Emily Wells Grant

— EMILY WELLS GRANT. BY NEPHI ANDERSON. [Emily Wells Grant was born in Salt Lake City, April 22, 1857. She was mar- ried on May 27, 1884, and died on May 25, 1908. Her funeral occurred on May 27, the 24th anniversary of her wedding. The mental suffering which she endured without complaint, when she learned that the disease which had fastened itself upon her was fatal, marks her as patient and heroic as she was good and loving. At the services Bishop T. A. Clawson presided; President Anthon H. Lund offered the opening prayer, and Elder Richard W. Young the benediction; the Ensign- Pyper- Whitney- Spencer quartette sang, "Thou Dost not Weep to Weep Alone, " "0 My Father," "Resting Now, from. Care and Sorrow," and "Not Dead, but Sleep- eth." Discourses full of comfort, light and encouragement, were delivered by Elders Orson F. Whitney and Rudger Clawson. The pall bearers were Rulon, Melvin, Gershom, Victor, Lewis and Charles Wells. Editors.] Under the shade of overhanging trees stands No. 10, Holly- Road, in Liverpool, England, which for three years was the head- quarters of the European mission of the Church. It lies away from the bustle and noise and grime of the big city — hidden away among the quietude of trees and grass and vines; and as I now look back on that abode of work and rest, it comes forcibly to me that the good angel of that house was Sister Emily Wells Grant. She and her children were there, accompanying the husband and father. Elder Heber J. Grant, who presided over the mission. Sister Grant was not a woman who took delight in public dis- plays or social functions. Her sphere was the home. There she reigned, and lived out her ideals with husband, children and friends; and the elders who had the privilege of laboring in the Liverpool office during her stay there partook of that homelike kindness and consideration which was innate in her, and which dis- played itself through family and friends about her. Sister Grant was a woman who, because of her reticence, was not easy to know, but whom to know was to love and respect. She

. . EMILY WELLS GRANT. 715 belonged to that class of noble women who deep in the heart have an abiding testimony of the truth, and who, though they do not often proclaim that testimony in public speech, more eloquently pro- claim it through the silent examples of their lives. How patient and uncomplaining she was, even at the last when she knew that her earthly days were few ! With solicitous care for Iier mother, she lingered but a few days after that mother passsed away, and then she too followed into the great beyond. Peace be to her memory. That memory is to me as a gar- den of cool, green shade and sweet-scented flowers, amid life's — wildness of trial and endeavor and I am sure it is such also to all who knew her well. Much might be said about Sister Grant, but were I to say more, I fear that my wordiness might not meet with the fuU approval of that sensitive soul who has gone back to the great Father and to the paradise of God. Salt Lake City, Utah. BE ALIVE. If you expect to accomplish anything in this world you must be alive,— very much alive,— alive all over. Some people seem half dormant. They impress you as partial possibilities,— as people who have discovered only a small part of the continent within themselves. Most of it remains undeveloped territory. A man who does things is one who is alive to the very tips of his fingers. He is alert, always on the watch for opportunities. He does not give idleness time to dissipate him. He fights against that common malady known as a "tired feel- ' ing, ' and conquers it Many a man is wondering why he does not succeed, while his desk, at which ho sits, tells the story of his life, and shows the limitations of his capability. The scattered papers, the unfiled letters, the disorderly drawers, the dust in the pig- eon-holes, the layers of newspapers, of letters, of manuscripts, of pamphlets, of empty envelopes, of slips of paper, are all telltales. If I were to hire a clerk, I would ask no better recommendation than would be afforded by the condition of his desk, or table, or room, or workbench, or counter, or books. We are all surrounded by telltales which are constantly pro- claiming the stories of our lives, cover them up as we will. Our manner, our gait, every garment our conversation, the glance of the eye, the carriage of the body, we wear, our collars, neckties and cuffs, are all telling our life stories to the world We wonder why we do not get on faster, but these tiny biographers often tell the secret of our poverty, our limitations, our inferior positions. —Success.