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Show Ella Wheelor Wilcox at Home. The days have gone by, let us hope never to return, when a poet was expected ex-pected to be frowsy, careless or nntidy; but knowing that fact well I had still an agreeable surprise when the door opened for me to Ella Wheeler Wilcox's home. A dainty little vision of a pretty figure in a white cashmere and satin gown, trimmed with swans' down and a soft pink ribbon, with open angel sleeves that revealed dimpled round arms more perfect than a statne, because in addition addi-tion to their beauty they were of the loving, caressing kind. And the facet Sweet, loving, mobile and sensitive, with beautif ul eyes, classio outlines, delicate coloring and crowned by bronze gold hair. A few handsome rings, a fine, delicate bracelet, and a small flower pin at her throat, and little white kid slippers on her arched feet. That is how Ella Wheeler Wilcox, the representative American poet, looks when in repose, but when she talks it is impossible to chase the pretty little smiles, dimples and expressions that flash orer her mobile face, but the prevailing look is that of deep and abiding tenderness tender-ness and an ardent, earnest nature. Happily married to an adoring husband hus-band whom she proudly proclaims the handsomest man in the world, it is no wonder that she bubbles over with happiness hap-piness and love, or tlutt she has made of her home a perfect little paradise of beanty, or that her very fullness of joy causes her to loos about her for weak and sad ones to help and befriend. Her closest friends knur.' how n. ich she doe and how many she aids, and what a precious privilege it is for her to do for others. L. C R. |