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"Who spread'st the azure vault above,
Whose hand controls the boisterous sea."

At evening we went down to Lewiston and from there crossed to the Canadian shore to visit the beautiful city of Toronto. Once again during this trip, as during the return journey from New York, I saw some of the colors of the golden sunlight glowing on the waters.

After the summer vacation of 1843 my health began to decline to such an extent that my teachers became alarmed. They were not aware that most of the nights in the previous spring did not find me in bed until twelve, sometimes two o'clock; and when we returned from the trip through central New York I renewed my midnight vigils with the inevitable result: my strength gradually failed. It was not many weeks, however, before the cause of my trouble became known to Dr. Clements. At first he said that I must not work out of school hours; then he refused to allow me to hear any classes; and finally decided to send me into the country to rest awhile during the summer of 1844.

Meanwhile I had been working on my book, and it was issued just before the final mandate not to do any work at all. As a preliminary to publishing a volume of poems, they told me I must have my daguerreotype taken for the frontispiece. In those days no less than four minutes were required for an exposure; and the idea that I, the restless Fanny Crosby, as they all knew me, would be obliged to sit still so long, -- well that was indeed very funny. As a result I burst into a laugh right in the midst of my "sitting"; and, of course, spoiled a plate for the photographer. Then the tedious process began again; a veritable inquisition it was for me, but finally I endured to the length of five whole minutes and secured a fine picture.

It was with great reluctance that I consented to have my poems published; for I realized only too well that they were unfinished productions; and I hoped to im-prove upon them in time. But a few of the teachers and managers at the Institution would not take no for an answer; and, consequently, the work went forward. Mr. Hamilton Murray wrote the introduction and Dr. J. W. G. Clements did the compiling, which was all the more kind of him since he had a large practice and could spare but a moment now and then to listen to my dictation.

Many of the verses in "The Blind Girl and Other Poems" were autobiographic, such, for instance, as the opening lines of the book:

"Her home was near an ancient wood,
Where many an oak gigantic stood;
And fragrant flowers of every hue
In that sequestered valley grew.

"A church there reared its little spire,
And in their neat and plain attire,
The humble farmers would repair
On Sabbath morn to worship there."

My schoolmates were also pictured:

"With their laugh the woodland rang,
Or if some rustic air they sang,
These rural notes of music sweet
The woodland echoes would repeat."

But the labor in publishing a book was too great for my strength; and when I went into the country in the summer of 1844, many of my companions thought that they were certainly bidding me good-bye for the last time. Dr. Clements also feared that my health would not improve; he said that I needed rest and petting more than medicine; and when I was ready to start for home he said,

"Can you get plenty of pure milk at your mother's home?" I assured him that I could; and he added,

"Well, drink as much as you can." His good advice was followed and at the beginning of the next term I returned to the Institution in perfect health.

Four years after I first went to New York a little sister came to gladden our home, but the angel of death soon called her away to that other home above. The letter that I wrote to my mother and my step-father enclosing a poem, is still preserved as it was originally copied by Mr. Chamberlain. Concerning the death of my little sister, I said: "The impression that her death has made upon my mind is a deep one; but this event teaches me a lesson, which, I trust, I never shall forget. Once I looked forward to future years, when she would be not only a comfort to you but also to my-self; but these fond hopes are blighted. Let us not repine, but cheerfully submit to the will of Heaven."

The poem that I sent to mother is as follows:

"She's gone, ah yes, her lovely form
Too soon has ceased to bloom,
An emblem of the fragile flower
That blossoms for the tomb.

"Yet, mother, check that starting tear,
That trembles in thine eye;
And thou, kind father, cease to mourn;
Suppress that heaving sigh.

"She's gone, and thou, dear aunt, no more
Wilt watch her cradle bed,
She slumbers in the peaceful tomb,
But weep not for the dead.

"Kind uncle, thou art grieving too,
Thy tears in thought I see;
Ah, never will her infant hand
Be stretched again to thee.

"She's gone, yet why should we repine,
Our darling is at rest;
Her cherub spirit now reclines
On her Redeemer's breast."

Sometimes two or three of my associates would accompany me when I went home for the summer va-cation; and mother liked them to come as often as possible for she loved the society of young people. A humorous incident happened during one of these visits that is good enough to relate here. Among my friends came a young man who wore a wig, but mother did not know it; and one evening, when there were several present, he complained of a severe cold in his head.