ut to her bereaved
parents and devoted brother who mourn her loss grievously like David
mourned for his son and could not be comforted.

GEORGE G. PETERSON

The subject of my sketch, George G. Peterson, began his studies at my
studio 1108-1/2 Broadway. He had a deep bass voice of fine quality
which he used with excellent understanding and soon attracted
attention at the First Christian church where he worshipped. George
was a devout Christian and prominent worker in the church and was in
demand for his musical worth as well, singing so well that he became
leading bass in the choir and occupied the position with honor. With
all his daily work as an artisan he found time to master and play
successfully the violin, mandolin, auto harp and harmonica combined,
banjo and guitar. He passed out of life April 26th, 1912, leaving a
wife, son and daughter to mourn the loss of a talented father. So my
musical family comes and goes and I am called upon to lose them first
in one way and then in another. This was a sad surprise and a shock to
me. I wrote to him to come and see me and the answer came, "George has
gone up higher. He is not here among us any longer." It was a sad
message from the devoted wife. He was still a young, bright and active
man, but thirty-seven years of age. Truly "God moves in a mysterious
way His wonders to perform." In all things may we be able to say, "Thy
will, not mine, be done."

ODE TO A VOICE

Dedicated to Lady Margaret, with much love, by Mary Alice Sanford.
Christmas, 1909.

Singing forever from morn until night,
From low and sad to high and bright,
The voice of my Lady resounds in the air,
And tells all the world to put aside care.

As if watching the distant horizon blue,
We finally see the ships come in view,
We hear the soft music rise to her lips,
And those beautiful tones are our stately ships.

But listen again! Now what do we hear?
Why the rippling of the waters clear,
Or the lark's sweet song in yonder skies.
Or the soft flight of the butterflies.

The low murmuring of the breeze,
The nodding of the leaves on trees,
The blushing rose, the lily pure,
Is sung by a voice which can never be truer.

The anger of the stormy water,
The passion of lovers who never falter,
The insanity of a jealous husband's rage
Is sung by the marvelous voice of the age.

H