This sitting took place at the home of Mrs. Soule, in Boston, on May 1st, 1929. There were present Mrs. Soule herself, as the medium; my sister, Mabel H. Wheeler; and myself. We were in an upstairs room, a quite ordinary room of medium site, with a normal amount of daylight coming in the windows. Mrs. Soule had never seen either of us before, as far as any one knows (and it is more than unlikely that she should have), nor did she even know our names. We sat about a table, the three of us, and talked pleasantly for perhaps ten minutes or more, but impersonally. She learned of us that we, ourselves, had got some messages and that we considered communication with those gone a normal and natural thing. Beyond that she knew nothing of us. She was, herself, dubious of the results of a seance where two of us were present when her control knew neither of us, and we said if the control was disturbed my sister would leave at once. Mrs. Soule then seemed to go to sleep, quietly and naturally. Once she gave a little jerk of her head and twice she frowned slightly, but nothing took place that might not when any one went normally to sleep. There was nothing of tenseness apparent.
Suddenly she began to speak in a voice of lighter timbre than her own voice. All the talk was rapid, except when she was giving direct messages from those on the other side, always pleasant, with courteous ways and a natural friendliness that made one feel at home and easy. It was difficult to take verbatim notes. Both my sister and I wrote all the time and as fast as we could. The following is the result, reported as nearly verbatim as we could make it.
"Hello! You don't know who I am but I am Sunbeam and I have come to help you. I want to talk with you both together if you don't mind, because I see a group standing right there between you who are happy and smiling and eager and anxious to get down to you to help you to go on with your gifts. You both are psychic. It seems to me taht you are quite different - in sympathy but different... To you [this was to M.L.W.] it seems to me things come quickly, just like a flash, and impressions come inspirationally. You have a true heart and have always been very quick and very responsive to conditions. And sometimes, when you are interested in what you are doing, you will be totally oblivious of surroundings. Such as the weather. You go right on if you are interested. You keep right at it until suddenly you may say, "Oh! How hot it is!" or something like that, and you get a little release from whatever you mind is on.
They come to you like a flash and you are moved to do certain things. They are so near that it is as if you feel the impact. They are so near that they seem to speak to you. You'd like to speak to them. You get the pressure, the idea, the purpose of them, the desire of the people on the other side. If you'd stand up and let it come, it would flow out, helpful and useful. I don't think you are afraid to do this, except that it may not be right. Unless it comes as it should you are afraid of getting yourself mixed in it. It is not that you lack faith, but only that you are afraid you are getting yourself into it rather than a spirit. Don't be afraid. Let it come bit by bit. It is, perhaps, like color coming in through a window. They come through, purples and reds and all hues, different colors and shades, and then they blend with one another and make a rainbow that lights up different lives. [This may have been, "They blend and light up and make a rainbow that lights up different lights.] Let it come regardless of fear of coloring. You can't color it long and a body of evidence will come that shows you are under guidance of a group of spirits that will help you... You are like Martha and Mary, you two. [Turning to Mabel] Such faith! Different, you are. Sympathetic but different. And both mediums.
I see beside you a man: good-sized, very quiet, past middle life, broad shoulders, broad featured, smiles. Looks down with a smile of approval and care. He has blue-grey eyes. Oh, so blue in some lights. His eyes are not old eyes and he has a child smile. He moves slowly and quietly but is immovable when he knows he is right. He makes no fuss but stands sure and steady. He influences you [M.L.W.] against impulsiveness. You are impulsive. You don't do wild things, like temperamental people, but you are impulsive. No one can change you when you are sure you are right. You are like that man - confident in your feelings. Nothing but a definite statement or expression that you are wrong would make you give up your friends or your belief. When the foundation goes you are confident that there is a mistake somewhere.
The best thing in the world for your unfoldment is coming in your writing. [We both took this to mean in automatic writing.] I can see you writing away, inspirationally. And when it is done you read it over and say, "How did I do that!" Some things in it are beautiful. You suddenly stop and read it over and it is new, full of words that mean much. If you let it come it will be like drops of dew that come in the night on the heart of a rose, refreshing and making sweet. You are willing and eager. You have nothing to hold back. Be regular in your contacts with spirit people.
That group about you is in a semi-circle. They are not all there yet, I think, for they seem to have left room for more to come. Be definite and regular about this and there will be no end to the power expressed through you. It can come in several ways - inspirationally, which makes you fidget. The very effort to put it down focuses it. Go on. Never cease. It is not for you alone but for others in need of beauty and expression.
I see a lady's hand, very thin and delicate as wax; very weak; she passed away so weak as though it had been an effort to stay with those who needed her. No strength. This hand, so weak, it is as though she wants to stay, she is fighting for her life, but there is no chance. A death-doomed person from the beginning. Her only chance in hope and courage. Not so old that she should have gone. She hardly knows what the matter is. Her hand goes to her head; she is lying in bed and looking out toward the light. There are noises in the rest of the house but she has no interest in them. [We neither of us remember just the words, but the idea conveyed here was that she did not want to go but was resigned as to a thing that must come to all.] It isn't like throwing herself in her Father's arms... Suddenly comes an ill turn that seems to take the woman right out. She is very ill, and then suddenly it is over, she is gone. Such care and love is about her. But she was not with you. They would do as she would like, then quiet.
She is a religious woman, religious in the best sense of the word. Not a credalist, but has a broad religious atmosphere and a feeling that all will be well. Belongs here to show things evidential. I see this weak hand, but as the body is put away there is something - like bringing down the sleeve or a bit of lace or something soft that falls carelessly over the hand. It [the hand] shows what she has been through. But on her face is a smile as though it came at the moment of death. She is at peace, calm, quiet. Then suddenly out of her weakness comes to her normal strength - quiet, energetic, loves everything - flowers, books, people. The child heart in her never died. She was happy as a spirit, and felt free from illness. Many people loved her both here and there. She steps from love to love, from shadow to light. She wants to get back and see what she can do. I think at some times she had had some ideas about these spirit affairs. She would think of the people on the other side: "They know."
She has in her hand two things connected with her. One, a small book like a bible, old-fashioned, small print, and thin paper. It seems it was hers a long time ago. She had it for years and years. Then a flower - small, fragrant, white. It seems like a little, small flower she was familiar with. It comes up low, not a wild flower. I see a feeling about these flowers. They are like little lilies coming up on a stock. She is laying a spray, three or four sprays, on the table for you girls, as though to bring you a spray of lilies - the promise of a fuller life. She steps back.... [Then followed in words we neither of us took fully, the account of her extreme weakness, and of how those about her would put a spoon, full of water, into her parched mouth and how it would immediately come out, of how she could not even swallow it.] "I am well, I am strong, I am happy, I come to you."
Oh-h! Here's some one who went out quick. A man, not old, a man who should have stayed. It is almost tragic! He can't get used to it! I can't get used to it! Why and how is this? It's confusing. Like - it sets me out of tune! He was splendid in his spirit. He could do so many hings, was so full of life and energy. So full of all that makes life big! He resents it - wants to get back - it doesn't seem right. "I wanted to do work that I wanted to do! There is work undone! I'm going to finish it! There are plans all knocked to pieces! What is one to do!" He might be called rebellious, but not bitter. "It is all wrong, now how to make it right?" "I had planned and worked to do so much!" "I don't feel it is right and never will!" "Accidents do happen!"
He is fine-looking, has a trick of holding his head down - is open-minded - free - has a cheerful voice and bright. He makes you fell good when he comes into the room. He has the spirit of joy - is very magnetic - yet is so truthful and straightforward - believes in people. He thinks, "All that time put into certain efforts to accomplish - all lost. While dozens of other men are going on." [M.L.W. asked what he looked like.] Not awfully tall, medium height, not very stout, square shouldered, well built, good sized, stoops his head when he talks to smaller people. An out-of-doors man, but his work is in-doors, has an athletic quality, walks, like out of doors. His hair is not old, it is brown, rather dark. His eyes are very bright and I think they are brown. A lovely mouth and even teeth. Well groomed, clean and nice and wholesome, not fussy over his clothes, but clean and well-cared for. He's as clean under his coat as outside it! He is very affectionate. People he likes he gives a hug and kiss. He wasn't always just in one place, there were several. He kept nothing back of himself. When he goes away from his house he runs down some steps, just a few steps, not aching to go but, perhaps, waving his hand to someone he sees. When he was serious (Oh! He did so many things, was a student, and worked hard.) His face was very different, it was set and busy. He would look up at an interruption as though it was hard to release himself. But if it is someone he likes he would smile and jump up, all eagerness.
The hardest thing he had to bear [Evidently when he died - M.L.W.] was to hear those left say it was a shame. When he tried to speak he thought, "I've made up my mind to find out how spirits come." He puts down some letters on the table. One is H, I think. H-A-, well, I can't see. I think it is R-R-Y, or maybe Harold. [It probably was Larry, a friend still alive. - M.L.W.] Then a J. Someone here, still alive. I think it is J.A.C.... I don't get the rest. [Probably it was a mixture of Jerry and Malcolm. The latter is the name of a dear friend of his, and Jerry was the name he and the rest of us call him by. A nick-name. - M.L.W.]
Something was left when he died. Quite a number of things to be packed up. I have a queer feeling in my hands, like electricity, as though things were to be taken away and opened again. Whoever looked at them - it is with effort and sorrow. There were tears to fill a well. [M.H.W. has added to this "when he died." M.L.W. feels sure this was spoken in connection with the packing and unpacking.] And he understood instantly. When he first went over, after being "popped off so suddenly" (that is the way he says it), after being popped off so suddenly, the effect was disintegrating. Then he heard those he loved speaking, saying, "Where are you!"...
I see him showing a whole lot of little, unmounted pictures. I think not taken by him. He is going through them and looking them over as though making remarks about them. There are various people and some of the fellows he knew. They are not marked. Some are known and some are not known. They have been kept - they are all curled up. There is (or has been?) an effort to identify them. He says it is unimportant... There is one of him. It looked like a fence. There are three or four strips of wood, I think, and what looks like a rail - a top rail. I can see him perched on the top rail, like that, on the rail, carelessly, watching something going on, like a game or something of that sort. This picture seems to be among others of him. Wait, there are some figures on the back. There is a 4 and an O and a... well, there is somewhere a 6 and a 3. He is trying to give it as evidence.... Is there an F, a Frederic connected with him? [No, we can think of none. - M.L. & M.H.W.] He is more anxious to get back to you than you are to him, and that is a great deal, isn't it!
He has a message. "I don't like to say I am waiting for you to come to me and yet sometimes it seems as if I could not wait. But I am not far away, for I know how much you miss me and that you do feel better when I am near and there is time enough for us to go on together when you come here."
B... It seems like an odd name - familiar to him. He points to that lady and to another big lady, full-faced, very matronly and good. Her hair is parted. It is gray, not young. She is so lovely! He points to her as though she had been a great help. Doesn't she belong to you both? Isn't she your Mother? I see "Mother" written on the table. [It would seem to be our Mother, but we said we should not call her big. With a little laugh. - M.L.W.] Well, she looks big to me. She isn't thin like that other lady. Oh! She's a darling! She would do anything for anybody! Her face is so inviting. Her doors are always open for her dear ones. She is psychic, too. You would ask her a question, then she woud wait a moment, and then answer. She always had the best advice! So sensible and efficient! She can do anything. She is a Mother. You couldn't mistake her! She says, "Now don't talk like that. There are hundreds of other mothers just like me." She says that, but she does like it, too. She is very busy. Has done so much for that young man. She comforts him when he is discouraged. She takes him right in her arms, and opens the door for him... You know it is like a kitty at the door partly opened. She scratches and scratches, but she is only a kitty and cannot open it herself. She is not a lioness. He laughs at my saying he is like a kitty! The door, of course, is the door of consciousness. [With a little laugh.] I jump from one thing to another!
Here is a picture of him. A really, truly photograph. A good-sized frame, I think standing up. There are two pictures. I go to a place, I lift it up. It is on a dressing table or some such place. One is on a place lower than my hand, the other higher up. I walk toward it, over there. I stand and look at it. It is awfully good. They are not the same photograph, they do not belong to the same series. But this one is awfully good. He seems to be walking all around this room now. He saw everything when he went into a strange room. He was not curious, but his perceptions were quick. He adjusted himself to an atmosphere. He was very quick....
Here is something - it seems to be books. No printing - like ruled copy books. Blank books! That is what you call them, isn't it? There are a few little things in them - they are not filled. Beside them is a long narrow book with a great many things in it. It seems to be a memorandum... he could write two ways, a good hand, and then so you could hardly read it. Hurriedly, not ignorant, but hurriedly and run off. Illegible. This is a long, narrow book, with things written in it, and figures....
There is a letter A. Do you know anyone connected with him whose name begins with a letter A? A-L- I can't make it out. Is it B? No? It is a high letter, like the L. Wait. A-L-F-R-E-D. [M.L.W. asked what the spiritual relation between them was.] They are one in purpose and thought, these two. It seems there would be a perfect understanding and love at once. Love and interest. He loves this man! Oh! I love to help him! He's so good. He doesn't get me mixed up or nervous!
There's... it looks like a fountain pen. He puts it down here. It was left and it is significant of him. He picks it up - he used it a lot. Sometimes he wrote so clearly and sometimes he scribbled. As he puts it down he has a little feeling about it. "I wonder if I could write with it now!" I can almost see him with it in his hand... I see him touching his eyes with his hand. It seems to be a habit, as though to think things out. Often you could see him writing with his hand over his eyes. Not sleepy nor tired, but as though holding in his thoughts. You wouldn't disturb him if you could help it, but if you did he never was fretful. He was awfully easy. "In a minute," he would say if he was disturbed. He was not at all fretful nor restless, but active - honest - never irritable. There was no instability about him.
Here is a letter. W... There is something else. Keep on with your W until I can see it. [This, manifestly, not to us. - M.L.W.] "Will try to do everything I can to give you the evidence that I am not dead, but very much alive. And your love is just as necessary to me as mine to you. And it is wonderful, yes, wonderful, to know that death does not block our lives as somethings we have thought it did. And I am glad you gave me this time."
He takes something out of his pocket and puts it in his mouth. He lays it on the table. Not a tablet, but like a piece of wood - a little odor, like - I never saw anything like it. He can break off a little and put it in his mouth. It isn't in a shape as though made, but as though you could put it in your mouth - stiff, like a root. You might take it for hoarseness. He puts it in his mouth as though it meant something to him.
I see a time-piece, not a watch, more like a clock. I hear it strike. As I see it, it is as though someone were looking at it - looked and wondered. Both hands are away down here [motions as though at the bottom of a dial. - M.L.W.] As though it were, say, half past six, or the hands move slightly, perhaps twenty-five minutes to seven. That hour means something to him. I get a shivery feeling. Was something done to his body after death? Like taking it from one place to another? I see it moved, and after that, after final arrangements were made, there was a feeling of being glad he was at home. First it was gruesome, heartachy, then, "Glad I'm home!" then an easy walking toward the light. "I am so happy just now!"
I think I must go now. [There was a courteous leave-taking, a reaching out of both hands, an explanation that she was an Indian, "which makes no difference here," a showing us an Indian bag hanging on a desk which, she said, had been given her, a telling us to wait for Mrs. Soule outside, and we left. - M.L.W.]
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