THE CONGRESS OF WOMEN.
189
satin, the waist long and pointed, the skirt full; jeweled buckles of tiny slippers flashed beneath the hem. A few Americans were there in the ugly garb of their country—a blot on the picture.”
(And far more true to life than Helen Hunt Jackson’s “Ramona” which, beautiful as it is, does not suit the California standard, because it is not based upon such absolute fidelity to history as would make it true.)
The pen of Kate Douglass Wiggin is employed in studies of character, humorous and pathetic, containing that heart touch that makes the whole world akin. This is the bare recital of the literary movement in California for women thus far, as typified in a few names of those who have shown by their clever, original work that they are capable of greater things, and worthy of achievement. But the field of encouragement is small, and the growth of genuineness is more rapid than there are laurels for them to wear.
What is to be said of those with hearts aflame, who have died unchronicled and unrecorded? What is to be said of those yearning to tell the story that is in their hearts, who day by day are condemned to fill the journalistic sieves with water? What answer is there for such unfulfilled hopes as these? What answer is there for any of us who have aspirations, longings and desires, and yet fall asleep by the way- side with empty hands? Only the profound belief that that which is good is worth doing without recompense can sustain us through the years. Only in producing that which is true can bring us genuine satisfaction, even though our hands be empty.
I believe in resistance to false standards even though we perish voiceless. I believe that woman in literature must reach out her hands ever toward the infinite standards of right and truth though she perish from hunger and want.
The rank weeds spring in a single night,
While rarest plants take years;
An evil name may leap to fame,
While the good name scarce appears.
But the rank weeds die in the morning light,
While the rare plant still lives on;
And the evil name will sink to shame While the good name’s in its dawn.
The way that is won without any work Is not worth winning at all;
A sudden light, a meteor flight,
A sprinkle—a trail and a fall.
Fear not, brave heart, whate’er thy lot,
Like the coral build deep in the sea,
And a beautiful land, with a glittering strand,
Shall owe its existence to thee.
And if failure be thy part, oh heart,
What compensation shalt thou find
For thy weary years and bitter tears,
And thy mission half divined?
But this can comfort bring to thee,
That like a sounding bell,
Mer\ shall say on thy judgment day,
“This little work’s done well.”