Tucked between the pages of Belle's autograph book were several cards including this one with red roses and a sweet poem. There were also newspaper and magazine clippings like these three:
The poem "Withered
Flowers" fits well with
the drawing pasted
inside the back cover
of the book.
Transcription:
WITHERED FLOWERS
Strange are the memories, oh, withered
flowers' THE MILKY WAY
That to my heart ye bring in wordless
speech
Brightly as sunshine falls on distant
towers, Grey Fluffums is softly resting
And gilds their outlines-of the past
ye teach. In her cushions of crimson silk;
She is napping:in fancy lapping
For from my childhood and its sunny
pleasures, Full saucers of foaming milk.
As with a key, ye turn the lock of
years,
Ye lift the lid, and bring forgotten
treasures Can it be that our Fluffums is dreaming,
Before these eyes that watch the
store with tears. This mute little sphinx all in grey -
Of the Eons of Cream that rise and set
Have ye a mirror in your withered
petals In an Infinite Milky Way?
Wherein I read the history of my
youth, Ellen Watson
That ye give back like glass or
polished metals
A thousand visions fraught with light
and truth.
Again I view my home at quiet even:
The sparrows hopping on the gabled
eaves,
Windows illumined by the crimson
heaven,
Varnished with joy and framed with quivering leaves.
Varnished with joy and framed with quivering leaves.
I seem to hear the murmur of the river,
As it flows on beneath the arching
bridge:
To see the moonlight with its
white-hued shiver,
Lying in bands upon the pebbly ridge. "We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts
not breaths,
And, stranger still, I have the
same-self feeling In feelings, not in figures on a dial;
That traced the letters of my old
romance: We should count Time by heart throbs-
The glow of love, o'er all around me dealing he most lives
The glow of love, o'er all around me dealing he most lives
One hue of joy – that old forgotten
trance. Who thinks most - feels the noblest -
acts the best."
A moment since, and some unknown
connexion [sic]
Gave me a strange reality of bliss:
I pressed another's hand in dear
affection;
I felt my forehead glow beneath a
kiss.
Now – but the light is vanished from
my spirit,
A cloud conceals the splendor of my
sky.
How could I build on mortals who
inherit
The common fate – to live – to
love – to die?
For they are dead, those loved ones.
Life is fleeting
And steals away the props on which we
trust:
Leaving one only hope of future
meeting,
A stamp for memory, and a heap of
dust.
Leaving affections like those withered
flowers,
That we may hold and turn with
reverent hands;
And thoughts that picture out the
glorious bowers
Of which these figures are but
shadowed band.
Every Other Saturday.
And, finally, there was a photo of four men which appears to have been clipped from a magazine. There is no identification but the man on the left bears a distinct resemblance to Sam Booksh.
