One memorable Sunday afternoon, a soprano,—­clear, strong, sympathetic,—­floating up from the pews, caught my ear.  When the meeting was over, two ladies pushing their way through the crowd reached the platform.  With tears of joy flooding her eyes—­for she was a mother—­one of them said, “Did you hear my daughter sing?  Why, she has not sung before since she left the choir and was in consumption!  When she entered this church one hour ago she could not speak a loud word, and now, oh, thank God, she is healed!”

It was not an uncommon occurrence in my own church for the sick to be healed by my sermon.  Many pale cripples went into the church leaning on crutches who went out carrying them on their shoulders.  “And these signs shall follow them that believe.”

The charter for The Mother Church in Boston was obtained June, 1879,[B] and the same month the members, twenty-six in number, extended a call to Mary B.G.  Eddy to become their pastor.  She accepted the call, and was ordained A.D. 1881.

THE COUNTRY-SEAT

Written in youth, while visiting a family friend in the beautiful suburbs of Boston.

    Wild spirit of song,—­midst the zephyrs at play
    In bowers of beauty,—­I bend to thy lay,
    And woo, while I worship in deep sylvan spot,
    The Muses’ soft echoes to kindle the grot. 
    Wake chords of my lyre, with musical kiss,
    To vibrate and tremble with accents of bliss.

    Here morning peers out, from her crimson repose,
    On proud Prairie Queen and the modest Moss-rose;
    And vesper reclines—­when the dewdrop is shed
    On the heart of the pink—­in its odorous bed;
    But Flora has stolen the rainbow and sky,
    To sprinkle the flowers with exquisite dye.

    Here fame-honored hickory rears his bold form,
    And bares a brave breast to the lightning and storm,
    While palm, bay, and laurel, in classical glee,
    Chase tulip, magnolia, and fragrant fringe-tree;
    And sturdy horse-chestnut for centuries hath given
    Its feathery blossom and branches to heaven.

    Here is life!  Here is youth!  Here the poet’s world-wish,—­
    Cool waters at play with the gold-gleaming fish;
    While cactus a mellower glory receives
    From light colored softly by blossom and leaves;
    And nestling alder is whispering low,
    In lap of the pear-tree, with musical flow.[C]

    Dark sentinel hedgerow is guarding repose,
    Midst grotto and songlet and streamlet that flows
    Where beauty and perfume from buds burst away,
    And ope their closed cells to the bright, laughing day;
    Yet, dwellers in Eden, earth yields you her tear,—­
    Oft plucked for the banquet, but laid on the bier.