St. Nicholas. Every magazine is, of course, the work of many minds and many hands. No one more promptly or willingly acknowledged how much St. Nicholas owed to the business energy and foresight of its publishers, and to the diligence and devotion of her editorial associates. No one gave heartier recognition to the generous coöperation of its contributors and artists. The editorial authority was hers, but she trusted her assistants more and more with the actual making of the magazine; and in her later years she had, of necessity, to depend upon them more and more as she gradually withdrew from active management.
In one sense, she neither will nor can have any successor. But the work which she established and directed so ably will be continued, and will endure, a source of pleasure and of benefit to thousands, adapting itself to new conditions as they arise, and fulfilling—or even enlarging, let us hope—its mission and its influence.
To have sent out into the world a story that is a classic of juvenile literature, and unnumbered verses that have gone straight to the heart of childhood with joy and innocent laugh-