In the last year of her
noble life she wrote to a friend as follows: "My two hands were eager to
lighten the burden-bearing of a burdened world--but the brush fell from
my hand. Now I can only sit in a nook of November sunshine, playing with
two little black and white kittens. Well, I never before had time to
play with kittens as much as I wished, and when I come outdoors and see
them bounding toward me in long, light leaps, I am glad that they leap
toward me and not away from me, little soft, fierce sparks of infinite
energy holding a mystery of their own as inscrutable as life. And I
remember that with all our high art, the common daily sun searches a man
for one revealing moment, and makes a truer portrait than the most
laborious painter. The divine face of our Saviour, reflected in the pure
and noble traits of humanity, will not fail from the earth because my
hand has failed in cunning."
One would expect a poet of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's temperament to be
passionately fond of cats, just as she is. One would expect, too, that
only the most beautiful and luxurious of Persians and Angoras would
satisfy her demand for a pet. This is also justifiable, as she has
several magnificent cats, about whom she has published a number of
interesting stories. Her Madame Ref is quite a noted cat, but Mrs.
Wilcox's favorite and the handsomest of all is named Banjo, a gorgeous
chinchilla and white Angora, with a silken coat that almost touches the
floor and a ruff, or "lord mayor's chain," that is a finger wide.
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