Mr.Fields described Tennyson's reciting his own poems in much the same way.
Whittier once said to a friend, "I consider Miss Proctor one of the best woman poets of the day," and then added, "But why do I say _one_ of the best; why not _the_ best ?" Miss Proctor has always been glad to assist any plan of mine, and wrote a poem especially for my Christmas book, _Purple and Gold_.

Mr.
Osgood, the publisher, when I showed him the poem, said, "But how do I know that the public will care for your weeds ?" (referring to the asters and goldenrod).

He said later: "The instant popularity and large sale of that booklet attested the happiness of Miss Sanborn's selection, and the kind contributions from her friends." Miss Proctor's contribution was the first poem in the book and I venture to publish it as it has never been in print since the first sale.

My friend's face is still beautiful, her mind is as active as when we first met, her voice has lost none of its charm, and she is the same dear friend as of yore.
GOLDENROD AND ASTERS The goldenrod, the goldenrod, That glows in sun or rain, Waving its plumes on every bank From the mountain slope to the main,-- Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine, Nor buttercups, gems of summer, Nor leagues of daisies yellow and white, Can rival this latest comer! On the plains and the upland pastures Such regal splendour falls When forth, from myriad branches green, Its gold the south wind calls,-- That the tale seems true the red man's god Lavished its bloom to say, "Though days grow brief and suns grow cold, My love is the same for aye." And, darker than April violets Or pallid as wind-flowers grow, Under its shades from hill to meadow Great beds of asters blow .-- Oh plots of purple o'erhung with gold That need nor walls nor wardens, Not fairer shone, to the Median Queen, Her Babylonian gardens! On Scotia's moors the gorse is gay, And England's lanes and fallows Are decked with broom whose winsome grace The hovering linnet hallows; But the robin sings from his maple bow, "Ah, linnet, lightly won, Your bloom to my blaze of wayside gold Is the wan moon to the sun!" And were I to be a bride at morn, Ere the chimes rang out I'd say, "Not roses red, but goldenrod Strew in my path today! And let it brighten the dusky aisle, And flame on the altar-stair, Till the glory and light of the fields shall flood The solemn dimness there." And should I sleep in my shroud at eve, Not lilies pale and cold, But the purple asters of the wood Within my hand I'd hold;-- For goldenrod is the flower of love That time and change defies; And asters gleam through the autumn air With the hues of Paradise! EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.
Shortly before the Civil War, I went with father to St.Louis, he to take a place in the Washington University, while I was offered a position in the Mary Institute to teach classes of girls.

Chancellor Hoyt of the university had been lured from Exeter, New Hampshire.