It is probably that the below promised “biographical sketch” in a subsequent issue of Lucifer was actually the one printed in Vol. 14, No 24, December 1904 issue of the journal Liberty. J. William Lloyd’s touching memorial article was reprinted in Egoism: The First Two Volumes.
GEORGIA REPLOGLE,
Anarchist, Atheist, Materialist, Freelover and Beautiful Soul.
DIED, DENVER, COLORADO, OCT. 22, 1904.
DEDICATED to HENRY REPLOGLE.
The doors have opened, they have shut,
And thro’ their valves our friend has gone;
A gentle woman, brave and straight,
A friend to be depended on.
Lite is a mystery to all,
The strangest part of lite is death,
But deem you thon that all is done
Because the lungs no more have breath?
But she was wise and she was sweet,
And, whether death be death or no,
She lived a lite worth while and great,
And that is why we loved her so.
IN MEMORIAM.
Georgia E. Replogle passed into the unknown Oct. 22. Her life was a beautiful one, and despite the years of illness she nover lost her beautiful character, her superb charity and patience. LUCIFER readers are numerous who knew her well; they will feel the loss as much as can be.
Her funeral was a beautiful one: her dear friends said the things they thought, read her favorite selections, sang her songs.
Now that it’s over, that Our Georgia sleeps forever in the cemetery—under a beloved elm tree—where the mountains keep a vigil—we who remain have nothing left but the memory of her who lived so well, so beautifully. She cherished her friends —she loved nature, her life was a poem—to emulate her would be farcical—to remember her as she was is our boon.
Many who see this will say, “Dear Georgia,” and, after all is said and done, can any better tribute be offered?
B. F. BRUKK.
It is with a feeling of sadness for myself and for all who loved and needed “Our George,” and yet with joy for her release from ber long agony, that I give to our readers the news of the death of Georgia Replogle. the was one of my earliest and dearest friends; one who had a very great Influence on my life. She was one to whom, as a young girl, I could talk of my hopes, ambitions, as I could to no one else—one with whom I could “think aloud.” Many years have passed we parted, but it has seemed good to know that she lived and that I had her sympathy and her love. And now—well, she is released from her suffering, and I know that if conscious existence continues, her true, loving spirit is the same.
Her enthusiasm for her work was so great that she ignored her physical needs, working long and steadily, with insufficient care for herself. The result was that she has been an invalid for many years, though continuing to work as long as was possible to do so. Everything that could be done by her friends for her relief was done, but without avail—so now the end has come. A biographical sketch will probably appear in Our next issue.
L. H.
