“...she is my all in all. What should I have done without her?”
“I darned stockings and talked stories, my favorite amusement. I do love it very much.”
“But she grew to be intensely fond of the public, of society…and of entertaining”.
“This morning we all look the boat and rowed over to Constitution Island. We wandered about looking at the prospect, and considering the ground, for Father actually had thought of buying it for a country place. It did not look very prepossessing, however; for nothing can be more rough and rude than the face of that island.”
“Uncle Thomas was down from West Point last week and staid several days. He is delighted with the prospect of doings at Constitution Island which Father has bought. Father contemplates keeping the southern part of the island, and building a fine house, making a sort of little Paradise of the grounds, and residing there eight months of the year.”
“So comes in the first dim prospect of our future life-long home; as different from the later reality, as it well could be. Of that beautiful handful of plans, just one came true: we did go to the Island to live, and it was Paradise; though not of our making. But no visions born of town life and ease, and plenty, ever figured out anything so rich and rare as what – through straits and need and difficulty – the Lord vouchsafed to us, among our rocks.”
“Sue, I believe if you would try, you could write a story.”
“If you never publish another book, publish this.”
“live out our lives, fighting the fight, wrestling with sorrow, gathering up the joy—”.
“How little discernment a buyer has at first as to the capabilities of his new purchase! For what “palace” could ever have been as dear to us as our old Revolutionary nondescript house?”
“I think then the bond was knit between us two, which should outlast all time and change.” From this time onward, their shared convictions led to a cooperative, harmonious relationship both personally and professionally.”
“I had no idea of the vividness and captivating interest that she (Susan) gave to these stories.”
“One day, while the children in a Mission Chapel were singing “One more day's work for Jesus,” a woman passing by stopped outside to listen. She went home with these words fixed in her mind. The next day, as she was bending over the washtub, the words of the hymn came to her again and aroused the question, Have I ever done one day's work for Jesus in all my life?”
One more day’s work for Jesus,One less of life for me!But Heav’n is nearer, and Christ is clearerThan yesterday, to me.His love and light fill all my soul tonight.
One more day’s work for Jesus,One more day’s work for Jesus,One more day’s work for Jesus,One less of life for me!One more day’s work for Jesus!
How sweet the work has been,To tell the story, to show the glory,Where Christ’s flock enters in!How it did shine in this poor heart of mine!
One more day’s work for Jesus!O yes, a weary day;But Heav’n shines clearer, and rest comes nearer,At each step of the way;And Christ in all, before His face I fall.
O blessèd work for Jesus!O rest at Jesus’ feet!There toil seems pleasure, my wants are treasure,And pain for Him is sweet.Lord, if I may, I’ll serve another day!
“One day when sitting with Miss Anna in the old living room she took from one of the cases a shell so delicate that it looked like lacework and holding it in her hand, with eyes dimmed with tears, she said, 'There was a time when I was very perplexed, bills were unpaid, necessities must be had, and someone sent me this exquisite thing. As I held it I realized that if God could make this beautiful home for a little creature. He would take care of me.”
“Jesus loves me, this I know for the Bible tells me so."
“Johnston (one of the rescued men) retired topside and sat with his arms around a couple of roly poly, mission-trained natives. And in the fresh breeze on the way home they sang together a hymn all three happened to know:
“The first day, there was a very large gathering, curiosity helping on the numbers. After that, it varied from week to week, as must be always, I suppose; especially among Cadets, where guard duty sometimes interferes; and where Sunday is the free day for seeing friends.”
“At home, in the summer, they met in our tent near the house, the forage caps tossed out upon the grass; the gray figures in all sorts of positions in and out of the tent”.
“The visits to Constitution Island were regarded as a great privilege, for not only did they make a break in the severe routine of the daily life but they enabled the boys to roam further a field than was possible at the Academy, where the restrictions of the cadet limits were pretty irksome to boys accustomed to the free run of the town or country. So the privilege of going to Constitution Island as one of “Miss Warner’s boys” was eagerly sought and highly prized. Every Sunday afternoon during the summer encampment the sisters would send their elderly man of all work after the favored ones. He pulled the old flat-bottomed boat across the river to the West Point dock, where the boys with the coveted permits were wailing for him. Usually the trip back was accompanied with more or less excitement, for the boat was always loaded to the last inch of its carrying capacity.
Miss Susan Warner awaited her guests in the orchard. She always sat in the same big chair supported by many cushions. She was a frail little woman with a long face deeply lined with thought and care, lighted with large, dark very brilliant eyes. As she sat in her chair with the boys in a semi-circle around her on the grass she looked like a print from Godey’s Lady’s Book of half a century before. She always wore silk dresses of a small flowered pattern, made with voluminous skirts of wonderful stiffness, and rustle, and small close fitting bodices. A rich Paisley shawl was always around her shoulders and a broad black velvet ribbon was bound around her hair, which was only slightly gray.
After each of the boys had read a Bible verse. Miss Warner, choosing her subject from some New Testament text, talked to them for perhaps half an hour until her enthusiasm and interest had obviously almost exhausted her small strength. Her English was the best and purest I have ever heard, and as she went on and her interest grew her eyes shone, like stars and her voice became rich and warm. There was never any cant or sectarianism, and she always gave to the boys the brightest and most optimistic side of the faith she loved so well. When she had finished and lay back pale and weary against her cushions her sister. Miss Anna, came down from the house with the rare treat of the whole week, tea and homemade ginger-bread. After that the two sisters and the boys talked over the things of the world that seemed so far from that peaceful quiet orchard. The boys confided their aims and ambitions, and the sisters in the simplest, most unostentatious way sought to implant right ideals and principles. Miss Warner never forgot any of her boys, and up to the time of her death kept up a correspondence with many of them. This correspondence must have been voluminous, for it embraced men in every branch of the service, and included alike distinguished officers and cadets who had failed. . . “
“Inasmuch as my sister and I agreed long ago that when our portrait of George Washington, painted by Stuart, left our hands it should go where we thought it would do the most work for our native land, therefore I give and bequeath the same to the Superintendent of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York (whoever he may be at the time of my death) for the special use of the Corps of Cadets at the Academy (there being some question as to the legal capacity of the Corps as such to take the gift): on condition that said picture is kept at the Military Reservation at West Point, and placed where the Cadets can have free access to see and to study it; so learning to love and revere the man who – under God – not only founded the Institution to which they belong, but gave them the Country they have sworn to defend . . . “.