Class PS6-7 / 
 
 Book . 131 13 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY RESIDENTS OF 
 
 LAKE COUNTY, ILL 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 ROBERT DARROW. 
 
 
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 REGISTER PRINT., WAUKEQANj ILL. 
 
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 ,1-3:03 
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 This little volume is published for the purpose of showing 
 that Lake County has many writers of poetry, of whom it may 
 be proud. Dr. Bennett of McHenry County immortalized him- 
 self by writing that sweet hymn, "The Sweet By and By." 
 From time to time there has been published in the local press 
 of the County, many a gem worthy to be gathered and treas- 
 ured; and it has been the pleasing task of the compiler of this 
 little volume to do so. It also contains many selections which 
 never before have been published. It has been a labor of love 
 in the compiler to gather these fragments together, and he 
 trusts his task will not be wholly unappreciated. 
 
 Waukegan, 111., 1896. 
 
 Robert Daekow. 
 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Introduction — R. Darrow - 1 
 
 A Story - - - - t - 13 
 
 A Song- of Spring — Florence Whiteley - - 37 
 
 A Bunch of Sough — Florence Whiteley - - 38 
 
 A Farmer's Life on the Plain — M. Farley - - 112 
 
 A Lesson from the Forest— Mrs. L. Collier - 93 
 
 A Mother's Dream -.--"- 64 
 
 A Plea for The Village Boy — Anna Hegwyn - - 74 
 
 A Plea for the Robin— Mrs, A. E. H. Williamson - 12 
 
 A Summing Up — M. Farley - - - - 117 
 
 A Song— M. Farley - - - - 114 
 
 A Summer Reverie — Anna E. Merriott - - 123 
 
 A Story of War— Muse 139 
 
 A True Friend— Lizzie B. Phillips - - - 39 
 
 A Valentine - - - - - 115 
 
 A Valentine— M. Farley - - - - 107 
 
 A Valentine — Farley - - - - 116 
 
 Aspiration — Bertha B. Green - - - 51 
 
 Autumn — Nannie B. Colby - 33 
 
 Autumn Leaves — Mrs. E. A. Bliss - - - 47 
 
 A Memory — Anna Bilinski Gridley - - 145 
 
 Apathy — Anna Bilinski Gridley - - - 147 
 A Funeral Pagent in Rome — Anna Bilinski Gridley 147 
 
 Beautiful Consistency — Nannie Bliss - - 25 
 
 Be Kind to Loved Ones at Home - - - 81 
 
 Before the Inquest — Anna Bilinski Gridley - 150 
 
 Columbia's Emblem — Edna Green Proctor - - 78 
 
 Christmas Eve — Mrs. L. Collier - 96 
 
 Early Memories — J. W. Clampitt - - - 45 
 
 Endurance — E. A. H. Williamson - - 23 
 
 Evening — Mrs. Little - - - - 85 
 
 Excusable — Mrs. Annie Fritch - - - 89 
 
 Encouragement — Anna Bilinski Gridley - - 146 
 
 Fair Waukegan — Rev. L. N. Stratton - - 2 
 
 False — Mrs. Williamson - - - ... - 5 
 
 Farewell to Eva — Hannah Smith - - 61 
 
 From Shore to Shore — Mrs. E. A. Bliss - - 48 
 
 Going It Blind, Robert Darrow - - - 128 
 
 Good Night To 1876— Mrs. E. C. Bliss - - 31 
 
 Grannie — M. Farley - - - - 117 
 
 Heart Broken— Mrs. F. Little - - - 130 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow — Anna Dempsey - - 68 
 
 In One Week — Mrs. Williamson - - - 16 
 
 In the Firelight — Nannie Bliss - - - 27 
 
 Inspiration — Jane M. Eddy - 56 
 
 In Memorium, Young- Manxman — Mrs. L. Collier - 107 
 
In Memoriam, Mrs. C. F. Heydeeker — Lorena Corser - 142 
 
 Little Anna — Mrs. Williamson - - - 7 
 
 Life's Experience — Mrs. Williamson - - - 22 
 
 Life's Pathway — Mrs. L. Collier - 99 
 
 Lake County Fair Election— Dago - - 65 
 
 Let in the Sunshine — Nora ... 59 
 
 Lines — A. E. H. Williamson - - - 135 
 
 Lines— N. C. C. - - - - 143 
 
 Lines From Wadsworth - - - - 54 
 
 Lines In Memory of Mary — M. Farley - - 113 
 
 Lines, To Mary Redmond — Ed. Cooney - 119 
 
 Lines — By a Young- Lady — Anna E. Merriott - 126 
 
 Little Willie— Mrs. L. Collier - - - 105 
 
 Look Upward — Mrs. E. A. Bliss - - - 51 
 
 Lost Friends— Mrs. L. Collier - - - 101 
 
 Love— Mrs. F. Little - - - - 136 
 
 Love and Death — J. W. Clampett - - 44 
 
 Life — Anna Bilinski Gridley - 145 
 
 My Dream — Mrs. Williamson - - - 8 
 
 Memorial to Mamie Quinn — Mrs. Collier - - 102 
 
 Magdalene — Nannie Bliss Colby - - - 30 
 
 Martha Evarts Holden— John C. Shirley - - 82 
 
 My Mother— Mrs. L. Collier - - 104 
 
 Mr. Anderson ----- 109 
 
 Midnight— Mrs. L. Collier - - - 102 
 
 Mother— M. A. DeLaney * 83 
 
 Mother's Love — Mrs. C. A. Bliss - - 49 
 
 Money— Mrs. C. A. Bliss 50 
 
 Moneyless Man — Henry Stanton - - 80 
 
 Misunderstood — Anna Bilinski Gridley. - - 148 
 
 North Chicago — Laureate 4 
 
 Never Trine — Mrs. Williamson - 6 
 
 Nature— Mrs. F. Little - - - - 137 
 
 Nob Gone— Mrs. F. Little 76 
 
 On The Ferry — Mary C. Ames - - - 58 
 
 Our Wishes— Nannie Bliss 27 
 
 Our Mission — Lizzie Bliss Phillips - - - 41 
 
 Please Forgive — Mrs. Williamson - - 11 
 
 Parted — Nannie Bliss - - - - 30 
 
 People Will Talk ... 67 
 
 Poem— Lieut S. F. Bennett - - - 69 
 
 Quaker Meetings — Robert Darrow 76 
 
 Recompense — Bertha Baker Green - - - 52 
 
 Report From Big Hollow — Mrs. Fairman - - 54 
 
 Sonnet — Bertha Baker Green - - - 53 
 
 Some One's Servant Girl - - 63 
 
 Spring — Nannie Bliss Colby - - - 34 
 
 Squaw T Creek — Mrs. Fritch - 66 
 
Sweet By and By— S. F. Bennett - - - 141 
 
 The Slanderers — Mrs. Williamson - - 9 
 
 The Surprise Party — Mrs. Williamson - - 10 
 
 The Ice Storm — Mrs. Williamson - - IT 
 
 To James O. Xewpart — Mrs. Williamson - - 13 
 
 To My Father— Anna E. Heath - - - 19 
 
 The Dreamer .... - 2 ) 
 
 The Blue Bird— Florence Whitley - - 39 
 
 The Conflagration — A. E. H. Williamson - - 92 
 
 The Sod Shanty on the Plain— M. Farley - 122 
 
 The Angry Man— A. E. N. - - - - 87 
 
 The Beckoning Hand— Anna E. Jklerriott - 124 
 
 The Blue Violet— Mrs. F. Little - - - 129 
 
 The Bobolinks— E. A. n. Williamson - - 36 
 
 The Fire at Evanston— E. A. H. Williamson - - 90 
 
 The Little Beggar Girl— Anna E. Heath - - 23 
 
 The Last of June — Alice M. Lindsey - - - 62 
 
 The Mice— M. Farley - 108 
 
 The Maid of the Wind — Florence Whiteley - - 43 
 
 The Modern Woman — J. J. Burke - - £6 
 
 The Mother Hubbard— E. A. II. Williamson - - 24 
 
 The Old Year— E. A. H. Williamson - - 91 
 
 The Old Couple— Xannie Bliss - - - 29 
 
 The Potency of Tears - - • - CO 
 
 The Shirt— INI. Farley - - - - 114 
 
 The Song of Spring — Florence Whiteley - - 37 
 
 The Voice of the Soul — Laura Baker - - 52 
 
 The Water Mill— Mrs. Little - - - 133 
 
 The Wind— Mrs. Williamson - - - 90 
 
 Time is Flying— Mrs. E. A. Bliss - - 48 
 
 Tobacco— M. Farley - - - - 121 
 
 To Carrie, on Leaving Home — Mrs. L. Collier - 97 
 
 To Mary Messer— Xannie Bliss Colby - - 32 
 
 To Mary W. Robinson — Xannie Bliss Colby - 35 
 
 To Mrs. Xettie B. Payne — Lizzie Bliss Phillips - 42 
 
 To Speculators -Iowa Drover - - - 77 
 
 To What Class?— Robert Darrow - - - 127 
 
 To Martin and Mrs. Melody— J. O. Shea - - 132 
 
 Two Homes — Mrs. Little - - - - 133 
 
 Vernon School — James Callahan - - - 120 
 
 War — Mrs. Williamson - 19 
 
 Wendell Phillips -H. E. Partridge - - 126 
 
 Welcome Ninety-Sixth— Mrs. J. Hartnett - - 131 
 
 Withered Leaves — Xannie Bliss - 2(3 
 
 When— Mrs. L. Collier - - 
 Whiskey Xot to Blame — M. Farley 
 Which Shall Be First?— Xannie Bliss Colby 
 
 110 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 i- Oh. they wander wide who roam 
 
 For the joys of life from home." 
 
 Your home is built on beauteous ground 
 
 With shrubs and flowers growing all around, 
 
 They bud and blossom bright and fair, 
 
 And their fragrance fills the air; 
 
 ] beautiful walks and drives are seen 
 
 Passing through the lawn so green, 
 
 While fountains shoot upward in crystal spray 
 
 Making minature, rainbows through the day; 
 
 And your garden in the rear, 
 
 What festal dainties are growing' here. 
 
 A King might gaze in mute surprise 
 
 At the sweets, which meet his eyes, 
 
 And out on your orchard trees 
 
 Where can you find such fruits as these, 
 
 And their colors rich and rare, — 
 
 Apples of Hesperides are found there. 
 
 Out in your broad fields the golden grain 
 
 Is reaped and bound in many a skein; 
 
 A yield so great, so large a store 
 
 Your barns are full and flowing o'er. 
 
 Bat your senses have weary grown, 
 
 And the glisten and garnish of life have flown. 
 
 And all these things of beauty and grace 
 
 You say, '*Are Small or Common Place." 
 
 You long for something new and rare, 
 
 W T hich only can be found elsewhere. 
 
 '"Tis the old story,"' Distance lends enchantment to the view. 
 
 Gilds all things with lustre bright and new. 
 
 Why not go to some distant nook 
 
 And backward, homeward look? 
 
 There are attractions you had forgot, 
 
 Your home is now a k, Cosy Cot." 
 
 Why sigh and wish to roam 
 
 When great blessings are found at home. 
 
 The Poets of Europe are great and grand, 
 
 Like tall and stately trees they stand; 
 
 They are poets and learned sages, 
 
 Their names shall live in all the ag-es — 
 
In every country and in every clime 
 
 Down through all the stream of time. 
 
 But we, at home are not yet great, 
 
 We can only "stand and wait!" 
 
 Wait for brig-liter and better days 
 
 When we shall receive a proper meed of praise, 
 
 When we can weave a spell of enchantment 'round, 
 
 Our merit, and our worth shall then be found. 
 
 The lowly and the humble shall exalted be; 
 
 Surely, there is hope for such as we. 
 
 Home Poets. 
 
 FAIR WAUKEGAN 
 
 KEY. L. N. STRATTON. 
 
 On the blooming slopes and the wood-crowned hills, 
 Where ravines were deep and sang" the glad rills; 
 Where the wolf's wild howl and the eagle's scream 
 W 7 ere as common once as our hoots of steam 
 A few men camped beneath the trees, 
 Delighted to find such heights as these; 
 They planted a town, and work began, 
 On a city now known as Waukegan. 
 
 The red deer cropped the prairie grass, 
 
 And the wild geese broke the lakes of grass, 
 
 And the trilling horns of the sand-hill cranes, 
 
 Echoed like bugles o'er the grassy plains. 
 
 The site where the Indian's wigwam stood, 
 
 Was betrayed by the banner of smoke o'er the wood. 
 
 And the white man's cabin, near nature's port, 
 
 Was defended by the name of "Little Fort." 
 
 Lake county out spread with its groves of green. 
 
 With fifty-three lakelets in silver sheen, 
 
 Delighted the settler and kindled his eye, 
 
 W T hen he saw the growths, as the summer went by. 
 
 His light canoe cut the lakelets face, 
 
 As he crossed to the trail of the otter's place, 
 
He knew the nest of the snowy swan. 
 
 And spared the deer with the speckled fawn. 
 
 Then winding* roads the prairies crossed — 
 
 Who kept the track would not get lost. 
 
 But they turned to the right and the left at will. 
 
 As the hearts of their children are wavering still. 
 
 I recall old roads on broad prairies green. 
 
 With a track each side and a ridge between: 
 
 How the chickens whirred up. and the wild wolf sped 
 
 From his road-side haunts, where a horse was dead. 
 
 Then the squirrel barked in the autumn wood. 
 And stored up the nuts for his winter's food: 
 And the vulture soared in the deep blue sky 
 To salute the cloud that went sailing by: 
 And the farmer said. "It will rain to-day. 
 I must rake up the swaths of my prairie hay." 
 Then cabins were built, and tough sod broken. 
 And fields were fenced, of homes a token. 
 
 But the red men are gone, and water-fowl fled. 
 
 And the pioneers sleep on the hills of the dead. 
 
 The lands are all fenced, and the maple-marked road 
 
 Casts its shades for the carriages and the heaviest load. 
 
 Where the court house stands a wigwam stood. 
 
 And these slopes grew rank with the reel man's food: 
 
 But our farms mere wide, and more restful our homes. 
 
 Where our city is built with its spires and domes. 
 
 The children are pla\ung everywhere 
 
 And the school bells tinkles on the morning air: 
 
 Here the telegraphs click and the swift trains go. 
 
 And the telephones sound their bright "Hello!" 
 
 And the reveille trumpet of the factory's call. 
 
 While the motor at night beats tattoo for all. 
 
 Here the fires burn bright, and peace day and night. 
 
 Rests down upon all with a faultless delight. 
 
 In peace and in plenty the people shall live. 
 
 With enough for themselves and some to give: 
 
 Progress and power are the stamp of the place. 
 
 And enterprise gleams in the lines of its face: 
 
 Tall chimneys are waving their banners on high. 
 
 And great ships bear their tonnage in stateliness by. 
 
 By thy great saltless sea — the blue Michigan — 
 
 May tliv strong 1 walls long- rise. 0. Tnor Fair Waukegjln. 
 
NORTH CHICAGO, 
 
 LAUREATE 
 
 To the south with dark forests girded round. 
 
 To the east and west a rising ground, 
 
 To the north a beauteous level crest 
 
 With trees and green grass dressed, 
 
 To the extreme east, where bluff and waters meet * 
 
 Lake Michigan stretches out in calm and placid sheet, 
 
 Where is seen many a whitened sail 
 
 And commerce is wafted by steam and gale. 
 
 The whole interspersed with gentle hills, 
 
 With pebbly brooks and rippling rills: 
 
 *T would seem as if nature searched all o'er her face. 
 
 In which to find a perfect place 
 
 To build a grand and bustling town, 
 
 And then it sprang into existence with a bound. 
 
 Yet strange to say, it has not a rightful name, 
 
 This city, new and grand of fame, 
 
 Strange it is, and it is a pity 
 
 It was not called the Magic City — 
 
 A city with thirty-five miles of graded streets, 
 
 And thirty miles of side walks complete; 
 
 Five hundred houses in four years 
 
 In grandeur and beauty appears; 
 
 Six factories with their din and noise, 
 
 With their workmen and girls like bees in a hive: 
 
 Two railroads, where cars rush through, 
 
 Or stop to give passengers a better view; 
 
 Two churches that would by love control. 
 
 To ennoble, elevate and save the soul; 
 
 Three grand and beautiful schools 
 
 Where children go to learn life's rules; 
 
 W T ith lumber yards and many stores, 
 
 Where deals are made in timbers, wares and ores. 
 
 The motto of this place, the Democratic plan 
 
 Of "Equal Rights to All. and Privileges to None/' 
 
 We here extend to all a cordial right hand, 
 
 Come on my friend well aid you if we can. 
 
 Oh. goodly town 111 sing for you a meed of praise. 
 
 And weave for you a wreath of never fading bays. 
 
 No boodlers e'er have found the place 
 
Of sin and crime, not e'en a trace. 
 
 Nor -can there be found one chuff or churl 
 
 To sling bad words or vile invective hurl. 
 
 A place where balmy fragrance fill the air, 
 
 And beauteous flowers bloom everywhere. 
 
 Oh. you who wander o'er the plain 
 
 Come back and make your home here again. 
 
 You'll find all the blessings to mortals e'er given, 
 
 All the joys of life, and all the hopes of heaven. 
 
 80 to all on pleasure or business bent 
 
 We would say, "This is the place to pitch your tent,— 
 
 Here nature gives to all a goodly store, 
 
 Enough so that they may not sigh for more, 
 
 A place where arl is sweet content 
 
 And all blessings in one whole is blent.' 1 
 
 JSo come here and make your home, 
 
 You'll find the motto on our banner is always "Welcome.'' 1 
 
 FALSE, 
 
 MRS. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 False is the voice so low and sweet 
 Of him who kneels at the maidens feet. 
 False are the smiles his lips that wreath. 
 False are the vows those proud lips breathe, 
 Her stainless heart as pure as heaven. 
 Y^et the maiden fair to him has given. 
 
 False is the heart within the breast 
 Of him who bends with a fond caress. 
 False are the eyes with looks of love 
 False is the form that towers above, 
 That tender flower, that graceful girl 
 With lips of coral, and teeth of pearl. 
 
 False is the hand whose tender grasp. 
 The slender fingers fondly clasp, 
 False the whispered kind good night. 
 False the kiss on the forehead white. 
 
Imprinted there by the lips of one 
 Whose cruel work is not yet done. 
 
 False at last is the mournful sigh, 
 When he for a season must say good-bye- 
 False are the words on his lips that burn. 
 False, for he never will return, 
 He has gained her affections now, 
 A broken heart for a broken vow. 
 
 NEVER TRIFLE. 
 
 MKS, WILLIAMSON. 
 
 Never trifle, there is danger, 
 
 Although harm you may not do^ 
 
 That your heart will grow as fickle- 
 You will have to prove untrue. 
 
 Rave you never heard the story 
 Of the pebbles on the shore, 
 
 That would turn the baser metals 
 Into shining golden ore. 
 
 Know you not the alchemist 
 
 With his iron rod in hand, 
 Walked along and touched the pebbles 
 
 As they lay upon the sand. 
 
 One by one he tried them, 
 
 They were cast upon the wave; 
 
 And he still kept on searching 
 For the one he wished to save. 
 
 Till at last his search was ended. 
 
 For that wonder to behold; 
 As he touched a tiny pebble, 
 
 In his hand the rod was gold. 
 
 But behold, the force of habit. 
 He the treasure could not keep: 
 
 So he cast it like the others, 
 Far away upon the deep. 
 
Thus he lost the wondrous fortune. 
 
 Given by his mystic art; 
 But he lost not more than many 
 
 Lose who trine with the heart. 
 
 By the side of a bright river, 
 
 Thousands wander on today; 
 Seeking for some precious treasure, 
 
 That shall bring them joy for aye. 
 
 Oh beware then how you trifle — 
 
 How you cast away the rest, 
 Lest you also banish from you 
 
 What would make your whole life blest. 
 
 This is the coquette's fortunes. 
 
 They the gold will treat as dross. 
 Thoughtlessly they cast it from them 
 
 When too late they see their loss. 
 
 LITTLE ANNIE 
 
 MRS. A. E. R\ WILLIAMSON. 
 
 Bonnie wee Annie, so winsome and gay 
 Out in the sunshine is busy at play; 
 Laughing and singing in childish delight, 
 Kind angels guard her and guide her aright. 
 
 Too young to remember last summer's hours. 
 The world is a wonder of leaves, birds and flowers: 
 In each blade of grass and each flower she sees 
 There's something to wonder at, something to please. 
 
 One moment she listens to some strange birds song\ 
 Then comes with a plaint that she thinks has gone wrong. 
 Then show me the lawyer, though wise he may be 
 That can answer the questions wee Annie asks me. 
 
 Look mamma, look! and tell me what are these. 
 Will they grow into grasses or flowers or trees? 
 Ma. what are the little birds singing about? 
 I've tried a long time and I cannot find out. 
 
Mamma you said there was coming' a shower, 
 Won't it kill all the grasses and spoil every flower? 
 The dear little birdies will get wet through and through; 
 Have they some dry clothes to put on if they do? 
 
 When the shower came a new wonder was seen — 
 
 The rainbow in crimson and purple and green, 
 
 For the glorious sun smiled on the storm, 
 
 And touched the dark clouds with a glow, rich and warm. 
 
 Come ma. come quickly, see this beautiful thing 
 High up in the sky like the half of a ring. 
 So I told her the story that comforts and cheers, 
 How the promise of God in the rainbow appears. 
 
 Hut the tired bright head has drooped low on my breast. 
 And the chattering tongue' for a while is at rest, 
 And the white lids ha,ve hidden the blue eyes from sight — 
 I shall have no more questions to answer to-night. 
 
 MY DREAM, 1872. 
 
 MRS. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 I dreamt last night a strange sweet dream 
 
 Of the days that are no more- — 
 Again I stood by the little stream 
 
 That flowed by our cottage door. 
 
 Our dear old home, where the tall pine trees 
 
 Like sentinels standing nigh, 
 As they moved and swayed in the gentle breeze 
 
 Seemed whispering to the sky. 
 
 I dreamt of the dear old school house too — 
 
 Of a teacher young and fair, 
 With dreamy eyes of azure blue 
 
 And beautiful sunny hair. 
 
 I dreamt of the scholars- — each well known face 
 
 Was back in the place again, 
 Though many a year in the restless race 
 
 Had come and gone since then. 
 
Not a single change in the dear old spot: 
 The flowers were as bright and fair — 
 
 Again the sweet, bine forget-me-not 
 We twined in the teacher's hair. 
 
 *Twas a beautiful dream so fair and bright. 
 
 A dream of the days gone by. 
 But it passed away with the memory light. 
 
 And I woke with a little sigh. 
 
 For well I knew that a stranger's feet 
 
 Had entered the cottage door. 
 That never again the school would meet. 
 
 That the teacher was there no more. 
 
 No more for down in the silent dell 
 Where the drooping willow weeps. 
 
 A slab of granite her story tells: 
 She suffered, and now she sleeps. 
 
 Oh, happy children so young and gay. 
 
 With heart so merry and glad. 
 Will you ever look back in a future day: 
 
 On a picture so strange and sad. 
 
 THE SLANDERERS. 
 
 MBS. A. E. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 Of all the creatures that our God has made. 
 
 It has been said the miser is most low. 
 
 But I aver that this cannot be so: 
 For there is one of still a darker shade. 
 
 It is the slanderer, who with poisonous breath 
 
 Would hiss into your e*ars. the words of death. 
 
 Far rather would I nestle to my heart 
 The pointed headed viper, for its sting 
 Could only take my life, but this vile thing 
 
 Would rob me of my honor, dearer part. 
 Did I but trust it for a single hour. 
 Or place ray self in its relentless power. 
 
10 
 
 And I for friendship would far rather trust 
 
 The fell hyena, who in midnight gloom 
 
 Goes forth to desecrate the sacred tomb; 
 For he doth but unearth decaying- dust. 
 
 It cannot suffer, cannot feel or know 
 
 The pain that follows the vile slanderer's blow. 
 
 Would that a Cain like mark was plainly set 
 Upon thy brow. Oh! nig*ht"s accursed child. 
 That all might know thee, though thou wept or smiled. 
 
 That none might even trust thee or forget. 
 Then many a broken heart healing find. 
 And peace would visit many a troubled mind. 
 
 THE SURPRISE PART*, 
 
 Mes. Williamson — 1887. 
 
 Were you ever surprised my friend? 
 
 If not I'll let you know 
 How we ourselves were much surprised, 
 
 A little while ago. 
 
 'Twas Monday night, a curtain dark 
 
 Of clouds hung o'er the sky, 
 Nor could be seen to pierce the gloom 
 
 One single starry eye. 
 
 A few folks came to our home, 
 
 The evening to enjoy — 
 For youth defies the mud and dark, 
 
 Their pleasure to destroy. 
 
 And we were pleased for they were friends 
 
 Respected true and kind. 
 We thought to spend a pleasant eve. 
 
 But soon we changed our mind. 
 
 Before our friends had all arrived. 
 
 Outside we heard a stir. 
 And then indeed we were surprised, 
 
 If ever people were. 
 
11 
 
 Tliey came a crowd of men 
 
 That almost blocked the way; 
 But who they were or whence they came 
 
 It would be hard to say. 
 
 I've seen a hive of bees buzz out 
 
 When angry or alarmed, 
 Just so the crowd came rushing* in. 
 
 As if the town had swarmed. 
 
 They came they saw without a doubt. 
 
 They conquered to 111 say, 
 
 They spoiled our pleasure, soiled our house 
 And drove our friends away. 
 
 The mud was fifteen inches deep 
 
 Upon our kitchen floor. 
 I hope and pray that such surprise 
 
 May come to me no more. 
 
 Xow here's a word of good odvice 
 
 To boys both near and far. 
 Don't think that you must always go 
 
 Where ever other people are. 
 
 And if you wish to call on us 
 
 On any night or day. 
 Why come by five or come by tens, 
 
 But not by hundreds pray. 
 
 PLEASE FORGIVE 
 
 MRS. WILLIAMSON 
 
 Please forgive long neglected, 
 Though still unforgotten friend 
 
 I've been thinking almost daily 
 I a message soon would send. 
 
 But so many cares and duties 
 Have of late fallen to me, 
 
 Little time to woo the muses. 
 Or to write is left you see. 
 
Two sweet children claim attention — 
 
 One a blue eyed rosy boy, 
 One a brown haired baby lassie; 
 
 Mothers darling- pride and joy. 
 
 Much of time and care demanding, 
 But a blessing they will prove. 
 
 And our "burdens seem far lighter 
 When we bear them all for love. 
 
 So though life has toils and trials 
 Sweetness mingles with the gall. 
 
 Two young hearts are ever near me, 
 That will love me best of all. 
 
 If God spares them, when I'm weary 
 With the weight of many years, 
 
 Two young forms of strength and beauty, 
 To sustain me will be near. 
 
 If my friends are now neglected 
 
 111 remember in my prayers 
 Still to ask, that richest blessings 
 
 Ever rest on them and theirs. 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE ROBIN 
 
 A. E. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 They're killing the robins, the beautiful robins. 
 The red breasted songsters so precious and dear; 
 
 The bird that comes soonest, the truest and bravest. 
 That hastens to tell us when springtime is near. 
 
 Through all the long spring he has toiled for the farmer, 
 As faithful a servant as man could employ. 
 
 Protecting the grain and the fruit from the ravage 
 Of insects and worms that had come to destroy. 
 
 Hut now when the cherries are ripened in plenty. 
 
 He asks for a few as a part of his pay. 
 How quick they forget all the debt that they owe him. 
 
 And even his sweet life is taken away. 
 
n 
 
 Oh! cruel and greedy and ignorant farmer, 
 
 When will yon learn wisdom and spare the sweet bird: 
 
 Your very best friend is the red breasted charmer. 
 Whose clear ringing notes in the morning are heard. 
 
 There is never a bird of the forest or garden. 
 Connected with legends so sweet and so strange. 
 
 If people would but take the trouble to read them, 
 
 I think that their feelings toward robins would change. 
 
 There's a legend that tells that the red on his bosom. 
 
 Reflects the red flame of the pit he has crossed. 
 Where he goes in his mercy to carry cool water, 
 
 To soothe and to comfort the souls that are lost. 
 
 And there is another, sweet Indian legend, 
 
 Of a beautiful child whom the tribe had loved well: 
 
 How he changed to a robin, and that is the reason, 
 That near to our homes he has chosen to dwell. 
 
 I>ut this is the sweetest and holiest legend, 
 
 How he came to the cross where our Savior was hung. 
 
 And the red on his breast is the blood of his bosom, 
 Pierced by thorns in the crown of the crucified One. 
 
 But for time and for space, which we all must remember, 
 There are still many more I would tell if I could, 
 
 But surely you all know the beautiful story, 
 
 Of the robins that covered the babes in the wood. 
 
 You may smile in your scorn at these strange superstitions, 
 
 And over their folly and ignorance grieve, 
 If the robins must die when these men are enlightened. 
 
 They had better be ignorant still and believe. 
 
 Oh! is there no law to protect the poor robin. 
 
 The sweetest of singers in garden and glade 
 If men have neglected and failed to enact them. 
 
 It surely is time that such laws should be made. 
 
 A STORY. 
 
 Near where the restless ocean's wave. 
 The shore of bonnie Scotland lores. 
 Where the rock flings back the silver spray. 
 Was the humble home of Jessie Gray. 
 
14 
 
 And there mong glens and hills and rocks- 
 Young Kenneth her lover fed his flocks, 
 And gathered flowers bright and fair 
 To twine in her shining golden hair. 
 
 The flowers were fair indeed to see, 
 But not one of them all was fair as she, 
 Her eye had stolen the violet blue. 
 And her cheeks the rose's delicate hue. 
 
 Her brow was white as the lily fair — 
 The sunbeams hid in her clustering hair, 
 And the peasants said when they saw her pass. 
 Sweet Jessie Gray is a bonnie lass. 
 
 Young Kenneth grew weary of home one day ? 
 He longed to be sailing far away; 
 "'There's a beautiful land beyond the sea, 
 Where all may be wealthy and great,"' said he. 
 
 "My Jessie is far too fair," he cried, 
 "To be but a humble shepherd's bride." 
 He sought her cottage one summer day 
 And said, "sweet lassie I'm going away." 
 
 "But do not weep dear Jessie," said he, 
 "When I'm far away on the dark blue sea 
 Three times the summer shall clothe the glen 
 Ere I return to my home again." 
 
 Two years passed in the restless race, 
 Young Jessie grew fairer in form and face, 
 My lord in the stately castle there 
 Has never a daughter so sweet and fair. 
 
 But her beautiful eyes looked far away, 
 She watched the ocean day by day, 
 And she sang like the birds in the shady glen. 
 "I wait for my lover to come again." 
 
 '•Jessie, fair Jessie!" the young lord cried, 
 "Wilt thou be my darling, my bonnie bride: 
 Your robe shall be such as a queen might wear 
 And gems shall shine in your sunny hair. 
 
 "To fair art thou for a lowly lot, 
 Then leave forever your humble cot 
 And dwell with me in my castle fair, 
 On the banks of the beautiful river Ayr.'* 
 
15 
 
 The crimson blood her young cheeks dyes. 
 As over the sea she casts her ej^es. 
 And a voice as sweet as the song-bird's trill. 
 Said. "Kenneth! My Kenneth! I love thee still."" 
 Then proudly raising her lovely head, 
 To the young lord thus she sweetly said: 
 "Your lands are broad and your castle fair 
 But the man I love is not master there. 
 
 '•The queenly robe that you offer me 
 Would cover a heart that loves not thee. 
 And dearer than gems were flowers fair 
 If Kenneth might twine them in my hair."" 
 
 ''Then blame me not that I love not you — 
 To my shepherd I will still be true, 
 And when he comes back o'er the raging main 
 I'll be waiting to welcome him home again." 
 
 Sadly the young Lord turned away, 
 
 And madly he rode in the chase that day; 
 
 A wounded stag he sought to slay 
 
 That the hounds and the hunters had brought to bay. 
 
 His frightened steed with a fearful bound 
 Threw him with violence to the ground. 
 And the angry stag so strong and fleet 
 Trampled him down with its flinty feet. 
 
 Swift to the rescue his comrades fly, 
 But they come too late, he must surely die. 
 "I am dying,"' he said, "But my friends I pray 
 You will bring to my side sweet Jessie Gray."' 
 
 She came, and the young lord softly said. 
 •"I soon shall be numbered with the dead. 
 But hear my words for I make you heir, 
 To my stately castle and lands so fair." 
 
 "Your faithfulness I would fain reward: 
 Y r our Kenneth is worthy to be a lord. 
 Then bid him come back o'er the dark blue sea 
 And dwell in the castle at home with thee."" 
 
 The lands are fertile, and broad and fair. 
 And Kenneth is master of all that is there. 
 And Jessie dwells in a castle grand. 
 The loveliest lady in all the land. 
 
(() 
 
 IN ONE WEEK, 
 
 ANNA E. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 When this strange week first begun 
 
 All were j ay on s— - every one. 
 
 Thinking, as time passed away, 
 
 Nearer drew the happy day 
 
 When two friends their faith would plight 
 
 And their hands and hearts unite. 
 
 Willing fingers hapten here, 
 
 To prepare the bridal gear; 
 
 Voices whispered here and there. 
 
 Blessings on the happy pair. 
 
 Who shall e'er thy smile forget, 
 
 Happy hearted, gay, Jeanette. 
 
 Brightly dawned the wedding* morn. 
 
 And there came no voice to warn. 
 
 None to whisper of alloy, 
 
 That might dampen all their joy, 
 
 Hearts were light and hopes were high 
 
 Not a cloud was in the sky. 
 
 In this valley of unrest 
 
 Even when pleasure is our guest. 
 
 Oft' our hearts would fill with woe 
 
 If the future we could know, 
 
 May you ne'er the step regret 
 
 Proud, light hearted, bright, Jeanette. 
 & x * # ■ * * 
 
 What is this— how changed the scene 
 
 AYhere a gay crowd late had been! 
 
 Scarce the wedding guests are fled; 
 Mourners come to wail the dead. 
 Who can tell how strange a thing 
 That the morrow forth may bring? 
 For the heart so full of love 
 Still in death no more shall move. 
 And the hand that clasped her own 
 Pulseless lies, and cold as stone. 
 Bridal flowers scarce faded yet 
 With a widow's tears are wet 
 Broken hearted, sad Jeanette. 
 
17 
 THE ICE STORM. 
 
 ANNA E. H. WILLIAMSON. — 1884. 
 
 A STORY WITH A MORAL- 
 
 u Oh me!" said the stately poplar tree, 
 "How happy and glad and proud I'd be 
 If I could have jewels bright and fair — 
 As many as ever I wished to wear.'' 
 Then said the mighty Winter King, 
 "Your wish shall be granted foolish thing, 
 But remember well that greed of gain 
 Brings transient pleasure and lasting pain." 
 
 Then the fairies came through the misty air, 
 
 Bringing the jewels bright and fair: 
 
 They decked her head with a shining crown, 
 
 Proudly she tossed it. glancing down 
 
 Over her person: here and there 
 
 Hung clusters of diamonds rich and rare. 
 
 Beautiful, glistening, gleaming gems. 
 
 Fairer than royal diadems. 
 
 "Is this enough?" asked the Winter King. 
 "No, Oh no,"* said the greedy thing. 
 "Let every branch so small and bare 
 Have every jewel that it can wear.'" 
 Even in this she was not denied, 
 But still she would not be satisfied. 
 "Bring countless pearls.'* she ordered now. 
 "And a ridge inch deep each swaying bough." 
 
 'Twas quickly done, each fairy hand 
 
 Swiftly obeying her command, 
 
 And she stood in brilliant glittering sheen, 
 
 As lovely a thing as ever was seen; 
 
 But sad was the state that tree was in, 
 
 For jewels are heavy as well as sin. 
 
 She had sighed for the gems so bright and fair 
 
 But their weight was greater than she could bear. 
 
 And when the morn the light had brought 
 We saw the wreck her pride had wrought; 
 There like a bird with a broken wing, 
 
18 
 
 Prone on the earth lay the shattered thing". 
 Ne'er shall her head be lifted more. 
 Crushed by the gems she proudly wore. 
 This is the story simple and true, 
 The moral I leave to be found by you. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES OLIVER NEWPART, 
 
 MRS. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 There's a chain that's finer and purer than gold. 
 And loving- hearts are the links that hold 
 Till cruel death with its ruthless hand 
 Shall rudely sever the sacred band. 
 
 There are hearts to-day that are sick with pain: 
 Three broken links in the broken chain; 
 Three manly forms in the morn of day 
 In the silent grave have been laid away. 
 
 Oh. angel fair, with snowy wing 
 
 Bend low to-night o'er the sorrowing, 
 
 And bid the terrible* grief depart 
 
 That is breaking a loving mother's heart. 
 
 And lift in a vision the veil that hides 
 This earth from the land where the spirit bides. 
 And show her the children — every one 
 Happy, safe by the ''great white throne.'' 
 
 Free from all sorrow and care and pain. 
 Never to sicken and suffer again; 
 AYaiting to meet her with outstretched hand 
 When she shall come to the better land. 
 
 For the broken links of the golden chain 
 
 Shall be united in heaven again. — 
 
 In that bright world death has no power 
 
 To snatch from our grasp each precious flower. 
 
19 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 ANNA E. HEATH. 
 
 Father, dear father, oh, why did you leave me. 
 
 Sad and forsaken to wander alone? 
 Did you not know that your absence would grieve me? 
 
 Do you not know that I weep while you're gone? 
 
 These are the words that my heart's ever speaking, 
 
 Answer me. father. I beg and implore; 
 JSut 'tis the voice of the dead I am seeking. 
 
 Father can never come back to me more. 
 
 For the bright days when I wandered beside thee. 
 
 Faded and vanished so swiftly away. 
 O'er the dear hand that so kindly did guide me. 
 
 Grasses and daisies are springing to-day. 
 Father, dear father, do glorified spirits. 
 
 Ever look down on the world they have left? 
 Do they come from the land that the pure soul inherits. 
 
 To comfort the friends whom their death has bereft? 
 
 Do they speak like the soft sighing winds of the summer. 
 
 Though we have never learned their beautiful lore? 
 Are the low whispers that lull us to slumber. 
 
 The voice of friends who have gone on before? 
 Sweet is the sound of the nightingale singing. 
 
 Others in hearing its song may rejoice. 
 Sadest of thoughts to my mind it is bringing^. 
 
 No music to me was as sweet as thy voice. 
 
 Father dear, we are not parted forever. 
 
 I shall again hear thy voice low and mild; 
 For on the banks of the dark rolling river. 
 
 You will be waiting to welcome your child. 
 
 WAR 
 
 MRS. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 ^Yar is a cruel ghastly thing. 
 
 The sport of bloody hands. 
 It ruin and destruction brings 
 To sweetest hopes a death knell rings, 
 
 And bligrhts the forest lands 
 
•!.) 
 
 The tenderest ties of happiest hearts 
 
 Too soon, alas, must sever. 
 To wistful eye the tear drop starts, 
 As loved one from his loved one parts. 
 
 For years, if not for ever. 
 
 But when war's dreadful strife is o'er 
 
 Comes smiling* peace again, 
 And where the cannon boomed before. 
 The lowing herds shall stray once more. 
 
 And deck each lowly grave. 
 
 But in king Alcohol's domains 
 
 The strife is never ending — 
 Powerful this ruthless tyrant reigns, 
 Binding the hapless wretches in chains, 
 
 Of shame and anguish blending. 
 
 In unknown graves his victims sleep; 
 
 With downcast eyes we name them, 
 And as the grasses o'er them creep, 
 God pity those who hopeless weep, 
 
 And blush e'en then to claim them. 
 
 No! no! enough has not been said 
 
 While yet the cause remains, 
 While drunkards' children cry for bread, 
 And woe and want and famine dread, 
 
 Each meager form proclaims. 
 
 THE DREAMER, 
 
 PART 1ST — CHILDHOOD. 
 
 I dream of flowers of a gorgeous hue, 
 
 Of the Summer skies of azure blue, 
 
 Of the sunset cloud, of the evening star, 
 
 Of diamonds bright as the dew drops are, 
 
 Of forests green where warblers sing. 
 
 Of streamlets softly murmuring, 
 
 Of fortune's smiles, of wealth and power. 
 
 That shall be mine in a future hour. 
 
The scene is past, the pictures change. 
 A vision rises dark and strange: 
 A ship is tossed on a stormy sea. 
 Where mad waves rage most fearfully. 
 The billows that rise with foamy crest 
 Awaken fear in the sailors breast, 
 Life's ocean as it soon shall seem 
 Is mirrored here in a childish dream. 
 
 PART 2ND WOMANHOOD. 
 
 My childish visions all are past. 
 
 And womanhood's dream I have learned at last 
 
 I dream of joys in the future still, 
 
 Of hopes which time can alone fulfill. 
 
 I dream of a tender, sheltering love 
 
 Of one whose constancy naught can move. 
 
 Of a stalwart form and a pleasant face, 
 
 A picture of manly pride and grace. 
 
 Then as before the scene will change. 
 To a vision equally dark and strange: 
 Not a stormy sea and a struggling boat; 
 But the wreck of a woman is here afloat; 
 The anchor of love, her hope and stay 
 To which she has clung for many a day, 
 Is torn away, Oh! how unjust. 
 Will woman forever love and trust? 
 
 PAET 3RD — AGE. 
 
 Fleeting is life whether dark or fair. 
 
 Time scatters silver among our hair. 
 
 For the fairest form and the brightest eye. • 
 
 Change as the weary years go by. 
 
 A brighter dream to my age appears 
 
 Than all I have cherished in earlier years: 
 
 I dream of a home in perfect bliss. 
 
 When my soul is free from a world like this. 
 
 "But the grave is gloomy," I hear you say. 
 
 "And thoughts of death will darken the way:" 
 
 My Savior has slept in the silent tomb: 
 
 Then why should I dread its gathering gloom? 
 
 And death no longer has power to sting. 
 
 Since Christ has risen, our Heavenly King. 
 
 I'll dream no more when my soul is free. 
 
 For there is a blest reality. 
 
LIFE'S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 MBS. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 I read when a child of a legend strange 
 
 Of the opal so dull and red, 
 
 And its glorious luster shed — 
 That is if the bosom no longings had, 
 
 Xo wishes to gratify 
 If the heart was ever happy and glad. 
 
 And the lips never breathed a sigh. 
 
 I thought of the messenger grave and gray 
 
 W ho came in the fruitless quest, 
 And I wondered if, in a childish way 
 
 That hi& labor had not been blest. 
 I thought that the King content must be 
 
 AVith his great and powerful name; 
 I was sure that a crown from the laurel tree 
 
 Was all I could hope to claim. 
 
 I have lived to know that the haughty King 
 
 Is not free from care and pain, 
 That the laurel wreath no peace can bring 
 
 To a heart that has loved in vain. 
 I have lived to learn that a splendid dress 
 
 To the wearer no joy has given, 
 That a parent's love and a child's caress 
 
 Are the choicest gifts of heaven. 
 
 I have lived to know that the pain and care 
 
 Are of every life a part; 
 There's a Blue Beard chamber in every home. 
 
 And a grave in every heart. 
 And I wonder not that the dull dead stone 
 
 Its radiance never wore. 
 But if 'tis immortal w T ill find its own 
 
 We trust on the heavenly shore. 
 
23 
 
 ENDURANCE. 
 
 MRS. WILLIAM SOX. 
 
 "Tls strange how much the human heart can "bear, 
 
 How much of sorrow pain and care. 
 
 How often greater seems the load 
 
 Than our frail strength can bear along the road. 
 
 The weary road that endeth but with life. 
 The road so full of misery and strife; 
 Hut struggling onward, still our course we take. 
 Because the heart is strong and will not break. 
 
 Think of the sunny southland far away. 
 How the dread scourge of fever on it lay. 
 How by its cruel and relentless stroke 
 The strongest ties that bind the human heart. 
 
 Were cruelly and swiftly torn apart. 
 Yet who witnessed all its dreadful reign 
 Will live to sing and smile again; 
 Thus we know all men are kin* 
 
 Howe"er great their wealth or their renown. 
 
 For hearts must ache, though heads may wear a crown 
 
 Our toil and care some other one may bear. 
 
 But of sorrow each must have a share. 
 
 Release from pain and suffering : till we die. 
 
 Diamonds and rubies have not power to buy. 
 
 THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL. 
 
 AXXA E, HEATH. 
 
 Give her a penny for charity's sake. 
 
 Her father's a drunkard, her mother is dead, 
 Little of difference to you it can make: 
 
 To her. "lis the price of her daily bread. 
 
24 
 
 Poor little beggar girl stands in the street T 
 Dreary and chilling- the winter winds blow, 
 
 She has no shoes to cover her little bare feet, 
 No shawl to protect her from tempest and snow. 
 
 She looks at the hurrying throng as it comes: 
 There are ladies in costliest velvets and furs. 
 
 Hastening on to their beautiful homes. 
 Oh! if they'd think for a moment of hers. 
 
 Ne'er has she heard the sweet song of the lark. 
 
 Xe"er caught the breath of the blossoming heather 
 She lives in an alley, so dismal and dark, 
 
 Where sin and sorrow are crowded together. 
 
 Scarcely she seemeth a child in her grief. 
 
 vSorrow and care can be seen in each feature 
 Give her a penny, "twill bring her relief, 
 
 And comfort the heart of a suffering" creature. 
 
 THE MOTHER HUBBARD, 
 
 MI1S. WILLIAMSOX. 
 
 Police and city council. Oh! 
 Ye great and wise I wish to know 
 What it is that you such distress 
 About the Mother Hubbard dress. 
 
 While thieves in every city meet 
 And murderers boldly walk the street: 
 While drunkards in the gutter roll 
 And lawless passions spurn control. 
 
 Our officers are in distress, 
 
 To me it seems a healthy dress. 
 
 That comes to comfort and to bless 
 
 The weary back that long has borne 
 
 The weight of skirts, has ceased to mourn. 
 
 The supple shoulders lift the strain. 
 
 And women smile thus freed from pairu 
 
25 
 
 The waist no more is bound with steel; 
 The lungs expand, the heart holds sway, 
 Disease and death are driven away. 
 And health and comfort take their place; 
 When men rise up and shout disgrace, 
 Down with the Mother Hubbard gown, 
 Arrest the wearer where e'er found. 
 These men I kindly would advise 
 To cease to be more nice than wise. 
 Let ladies wear what e'er they choose, 
 The privelege they'll not abuse. 
 Attend your business as you ought, 
 And when the rr„scals are all caught 
 Clean up the streets and watch the men 
 In each saloon and gambling* den. 
 When no more duties shall remain 
 Then go and "lectioneer for Blaine. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL CONSISTENCY 
 
 XAXXIE BLISS. 
 
 You gather your rich robes closely up, 
 
 My lady, with pride and scorn, 
 For you fear her touch may contaminate, 
 
 Because she is lowly born, 
 
 You go to your church and pray, 
 
 That all may equals be, 
 But you turn aside with a scornful air, 
 
 If a lowly one you see. 
 
 You give from your store with lavish hand 
 
 To the heathen far away, 
 But you gave not a crust to the starving child 
 
 Who came to your door to-day. 
 
 You are wrapped in your costly robes, 
 
 In your furs so soft and warm. 
 And you turn away with a single glance 
 
 At the beggar's shivering form. 
 
 Give not, Oh! lady of pride. 
 
 To the heathen in distant lands. 
 But give to the suffering ones at home, 
 
 And with heart as well as hands. 
 
26 
 
 WITHERED LEAVES, 
 
 NANNIE BLISS. 
 
 To-night when the rain was falling 
 
 Steadily down on the eaves, 
 I found 'mong my faded treasures, 
 
 A chaplet of withered leaves. 
 
 It was woven one day in autumn. 
 But the leaves of brown and red, 
 
 Like the dear loved one who turned them. 
 Are faded now and dead. 
 
 Yet, to me 'tis a priceless treasure; 
 
 Though it fills my heart with pain, 
 For it seems to tell of a happy time 
 
 That will never come again. 
 
 But still in my heart I'll cherish 
 
 The memory ever more, 
 Of the loved one who is waiting 
 
 On the brighter, happier shore, 
 
 So now when the rain is falling, 
 
 Steadily down on the eaves, 
 I weep, and the tears drop softly 
 
 Down on my withered leaves. 
 
 But the sound of the rain grows fainter, 
 
 And I'll wipe my tears away, 
 And pray to meet my darling 
 
 In heaven, some future day. 
 
 And I pray that when the "reaper," 
 Shall garner my ripened sheaves, 
 
 He will find I have more to offer 
 Than merely withered leaves. 
 
27 
 
 OUR WISHES. 
 
 XAXXIE BLISS. 
 
 Out in the grassy meadow. 
 
 We sat on the new mown hay 
 And told what we wished would happen. 
 
 When the years had rolled away. 
 
 She wished for a lordly palace: 
 
 Some noble and ancient hall. 
 With a retinue of servants, 
 
 To come at her beck and call. 
 
 I wished for a little cottage, 
 
 In some calm and quiet spot: 
 Away from the world's wild turmoil. 
 
 Where peace would be my lot. 
 
 But now she is calmly resting 
 
 From sorrow evermore: 
 She has crossed the dark, cold river. 
 
 She has reached the "shining shore." 
 
 And still I am ever wishing. 
 
 For my haven of peace and rest. 
 But Oh! I have found to my sorrow. 
 
 That life's full of care at the best. 
 
 But my rest will be rest eternal. 
 
 When I go at my master's call. 
 And mine be the peace that cometh. 
 
 After the shroud and pall. 
 
 IN THE FIRELIGHT 
 
 Nannie Bliss. 
 
 I'm sitting to-night my darling 
 In the fire-light's ruddy glow. 
 
 Watching the shadows flitting, 
 Merrily to and fro. 
 
And I'm wondering whether my future 
 
 AVill be like the sunshine, gay, 
 Or if it will be in the shadow, 
 
 Cheerless, and cold, and gray. 
 
 A year ago my darling, 
 
 Just one year ago to-night 
 We sat together at evening, 
 
 In the fire-light warm and bright. 
 
 Yes, we sat and talked together, 
 And whispered of joys and fears. 
 
 Of the hopes and the fond ambitions 
 We cherished for future years. 
 
 Oh, little we knew how widely 
 
 Our paths would be severed to-night; 
 
 Or how in our life's strange phases, 
 
 The dark would be mingled with bright. 
 
 For now I am sitting alone love, 
 
 In my old accustomed seat, 
 And the sight of the shadows dancing, 
 
 Bring fancies wild and sweet. 
 
 And you are tossed on the billows 
 
 Of life's tempestous seas, 
 And each day with its joys and sorrows, 
 
 Is bearing you farther from me. 
 
 And perhaps we never ag'ain love, 
 May sit in the fire-lighfs glow; 
 
 Or watch weird figures dancing 
 On the white walls to and fro. 
 
 And perhaps you may never more tell me 
 The words that you whispered so low, 
 
 To me as we sat in the fire-light, 
 Just one short year ago. 
 
 But though I should no more see you 
 In this world of grief and pain, 
 
 I know that we shall one day meet, 
 Never to part again. 
 
29 
 THE OLD COUPLE. 
 
 XAXXIE BLISS — 1868. 
 
 The violet and the arbutus 
 
 Are blossoming- on the hill. 
 And the apple blossoms in the orchard 
 
 The air with fragrance fill. 
 
 The good man sits in the open door 
 
 In his easy old arm-chair. 
 And quietly sleeps, while the gentle breeze 
 
 Plays hide-and-seek in his hair. 
 
 And the old wife softly singing*. 
 
 Sits knitting a stocking for hirn. 
 And thinks of the days when they were young. 
 
 Till her faded eyes grow dim. 
 
 And the cat that is dozing on her knee. 
 
 Looks up in mute surprise 
 When she feels the tear drops falling 
 
 From her mistress" faded eyes. 
 
 Now the arm-chair stands in the doorway, 
 
 That he never more will fill: 
 There's a vacant place by the hearth-stone. 
 
 And a new made grave on the hill. 
 
 The apples are ripe in the orchard. 
 
 But the good man's life o'er. 
 And the old wife sits with folded hands. 
 
 She will knit for him no more. 
 
 The old house-dog lies sleeping 
 
 Before her in the sun. 
 Till the long gray shadows lengthen 
 
 And the day is almost done. 
 
 Yet still she sits with folded hands 
 
 Beside his empty chair. 
 And the sunlight falls with a tender gleam 
 
 On her bands of silver hair. 
 
30 
 
 PARTED, 
 
 NANNIE BLISS. 
 
 We wandered out one summer's day. 
 
 Across a meadow fair and green. 
 
 Until we came to where, between 
 Its mossy banks, a brooklet gay 
 Went dancing on its merry way. 
 
 She said, "I'll walk the other side."" 
 And when I would have followed her- 
 She bade me stay without demur. 
 
 Nor dare to cross the rippling tide. 
 
 But by her wishes to abide. 
 
 And, as her will was law to me, 
 We walked, the one on either side. 
 Until the merry, dancing tide 
 
 Gliding along toward the sea, 
 
 Grew broad, — she could not cross to me. 
 
 We were so near, and yet so wide 
 Apart our paths must ever lie, 
 Beneath the same sweet summer sky. 
 But never near, or side by side, 
 For still between us rolls a tide. 
 
 Whose silver waters, brightly gleaming. 
 Seem but to mock at my annoy — 
 To banish from my heart all joy. 
 And make me feel what weary seeming" 
 Is life and all its idle dreaming. 
 
 MAGDALENE 
 
 NANNIE BEISS COEBY 
 
 When summer days were long and fair- 
 Magdalene, my Magdalene, 
 I twined June roses in vour hair: 
 
31 
 
 Magdalene, my Magdalene. 
 I held your little hand in mine, 
 I kissed your lips, "neath trellised vine: 
 On earth no face seemed fair as thine 
 
 To me. my own love, Magdalene. 
 
 We gathered lillies on the bay. 
 
 Magdalene, my Magdalene. 
 We idly passed th^ time away. 
 
 Magdalene, my Magdalene. 
 And when the autumn days were here 
 And green leaves turned to brown and sere, 
 Then heaven to earth, seemed very near. 
 
 To me, my own love, Magdalene, 
 
 How very near. I little guessed, 
 
 Magdalene, my Magdalene. 
 As to your lips my own I pressed, 
 
 Magdalene, my Magdalene. 
 But, w^hen the golden autumn died. 
 The shining portals opened wide. 
 And you crossed to the other side. 
 
 And left me lonely, Mag'dalene. 
 
 Now summer pours her incense down, 
 
 Magdalene, my Magdalene, 
 I bear my cross, you wear your crown. 
 
 Magdalene, my Magdalene, 
 You tread above the golden street, 
 Below I walk, with faltering feet. 
 And wait the hour when I shall meet. 
 
 In heaven my own love, Magdalene. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT TO 1876. 
 
 NANNIE BLISS COLBY 
 
 1 cannot see thee. Old Year, breathe thy last. 
 
 Without a tribute to thy glorious past. 
 
 A kind remembrance of thy days now gone. 
 
32 
 
 As "'76" glides out and "'77" comes on. 
 
 Ye came to us, Old Year, 'mid winter's sleet, 
 
 But spring- pursued you, with her dancing feet; 
 
 And soon the earth was robed in emerald green, 
 
 With blossoms starring all its lovely sheen, 
 
 Then summer came; the Year's bright glorious noon. 
 
 Scattered with lavish hand, full many a generous boon. 
 
 And as upon her way she gaily sped, 
 
 Behold what waving fields along her pathway spread. 
 
 That ripen golden, yielding increase large, 
 
 As autumn comes, to take them in his charge, 
 
 Bidding us garner all our stores with care, 
 
 Leaving each field and orchard brown and bare, 
 
 While brimming barns their contents scarce can hold, 
 
 And apples hide in bins their russet, red and gold. 
 
 And merry youths with jokes and gay retort, 
 
 The harvest ended plan for many a sport; 
 
 Then Winter comes once more, with sturdy reign, 
 
 Fair frost flowers bloom on every window pane. 
 
 And as you bid the last December snow 
 
 Fall softly down, Old Year before you go, 
 
 Accept this tribute from a grateful friend 
 
 For all the mercies thou to us did send, 
 
 For all the pleasures mingled with our care, 
 
 For health, that gave us strength our loads to bear, 
 
 For loving friends, who greet us all the way, 
 
 And blessings all unnumbered day by day, 
 
 And as from earth you take your final flight, 
 
 Bear with you, Old Year, this, my last good night. 
 
 To Mary Messer -Who Passed from Earth April 5, '80. 
 
 M ANNIE BLISS COLBY. 1880. 
 
 Beloved one, we laid thee down to rest. 
 
 With golden sunshine filling all the air, 
 As if the skies rejoiced to welcome to the blest, 
 
 The soul of one so gentle, pure and fair. 
 
33 
 
 And while our tears fall like the summer rain. 
 
 That we should see thy smiling- face no more. 
 vSweet words of comfort banished half the pain, 
 
 And drew us nearer to the other shore. 
 
 Dear Mary, friend of many happy years. 
 
 The one I loved the fondest and the best, 
 Although I gave thee up with bitter tears 
 
 I would not call thee from the realms of rest. 
 
 For with the waiting in the Eetter Land. 
 
 Xo time or change can mar our olden love, 
 And though on earth I may not clasp thy hand, 
 
 I hope to meet thee sometime up above. 
 
 In that fair land in which thou art to-day, 
 From pain and sorrow henceforth ever free; 
 
 I trust that always, in thy peaceful way 
 Thy heart turns, loving as of old to me. 
 
 And when I lay this earthly form aside 
 A useless garment I shall need no more; 
 
 Loved one. with outstretched hands stand close beside, 
 And be the first to meet and greet me o'er. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 XAXXIE BLISS COLBY. — 1881. 
 
 Beloved one. the leaves are falling: 
 The autumn of the year has come, 
 
 Beyond the hill I hear the wild birds calling 
 Their mates, to seek a fairer summer home. 
 
 Beloved one, the time is coming 
 
 V\ T hen summer shall depart nor come again; 
 We shall not sit together in the gloaming — 
 
 Shall share no more each other's joy or pain. 
 
 For us the summer days are ended: 
 The autumn cometh. chill and cold. 
 
 And somber hues with rosy tints are blende 1. 
 For you and I, dear one, are growing old. 
 
34 
 
 Beloved one, our brows are wrinkled; 
 
 Our brows that were so smooth and fair 
 And many a silver thread thus soon is sprinkled, 
 
 By time's untiring* fingers in our hair. 
 
 The bloom of youth has left our faces. 
 
 But in our hearts the summer lingers long: 
 And memory's page bears many tender traces 
 
 Of word, or smile, or half forgotten song. 
 
 It matters not that autumn winds are sighing. 
 
 Or summer flowers faded all. and chill; 
 
 The heart retains its warmth and summer still. 
 If love and faith are still unchanged, undying. 
 
 SPRING, 
 
 NANNIE BLISS COLBY. 
 
 "Winter has flung his sceptre down, 
 
 His dreary reign is over; 
 And in the meadows, erst so brown, 
 
 "We catch a glimpse of clover. 
 
 The maples wave their crimson tips. 
 In every breeze that passes, 
 
 The violets kiss with dainty lips, 
 The pale, sweet, springing grasses. 
 
 The crocus lists its golden head 
 To catch the sun's first glances, 
 
 The brook, along its pebbly bed, 
 "With merry ripple dances. 
 
 The lilac nods each lovely plume 
 At snow-drops, upward springing*: 
 
 In all the air a faint perfume, 
 
 Sweet hints of Spring are bringing. 
 
 The wild birds trill their sweetest song* 
 Of greeting, praise or pleasure; 
 
 And mother earth, ice-bound so long. 
 Yields up her choicest treasure. 
 
35 
 
 Oh. spring*, thou time of birds and flowers. 
 
 We give thee fondest greeting; 
 Would we could stay thy passing hours, 
 
 And make thy joys less fleeting. 
 
 TO MARY WESTERN ROBINSON 
 
 NANNIE BLISS COLBY. 
 
 Dear Mollie, sometime schoolmate, friend, 
 
 To you this messenger I send, 
 
 Trusting that, through the lapse of years 
 
 The joy and pain, the hopes and fears, 
 
 That passing time to you has brought 
 
 You sometimes cast a backward thought. 
 
 On those old days. when, free from care. 
 
 As merry birds that float in air, 
 
 We joined in many a school girl scrape 
 
 In the old College at Fox Lake. 
 
 You knew me then as Nannie Bliss, 
 
 I'm Mrs. now. instead of Miss. 
 
 And something else: don't smile, 'tis true, 
 
 Two babies call me Mamma, too. 
 
 You may be married too. or gone 
 
 Far, far away from Bloomington, 
 
 If so, may fate propitious be 
 
 And bear this message safe to thee. 
 
 I've thousrht of vou so oft of late 
 
 And longed to know what was your fate. 
 
 If you were wife, widow or mother, 
 
 Each or not either, one or th" other, 
 
 If you some happy fireside bless 
 
 Or dwell in single-blessedness. 
 
 How e'er it be, where e'er you dwell 
 
 I hope old Time has used you well, 
 
 So long ago. the old days seem, 
 
 •Tis like some half forgotten dream, 
 
 Ah. well-a-day 'tis seven long years 
 
 Since, through a mist akin to tears 
 
36 
 
 I saw you from the depot door 
 Wave a farewell. We met no more. 
 But Mollie, as the Old Year dies, 
 Old forms and faces seem to rise 
 From out the misty long' ago 
 And yours is foremost in the row. 
 So. with that glad New Year I send 
 This tribute to my school day friend. 
 Hoping, that still within her heart 
 I hold some little place or part. 
 
 THE BOBOLINKS. 
 
 MRS. A. E. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 A Story for the Children. 
 
 I'll tell a story, my children, 
 
 A beautiful story to you; 
 Don't say it is only a fable 
 
 For I know every word is true. 
 
 Once in a bright green meadow, 
 Not many miles from this town, 
 
 A dear little bobolink birdie 
 Built her a nest on the ground. 
 
 And three little precious birdlings, 
 Too tender and young to fly, 
 
 Were soon hopping about in the meadow 
 Where the grass grew rank and high. 
 
 But one day a sturdy farmer 
 
 Sinewy, bearded, and brown, 
 Went forth with his team and mower 
 
 The waving grass to cut down. 
 The dear little bobolink birdies 
 
 Never once thought of harm — 
 They were right in the path of danger, 
 
 But felt not the least alarm. 
 Do you think that the busy farmer 
 
 So burdened with toil and care 
 Would pause in his hurried labor, 
 
 A bobolink's life to spare. 
 
37 
 
 \ r es, the noble team is halted 
 And impatiently they stand, 
 
 While the captured birdlings nutter 
 Under his broad, brown hand. 
 
 Three times was the hurrying mower 
 
 Stopped in its onward pace; 
 Three times were the reckless birdies 
 
 Borne to a safer place. 
 
 But one little foolish birdie 
 Even then came hopping back. 
 
 And when the mower came "round again 
 It sat in the very track. 
 
 Then the farmer called a workman 
 With a smile that was half a frown. 
 
 Saying. ''Johnny hold this little bird 
 Till the piece is all cut down."' 
 
 On sped the shining sickle, 
 The hurrying work went on. 
 
 And the busy farmer never thought 
 Of the noble deed he had done, 
 
 But one who had loved him fondly 
 Felt her heart still warmer glow.— 
 
 And he who careth for sparrows 
 Will note such an act I know. 
 
 A SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 FLORENCE WHITELY. 
 
 O, pause in the meadow yonder. 
 
 Oh heed what the breezes sing, 
 ^Tis the old, old tale of wonder, 
 
 The miracle of Spring! 
 
 And I am young, who once was old, 
 And joy is mine instead of pain. 
 
 For me the future's arms unfold. 
 Ajid loss is turned to gain! 
 
38 
 
 A bird swept down in the gloaming*, 
 
 On golden and purple wing, 
 Thor' meadow and wildwood roaming, 
 
 Sweet spirit of the Spring! 
 
 And now my heart no longer grieves. 
 
 And love unfolds again his bloom. 
 Like rosy tinted hickory leaves 
 
 Soft, shining through the gloom! 
 
 Oh Earth, that mourned as a widow. 
 
 The morrow's a bridegroom brings 
 She steps from the long, dark shadow 
 
 To the sunlight of the Spring! 
 
 And now I live who once was cold. 
 
 And all -is good I thought so vain; 
 And spring is her's o'er wood and world. 
 
 And Spring in heart and brain! 
 
 A BUNCH OF SOUGH 
 
 FLORENCE WHITLEY. 
 
 Amaryillis kisses me, 
 
 Bloom, oh! cherry, plum and peach!. 
 
 Foam, oh! wavelets on the beach! 
 
 Pipe, oh! birdlings, each to each! 
 
 Amaryllis kisses me. 
 
 Rosamanda kisses me; 
 
 Ripen, fruit within the vale! 
 
 Bud, ye roses red and pale! 
 
 Chased thou amorous nigiitingale I 
 
 Rosamanda kisses me. 
 
 As shines a silver star 
 
 Above a sable cloud, 
 While tempests rage afar. 
 
 And thunder mutters loud. 
 
 So o're my life of sin, 
 
 Illness and misery, 
 Fure as that star shines in 
 
 The holy thought of thee! 
 
39 
 
 I cannot pluck thee, wilding rose 
 
 Of innocence and grace, 
 Although, thy leaflets brush my cheek. 
 
 Thy scent is on my face. 
 I cannot cage thee, woodland bird. 
 
 Or rob thy sheltered nest, 
 Although thou leav'st thy forest bough 
 
 To fly upon my breast! 
 Her hair is dark and waving. 
 
 It curls upon her brow. 
 That brow so broad and noble. 
 
 Just like a drift of snow. 
 
 Her eyes are deep and tender 
 
 And blue as summer skies, 
 And in depths, so gentle 
 
 A flood of love-lisrht lies. 
 
 THE BLUE BIRD. 
 
 FLORENCE WHITELEY, 
 
 Thou winged scrap of April sky, 
 
 With voice of April rain. 
 Once more returned to testify 
 
 That violets bloom again. 
 Through springing meadows far and nigh, 
 
 I hear thy sweet refrain. 
 Thou winged scrap of April sky. 
 
 With voice of April rain. 
 
 A TRUE FRIEND, 
 
 LIZZIE E. BLISS PHILLIPS. 
 
 I was weary and tired of staying 
 In this world of trouble and sin, 
 
 I was sad and weary of living 
 In a world of ceaseless din. 
 
40 
 
 I thought the cross I was bearing* r 
 
 Was too heavy for me to bear; 
 I thought my life was a burden, 
 
 For 'twas- cumbered by many a care. 
 
 At morn sweet flowers I g'athered, 
 And wore them in garlands so gay, 
 
 But at eve they were withered and faded,. 
 And I carelessly threw them away. 
 
 The hopes that I once fondly cherished 
 Were gone, and dark was my way, 
 
 And over my once smiling future, 
 
 Hung a cloud that was Iowring and gray. 
 
 I was weary of living, and loving 
 
 Things that pass from my view, 
 Weary of trusting and loving 
 
 The friends that to me were untrue. 
 
 I was weary of sadness and sighing, 
 
 Weary of heartaches and tears. 
 Weary of toiling and weeping, 
 
 Weary of troubles and fears. 
 
 But the clouds that hung o'er me have parted. 
 
 A glimmer of light I can see — 
 I can see there's a lining of silver 
 
 In the cloud that hung over me. 
 
 For one night when my life was the darkest. 
 
 This sweet thought came to my mind. 
 There is one who will bear all our burdens; 
 
 In Him a true friend we can find. 
 
 So I bowed down my head in the darkness. 
 
 For I was all alone with the night, 
 And I prayed that our Father in Heaven 
 
 Would make my burdens more light. 
 
 Now I feel that my prayer has been answered. 
 
 And my cross is lighter to bear, 
 Since I've found a friend that is faithful: 
 
 On Him will I cast every care. 
 
41 
 
 For He came to me in my sorrow 
 As I was kneeling- that night alone, 
 
 When my soul was wrung* with it's anguish. 
 And my heart was heavy as stone. 
 
 While my heart torn and was bleeding* 
 
 He was pouring upon it balm, 
 And over my once troubled earth life, 
 
 There is now an infinite calm. 
 
 OUR MISSION 
 
 LIZZIE BLISS PHILLIPS. 
 
 In life we each have a mission, 
 There's something we all can do, 
 
 To lighten the cares of others, 
 And cheer the faint hearted, too. 
 
 If we find along life's journey, 
 A sufferer burdened with care, 
 
 And can cheer or give him comfort, 
 Oh! then our mission is there. 
 
 If we meet a fellow creature, 
 
 One who has fallen low, 
 To lift him up, is our mission, 
 
 Before we farther go. 
 
 How oft will a kind word spoken, 
 
 Tho' 'tis a little thing — 
 Give strength to the heart that is troubled 
 
 And remove a bitter sting. 
 
 We need not gold or silver, 
 To perform our mission here, . 
 
 But a heart that is full of sunshine. 
 And a willingness to cheer. 
 
4:3 
 
 TO MRS. NETTIE BEACH PAYNE 
 
 LIZZIE BLISS PHILLIPS. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 I am sitting alone in the school room, 
 
 While the children are out to play, 
 And I hear their merry voices, 
 
 And their shouts so wild and gay; 
 Yes, I hear their merry voices, 
 
 Ringing so wild and free, 
 But their joy that seems unbounded, 
 
 Brings a tinge of sadness to me. 
 
 And now thro' the open window, 
 
 On the balmy air of June, 
 A childish voice is wafted, 
 
 Humming a dear old tune, 
 "Tis a tune we sang together, 
 
 In other, brighter days, 
 For we loved to sing, dear Nettie, 
 
 Those simple childish lays. 
 
 But that was long ago, Nettie, 
 
 We both are women now, 
 But well do I remember 
 
 How we made a faithful vow, 
 How we vowed eternal friendship, 
 
 Near the old stump in the lane, 
 When we met so oft in childhood, 
 
 But ne'er shall meet again. 
 
 Your home is near the place, Nettie, 
 
 Where we used to play, 
 But my childhood home is gone Nettie, 
 
 And I am far away, 
 But Nettie! I'll not forget you, 
 
 Tho' mile may intervene, 
 But 111 love you fondly, truely, 
 • For what you once have been. 
 
43 
 
 I often think how we parted. 
 
 With niany a sigh and tear. 
 Tho* years have passed since then. Nettie. 
 
 To me yon are jnst as dear 
 As when we. too. were children, 
 
 And to school tog-ether went, 
 Before a cloud or shadow 
 
 With our sunshine was blent. 
 
 THE MAID OF THE WIND, 
 
 FLORENCE WIIITELEY. 
 
 A tall and slender maiden 
 
 With garments w T hite as snow, 
 
 And in the silent forest 
 She wandered to and fro. 
 
 In one fair hand she carried 
 A creamy rose half blown, 
 
 A pearl upon her bosom 
 In starry lustre shone, 
 
 And wheresoever she rambled. 
 
 Thro' out that woodland sweet. 
 The song-birds flew to greet her, 
 
 The wild flowers kissed her feet. 
 
 She came again, in splendor 
 
 Of regal texture light, 
 For silks of blue and crimson 
 
 Were changed her robes of white. 
 
 Upon her breast a ruby 
 Burned like an evil brand, 
 
 She scattered scarlet blossoms 
 From her on either hand. 
 
44 
 
 But fled the timid song-birds 
 Before her flaunting* pride, 
 
 And where her purple fringes swept 
 The fragile wood-flowers died. 
 
 Once more she passed, a woman 
 With mien subdued and sad. 
 
 From head to foot all sternly 
 In sable was she clad. 
 
 No blooms were in her fingers, 
 
 No costly gems she wore, 
 Her pearls were tears; the cruel thorns 
 
 Of vanished flowers she bore. 
 
 The happy creatures shunned her. 
 
 But she was not alone, 
 The wounded bird, the broken flower, 
 
 She took them for her own. 
 
 LOVE AND DEATH, 
 
 J. W. CLAMPITT. 
 
 She will not smile, 
 
 She will not stir, 
 I marvel while 
 
 I look at her. 
 Her lips are chilly 
 
 And will not speak,- 
 The ghost of a lily 
 
 In either cheek. 
 
 Her hair, ah me! 
 
 Her hair! Her hair! 
 How helplessly 
 
 My hands go there! 
 But my caresses 
 
 Meet not hers. 
 Oh, golden tresses 
 
 That thread my tears! 
 
4 j 
 
 I kiss the eyes 
 
 On either lid 
 Where her love lies 
 
 Forever hid 
 I cease my weeping-, 
 
 And smile and say. 
 "I shall be sleeping 
 
 Thus, some day' 
 
 EARLY MEMORIES 
 
 J. W. CLAMPITT. 
 
 My path led to a vine clad cot, 
 Where rose and blue for-get-me-not 
 
 Bloomed fresh and sweet and fair. 
 And wild thyme on a mossy bank 
 Not far from where the waters drank. 
 
 Ifs perfume in the summer air. 
 
 Ah. g-olden were those joyous hours 
 Spent, mid the birds and vernal bowers 
 
 And rippling- streams on gravelly bed; 
 What dreams came in that summer land 
 To soothe the soul and free the hand. 
 
 As silver clouds moved overhead! 
 
 The lark sprang- from its dewy nest 
 
 As morning- light crowned vale and crest, 
 
 With streaming- banners from on high. 
 And every pulse of nature beat 
 In unison, glad morn to meet 
 
 As radiant grew the arching sky. 
 
 Ah. golden moments from the tide 
 That time rolls on in wealth and pride. 
 
 How dear you seem to-night. 
 How memory gilds with raptured joy 
 Those far-spent hours of dreaming boy. 
 
 Ere care had come with sear and blight, 
 
4(> 
 
 A fair face hid by sunny curls. 
 
 And snowy teeth like sea-washed pearls. 
 
 And ruby lips that whispered low 
 The words that crept close to my heart 
 The vows that death alone could part, 
 
 The dreaming* lovers here, below. 
 
 The same fair face shorn of its curls. 
 The snowy teeth like sea-washed pearls 
 
 Now hid within the cold closed lips; 
 A snow white shroud and fair hands pressed 
 In long- embrace on peaceful breast, 
 
 As still and mute as painted ships. 
 
 What changes time has wrought indeed, 
 While forty years have chased with speed, 
 
 Each other into mystery's realm. 
 What shadows flit from out the past, 
 And fleeing" bind us firm and fast, 
 
 As loving- thoughts our hearts o'erwhelm. 
 
 How lost we are — no heart to guide 
 Or land mark set on memory's tide, 
 
 As toiling on we seek our dead. 
 How once familiar scenes have changed, 
 And all that love and beauty ranged 
 
 Before us in that part now fled. 
 
 Gone are winding paths that led 
 To vine clad cot and mossy bed, 
 
 Where'er the perfumed wild thyme grew; 
 Gone are the birds and vernal bowers, 
 And fled alas — the golden hours, 
 
 That only days of boyhood knew. 
 
 Let time with billows broad and deep 
 Up roll the stone at cave, where sleep 
 
 The memories of our early day. 
 In peace we leave them in their rest 
 Asleep like babe on mother's breast, 
 
 While we pursue our life-works way. 
 
 Perchance when wintry death hath come 
 And weary steps lead to our home, 
 
 These scenes may rise above times wave- 
 As angels with their wand of love 
 Review our lives in worlds above, 
 
 And roll the stone from memory's cave. 
 
47 
 
 AUTUMN LEAVES, 
 
 MRS. E. A. BLISS, 
 
 The autumn leaves of gold and red 
 
 Are falling down. 
 For queen, or empress they would make 
 
 A royal crown. 
 
 They throw across life's darkened way, 
 
 A golden gleam, 
 Like happy memories of the past, 
 
 Or vanished dream. 
 
 They fall upon the graves of those 
 
 Who tempest tossed, 
 Were glad to lay their burden J 
 
 Life's battle lost. 
 
 down — 
 
 They fall upon the tiny mounds 
 Where sweetly rest 
 
 The little ones who slumber on. 
 So early blest, 
 
 For one who walked upon the shores 
 
 Of Galilee, 
 ■Said, ' 'Forbid them not, but let them 
 
 Come unto me. 
 
 They fall upon the hillside graves, 
 Where loved ones lie, 
 
 As calm and still as when we spoke 
 The last good bye. 
 
 And soon upon our graves will rest 
 
 This golden crown, 
 When we grow weary, and shall lay 
 
 Life's burden down. 
 
FROM SHORE TO SHORE, 
 
 MRS. E. A. BLISS. 
 
 In childhood's hours, we pluck the flowers. 
 We know not care or sorrow, 
 
 With joy and song", we drift along- 
 Unmindful of the morrow. 
 
 But soon the years grow dim with tears. 
 
 The joy with sorrow blended, 
 And oft' a cloud our paths enshroud, 
 
 Till life's brief dream is ended. 
 
 We sigh and weep by those who sleep 
 The sleep that knows no waking-; 
 
 The dead are blest, they are at rest, 
 The while our hearts are aching. 
 
 Time plies the oar from shore to shore. 
 
 Each day we're drawing nearer, 
 While through the gloom that veils the tomb 
 
 We see with vision clearer. 
 
 Across the stream we catch a gleam 
 
 Of golden sunlight falling; 
 From shore to shore, we'll soon be o'er. 
 
 We hear the loved ones calling. 
 
 Beside the gate they watch and wait, 
 They watch and wait our coming; 
 
 So fair and bright, in radiant light. 
 W T hile we are in the gloaming. 
 
 TIME IS FLYING, 
 
 MRS. E. A. BLISS. 
 
 Time is flying, friends are dying, 
 How they vanish from our sight. 
 
 Hearts are broken, farewells spoken. 
 And the sunshine turns to night. 
 
4'.) 
 
 Friends are dying, Time is flying-, 
 Bearing outward on his breast, 
 
 Wrinkled faces, baby graces 
 In a calm unbroken rest. 
 
 Friends are dying, time is flying — 
 
 Nearer come the eternal years. 
 
 Each to-morrow brings its sorrow 
 
 Seen through mists of unshed tears . 
 ■ 
 Friends are dying, time is flying, 
 
 Burdened down with care and pain. 
 
 Cries of sadness, songs of gladness, 
 
 Mingle in a minor strain. 
 
 Friends are dying, time is flying 
 
 Bearing upon the tide, 
 Gain and losses, crowns and crosses 
 
 On equal footing, side by side. 
 
 MOTHER'S LOVE 
 
 MRS. E. A. BLISS. 
 
 The love of a mother will never grow cold, 
 The true mother love that is purer than gold, 
 Though the waves of the ocean between them have rolled. 
 A mother will never forget. 
 
 Temptation stands near by the weak and the strong, 
 The siren is waiting with wine cup and song. 
 Though the footsteps may walk in the pathway of wrong. 
 A mother will never forget. 
 
 The true mother love is brave to endure 
 In sunlight and storm, it is steadfast and sure, 
 Low down in the mire, or sinless and pure, 
 A mother will never forget. 
 
 Her form may be bent with the burden of years, 
 Her eyes may be dimmed with sorrow and tears, 
 But in prayer she will mingle her hope and her fears, 
 For a mother will never forget. 
 
50 
 
 As her bark drifts out on death's tidal wave, 
 Her hands will reach back from the brink of the grave. 
 From sorrow and ruin a loved one to save, 
 For a mother will never forget. 
 
 MONEY. 
 
 MRS. E. BLISS. 
 
 'Tis a very fine thing to have money, 
 
 Without it we lack for a friend, 
 But they come around us by dozens 
 
 When we have it to give or lend. 
 
 'Tis the first thing we hear on the Sabbath 
 Ere the pastor beginneth to pray, 
 
 I fear we would be scourged from the temple 
 If our Savior were with us to-day. 
 
 If a stranger in very plain clothing 
 Should walk up the carpeted aisle, 
 
 How many of those who are seated 
 Would give him a welcoming smile. 
 
 Seeing not for spiritual blindness 
 
 The beggar who stands at the gate, 
 But looking right onward and upward 
 
 To the pathway so narrow and straight. 
 
 . ♦ 
 A wonderful power has money 
 
 To gild o'er the darkest of sin; 
 But, will it open the gateway of Heaven 
 
 When we seek to enter therein? 
 
 W r hen the book of our lives shall be opened 
 And reckoned the gain and the loss, 
 
 It may be that gold-plated religion 
 Will prove to be pitiful dross. 
 
51 
 LOOK UPWARD. 
 
 MRS. E. A* BLISS* 
 
 Look upward, though the night is dark 
 There'll be a fairer morning", 
 
 For weary hearts and tear dimmed eyes 
 A brighter day is dawning, 
 
 We often see above the mists^ 
 The bow of promise shining, 
 
 And when the darkest cloud rolls back 
 'Twill show a silver lining. 
 
 Then let us look above the clouds 
 That round life's pathway linger, 
 
 With steady upraised ej^es. where Faith 
 Points with unerring finger. 
 
 Pointing the way to that bright shore 
 
 Afar from care and sorrow, 
 So if to-day looks dark and drear 
 
 There'll be a bright to-morrow. 
 
 Though storms assail us as we glide 
 
 Adown life's rushing river, 
 Look upward and all will be well, 
 
 Doubt not the All wise Giver. 
 
 ASPIRATION. 
 
 BERTHA BAKER GREE^ T . 
 
 The thirst for knowledge that our souls contain, 
 
 Impels us ever to a wished for goal: 
 Xo sooner do we partial truths obtain, 
 
 Than, reaching out. we strive to grasp the whole. 
 Like sleuth hounds our unsatisfied desires 
 
 Speed ever on the track of endless truth. 
 The human soul eternally aspires, 
 
 And life's great problems thus renew their youth, 
 
Long* years of research were required to find 
 
 That beaten paths, which Law's firm feet have trod. 
 Were shining* roads, converging- and combined, 
 
 That lead up through Eternity to God. 
 In this short span of life, we can but grope 
 
 In darkness, lumined by the torch of hope, 
 Successful, if we do but lightly trace, 
 
 The perfect outlines of Truth's veiled face. 
 
 RECOMPENSE, 
 
 BERTHA BAKER GREEN. 
 
 The joy o're flowing pleasure cup 
 
 Of youth, that memory holdeth up, 
 
 For lips of age to quaff; 
 
 Though brewed from vanished hopes and fears 
 
 Contains the nectar of life's years, 
 
 That gives to age a staff. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 LAURA A. BAKER. 
 
 The winding winds sweep o're the earth, 
 
 The willing waves obey, 
 And from the hills where winds have birth 
 
 There comes a softer lay; 
 4 'Hove thee." 
 
 The galling chains that fret the soul, 
 
 Sink deep in silent thought, 
 And where those troubled waters roll, 
 
 Love comes to us unbought; 
 kt I love thee." 
 
53 
 
 If from my heart I purge the will, 
 And bend in sweet control. 
 
 The silent air will whisper still, 
 The words that softly roll; 
 "I love thee.*' 
 
 The earth is like the sentient air, 
 And finds her soul within, 
 
 But like a grand and happy pair. 
 Each whispers o'er the ocean's din, 
 "I love thee." 
 
 If I were mountain grand and strong", 
 
 If I were ocean deep. 
 And to my heart these words belong, 
 
 My soul should ever speak, 
 "I love thee."' 
 
 Then let the loving waters flow, 
 Let earth and air combine, 
 
 And let the winds that onward go. 
 Bring back these words divine, — 
 'T love thee." 
 
 SONNET 
 
 BERTHA BAKER GREEX. 
 
 The truant breezes gossip with the pines, 
 
 And each in listening, bows a nodding head. 
 
 With muffled sound, on withered leaves we tread. 
 
 And looking down, admire the quaint design's 
 
 With which deft nature carpets all her shrines. 
 
 The song-birds by unerring fancy led. 
 
 Have built of twigs and wool, and bits of thread 
 
 Their tiny homes, amid the sheltering vines. 
 
 In such a calm, sequestered place as this. 
 
 In raptured silence, thoughtfully we stand. 
 
 What joy, — all care and sadness to dismiss. 
 
 And restfully to ponder themes more grand! 
 
54 
 
 LINES FROM WADSWORTH 
 
 Ice fetters bind the Desplaines, 
 
 So that Chicago sportive swains 
 
 No more in the mud leave mammoth tracks 
 
 To show where they missed the canvass backs, 
 
 'Tis whispered by the sleigh bells chime 
 That a leap year is a joyous time, 
 How nice o'er moonlit roads to whirl 
 Side by side with a Newport girl, 
 
 A mother's love, a maiden's truth, 
 A pilot star to reckless youth- 
 While they shine bright he ne'er will fail 
 To keep the channel through life's gale. 
 
 Although crimes vortex 'round him flow 
 In rainbow tint, with foam of snow, 
 The Houri's cup, the mermaids scream 
 Shall never blight while love is king. 
 
 B. T. 
 
 REPORT FROM BIG HOLLOW, 
 
 MRS. FAIRMA3L 
 
 Kind readers and friends if my story you'll follow 
 
 111 tell you something of a place called Big Hollow. 
 
 From here you go south six miles, I should say, 
 
 There turn and go west, towards Lippincott's Bay; 
 
 As you go toward the south, these views meet your eyes, 
 
 The hills of Grass Lake, with their houses perched high,- 
 
 Fox Lake, Petite Lake and Eagle Point too, 
 
 Then Crabapple Island comes into view, 
 
 As seen in the light of the setting sun's beams 
 
55 
 
 A glimpse into fairy land surely it seems; 
 
 As you turn to the west you soon come to the place 
 
 Where good Catholics sue for pardon and grace, 
 
 Close by is a school house rather dingy I ween, 
 
 And the folks that live near are from Erin the green; 
 
 You cross the Squaw creek near Monroe Stanley's dwelling- 
 
 ril whisper some news if you wont be a telling, 
 
 He's fixing it up "as neat as a pin," 
 
 He is wanting a wife, — go in girls and win; 
 
 Stretched out on the left is the mink park domain, 
 
 Suggestive of folly and labor in vain; 
 
 Further on lives John Tweed and Felix O'Boyle — 
 
 Five daughters have each, and they till the soil, 
 
 At this point you turn go south and southwest, 
 
 The country is hilly and grubby at best, 
 
 You go on and on, and feel as if lost, 
 
 But cannot turn back — far ahead is your post; 
 
 In the first house you come to lives Mr. Dalziel, 
 
 This poor man is sick and may never get well, 
 
 This world's full of woe, though many are blest, 
 
 But in the near future the weary may rest. 
 
 Forgive this digression as onward you go 
 
 The roads are so muddy we have to go slow-ly, 
 
 Another half mile we drive with a will, 
 
 Till we reach a new house at the foot of the hill, 
 
 There lives Charlie Wait with his wife and three boys 
 
 And a three-year-old baby to add to their joys; 
 
 The school-ma'am boards here and likes it quite well, 
 
 And now of the school and the scholars I must tell, 
 
 Replenish and ^multiply, here is the rule, 
 
 But the children are sent to the German school 
 
 Until twelve years of age, so, though scholars are plenty; 
 
 Those who attend the school number but twenty. 
 
 Their teacher is young, never taught before, 
 
 She'll e'en do her best, can any do more. 
 
 Though narrow the road, and crooked the way 
 
 We hope Mr. Sabin will find us some day, 
 
 'T would be the most wished for reward to be won, 
 
 To just hear him say to this school, "well done.*' 
 
 As you leave Wait's up a hill you must climb, 
 
 But then going down is as easy as rhyme. 
 
 If all these directions you carefully follow 
 
 You'll arrive at the school house and also Big Hollow. 
 
5(> 
 
 INSPIRATION. 
 
 JANE M. EDDY. 
 
 Thou glorious gift of God. 
 
 And offspring of the spheres; 
 The matchless voice was not resolved 
 
 Alone to ancient seers. 
 
 But freshly as in days of yore, 
 
 It's waves melodious roll, 
 From pebbly strand, to starry world. 
 
 And lave the human soul. 
 
 We hear it when the morning star 
 
 Fades in Auroreal light; 
 In plaintive strain of evening song y 
 
 And in the hush of night. 
 
 It echoes 'mid the thunder's tone, 
 
 When vivid lightning's flash; 
 It whispers in the lulling breeze 
 
 And wakes 'mid tempest's crash. 
 
 It sweeps adown the mountain's side. 
 
 O'er harp of forest tree! 
 From murmuring rill, to ocean's roar, 
 
 All are replete with thee. 
 
 W T here e'er rests touch of hand Divine. 
 
 Since hour of youngest Time, 
 Swells forth from Nature's wondrous lyre. 
 
 Thy cadence grand, sublime. 
 
 It tells that every minute form 
 
 With mighty power is rife; 
 From granite rock, to human soul 
 
 All throb with deathless life. 
 
 Thy magic tones shall never cease 
 
 While space remains untrod, 
 Along the soul's great path way , 
 
 Which leadeth home to God. 
 
WHICH SHALL BE FIRST, 
 
 XAXXIE BLISS COLBY. 
 
 I wonder which, in the coming years, 
 
 Will be the first to go; 
 The baby, with hair of sunny hue. 
 
 Or the one with locks like snow? 
 
 Who will cross first the waters wide 
 And wait with outstretched hands. 
 
 To beckon into the pearly gates 
 The rest of our little band? 
 
 Shall we fold the baby's dimpled hands 
 And close the laughing eyes, 
 
 And say, "it is well with our little one — 
 She will wake in Paradise." 
 
 Or shall we lay to rest the one 
 AYhose head is bowed with years, 
 
 And look our last on the peaceful face 
 Through showers of falling tears? 
 
 Shall I be first to say farewell — 
 
 To turn reluctant feet — 
 Toward the valley beyond the hills. 
 
 TVhere clouds and sunlight meet? 
 
 I know not how I shall meet the foe 
 
 That comes to each and all. 
 But I will linger beside the gate 
 
 Till I hear the loving call 
 
 Of the next to enter, and joyfully 
 
 Each loved one 1 shall greet, 
 Until our little household band 
 
 Shall be there, as now, complete. 
 
58 
 
 ON THE FERRY. 
 
 MRS. MARY CLEMMER AMES. 
 
 On the ferry, sailing* over 
 
 To the city, lying dim 
 In the mellow mist of evening 
 
 By the river's further rim: 
 On the ferr}^. gazing outward 
 
 To the ocean calm and cold: 
 While the blue bay dips its waters 
 
 In the sunset's fleeting gold. 
 
 On the ferry, gazing outward. 
 
 O thou ocean deep and wide. 
 Every pulse is beating measure 
 
 With the rhythm of thy tide! 
 Loving waves kiss warm and eager; 
 
 Motionless the great ships stand. 
 While above each pendulous pennon, 
 
 Lures me with a beckoning hand, 
 Calm on the uneasy waters 
 
 Lean the sunset-bars of flame, 
 Like the legendary ladder 
 
 On which angels went and came. 
 
 In another summer evening. 
 
 On a little way before, 
 I shall reach another ferry, 
 
 Seeking swift a dimmer shore. 
 I shall cross a wider ferry. 
 
 Crossing to return no more, 
 Sailing for a fairer city. 
 
 Waiting on a lovelier shore. 
 
 W r ill God's sunshine beam around me. 
 
 Fusing every wave in gold? 
 Gently will you row me over 
 
 Charon, boatman, calm and old! 
 When these life-airs cease to chill me. 
 
 When my meager day is done, 
 Boatman, bear me through the splendor. 
 
 Falling from the setting sun! 
 
59 
 
 Bear me outward to the mystery 
 
 The Eternal will unfold, 
 To the unrevealed glory 
 
 Shut within yon gates of gold. 
 
 Life may touch the soul so gently 
 
 We can hardly call it rough: 
 Yet we'll all say in its closing 
 
 Our brief day's been long enougm. 
 Thus I stand with gathered garments, 
 
 Ere the deeper shadows fall; 
 O, my heart! drop thy last idol, 
 
 Listening for the boatman's call. 
 Come! and by my spirit's sinking, 
 
 By my shrinking fears untold. 
 Bear me gently o'er those waters, 
 
 Charon, boatman, calm and old. 
 
 LET IN THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 NORA. 
 
 Ten summers o*f beauty and brightness, 
 
 Ten winters of frost and of chill. 
 Have passed since the day that w T e parted, 
 
 Near that home at the foot of the hill. 
 
 How varied the changes that ever 
 
 Across our pathway have sped. 
 Since those happy days of the spring-time. 
 
 That with brightness and beauty have fled. 
 
 And we wonder if ever that brightness 
 
 Will come to our lives as of yore, 
 While the raven perched in the doorway. 
 
 E'er is chirping that fateful — •'no more." 
 
 We list too much to the chirping 
 Of that bird of darkness and gloom. 
 
 "Tis better to let in the sunshine, 
 And give it a place in the room. 
 
()() 
 
 Let it fill the room with its brightness, 
 And the shadows of doubting and care 
 
 Will flee away from the sunbeams, 
 And leave us the gems that are rare. 
 
 The gems of peace and contentment, 
 Shall brood o'er us still as of yore, 
 
 And happiness bright as the spring-time, 
 Shall gladden our lives evermore. 
 
 THE POTENCY OF TEARS, 
 
 PHIZZICK A SNIPE. 
 
 "Hinc Hlw lachrymal."— vmGLl,. 
 
 Kind friends, I sha'n't detain you long, 
 
 Of that pray have no fears; 
 I wish to sing a little song 
 
 On the Potency of Tears. 
 
 How beautiful those pearly drops, 
 
 How innocent and clear; 
 But there's a world of power wrapped up 
 
 In one small, glistening tear. 
 
 "The pen is mightier than the sword." 
 
 Is an adage I revere; 
 But mightier far than any pen 
 
 Is a little, limpid tear. 
 
 Fair woman's strongest weapon this, 
 
 How true and yet how queer! 
 She'll smite the bravest man that lives 
 
 And crush him with a tear. 
 
 We men are only slaves at best, 
 
 In this I'm quite sincere; 
 For woman lords it over us, 
 
 And chains us with a tear. 
 
 O'er all this lovely despot reigns, 
 
 But her rule is not severe; 
 A pout upon her pretty lips 
 
 And in her eye a tear. 
 
<>l 
 
 The cruel tyrant on his throne 
 
 Whom everybody fears. 
 Has often been compelled to own 
 
 The Potency of Tears. 
 
 He'll only laugh at threats and force. 
 
 And answer with a sneer; 
 But let a woman plead your cause. 
 
 And shell melt hira with a tear. 
 
 Oh! when at last I'm cold in death 
 And stretched upon the bier; 
 
 The only boon I ask of earth 
 Is the tribute of a tear. 
 
 FAREWELL TO EVA, 
 
 HAXXAH SMITH. 
 
 Two little eyes just opened 
 To see the dawning" light: 
 
 Then quickly closed forever, 
 Ere sin had time to blight. 
 
 Our Father sent His angels 
 To bear her spirit home — 
 
 To sound aloud His praises 
 
 Through heaven's highest dome. 
 
 To-day the little songstress 
 
 Upon the tree of life 
 Is picking fruit ambrosial 
 
 Far from a world of strife. 
 
 She'll never know a sorrow. 
 
 Nor ever shed a tear; 
 But happy, ever happy. 
 
 Will be our Eva dear. 
 
 We doubt not in Life's river 
 She'll flap her angel wings 
 
 And bathe with joy ecstatic 
 While loud her sonnet sines. 
 
62 
 
 Farewell, then, clearest Eva- 
 Till we shall meet above. 
 
 And join with you in singing", 
 Of everlasting* love. 
 
 THE LAST OF JUNE 
 
 ALICE M. LIXDSLEY. 
 
 Oh. where is that laughing maiden fair. 
 
 With lustrous eyes and shining hair. 
 
 That leaned o'er Summer's gate awhile. 
 
 Gladdening the earth with her sunny smile? 
 
 With songs that in her own sweet way, 
 
 She warbled all the live-long day? 
 
 The gate stands open — June has sped 
 
 Over the earth with airy tread, 
 
 Scattering the rose leaves on her way, 
 
 Piling the lillies with the hay: 
 
 And e'en the pinks I loved the best 
 
 She has borne away upon her breast: 
 
 And from the honey-suckle's cup 
 
 Has sipped the nectar almost up, 
 
 While I miss, to-day, the perfect tune 
 
 Of the joyous songs of "imperial June." 
 
 But list, the humming-bird and bee 
 Their secret now are telling me: 
 "Her fragrant robe has led their way 
 To haunts where best she loved to stray; 
 By waving grain, in sylvan nook — 
 In leafy glen beside the brook — 
 That, in those shady, cxuiet spots 
 She's left her blue forget-me-nots; 
 That still her spirit lingers there, 
 For many treasures clustering fair. 
 She has left in sweet array 
 To grace her sister's natal day: 
 There quiver, too, in low, sad tune. 
 Strains of the songs of departed June. 
 
63 
 SOMEONE'S SERVANT GIRL. 
 
 She stood there leaning wearily 
 
 Against the window frame, 
 Her face was patient, sad and sweet. 
 
 Her garments coarse and plain: 
 '■Who is she. pray?" I asked a friend. 
 
 The red lip gave a curl — 
 "Really, I do not know her name 
 
 She's someone's servant girl." 
 
 Again I saw her on the street. 
 
 With her burden trudge along: 
 Her face was sweet and patient still. 
 
 Amid the jostling throng. 
 Slowly but cheerfully she moved. 
 
 Guarding with watchful care 
 A market basket much too large 
 
 For her slight hands to bear. 
 
 A man I'd thought a gentleman. 
 
 Went pushing rudely by. 
 Sweeping the basket from her hands. 
 
 Yet turning not his eye: 
 For there was no necessity 
 
 Amid the busy whirl. 
 For him to be a g'entleman 
 
 To someone's servant girl. 
 Ah! well it is that God above 
 
 Looks in upon the heart. 
 And never judges any one 
 
 By just the outer part: 
 For if the soul be pure and good. 
 
 He will not mind the rest. 
 Xor question what the garments were 
 
 In which the form was dressed. 
 And many a man and woman fair. 
 
 By fortune reared and fed. 
 Who will not mingle here below 
 
 With those who earn their bread: 
 When they have passed away from* life, 
 
 Beyond the gates of pearl. 
 Will meet before their father's throne 
 
 With many a servant girl. 
 
64 
 
 A MOTHER'S DREAM. 
 
 A mother sits in an old arm-chair, 
 
 In a far-off Eastern home; 
 Mending- and patching, in plenty there, 
 
 Whilst the wild winds fiercely roam. 
 
 But she heeds them not, her heart beats wild, 
 
 And all this world seems dreary; 
 She's thinking* of a wandering* child 
 
 On a far western prairie. 
 
 The patch-work falls from her weary hands* 
 
 And her drooping* eyelids close; 
 Now she sleeps — and dreams of foreign lands 7 
 
 And of things that no one knows. 
 
 She slumbers on, whilst the moon's pale light . 
 
 Around her, its beams doth shed; 
 The old clock rings out in solemn night, 
 
 From the mantle overhead. 
 
 The fire burns low in that dreary grate, 
 
 Like that in many another; 
 The striking clock tells the hour is late, 
 
 'Tis twelve, now, sleeping mother. 
 
 She's dreaming now whilst the wind blows wild. 
 
 She murmers, and then starting, 
 Repeats, "My own boy. God bless my child, 
 
 We'll meet where there's no parting." 
 
 Thro* the gateway she saw him coming, 
 
 As in unforgotten yore, 
 Up that flowery pathway running; 
 
 As he often did before. 
 
 Then close beside her now he's standing, 
 
 Close, up to that old arm-chair, 
 And now his form is o'er her bending. 
 
 And a kiss imprints he there. 
 
 Then she feels his warm lips impressing, 
 
 On that forehead once so fair. 
 How she's missed that fond caressing, 
 
 None can tell, ere being there. 
 
 S. II. E. 
 
65 
 LAKE CO. FAIR ELECTION. 
 
 DAGO. 
 
 Talk of boodling in the cities 
 
 For an alderman to win: 
 Then compare it with Lake County; 
 
 Bless your heart it don't begin. 
 
 When we wished to choose directors 
 
 For the great Lake Co. Fair. 
 Many men went round with tickets — 
 
 Who would vote them, fair and square 
 
 Of course each one talked his ticket 
 
 If elected, would be best: 
 For the men they were electing 
 
 Knew so much more than the rest. 
 
 And a dollar would gx> with it; 
 
 Then a member you would be. 
 And have all the privileges 
 
 Of the great fair don't you see. 
 
 Though the day was very stormy 
 Snow and cold were in the air; 
 
 Yet the new town hall was crowded. 
 Very little room to spare. 
 
 Then over from Fort Sheridan 
 Came the soldiers — twenty-five. 
 
 And their names all came together 
 Just as sure as you're alive. 
 
 And of course the dollars with them 
 
 That must not be forgot: 
 For we came to vote for Redmond. 
 
 Every one. a merry lot. 
 
 And ladies by the score did wait 
 To see husbands safely through — 
 
 To help against the other side. 
 If they any good could do. 
 
m 
 
 Soon the afternoon was over 
 
 Votes were cast and counted too, 
 
 And we know right count was given 
 By the tellers good and true. 
 
 When we left the hall we gathered 
 At Joe Boehm's, inside the door; 
 
 Went and left him rich and happy, 
 And the fair election o'er. 
 
 SQUAW CREEK 
 
 MBS. FEITCH. 
 
 Flits the moon beam 
 Oer the rippling stream 
 
 Of meandering Squaw Creek's limpid waters; 
 Ghostlike fogs arise 
 Lo, the mighty wind sighs, 
 
 Lingers here the wraiths of nature's dusky daughters. 
 
 Wait as twilight fades 
 Dark eyed Indian maids 
 
 For their lover from the chase returning, 
 Glides the swift canoe 
 O'er the water's bright flow; 
 
 Flashing back the wigwam fires burning. 
 
 Come fierce visaged braves 
 From forgotten graves, 
 
 Nightly seeking vanished council fires 
 Sing their death song low; 
 Chiefs, whose spirits go 
 
 To the happy hunting grounds, where roam their sires. 
 
 Thus as night shades fall 
 Come at fancy's call, 
 
 Scenes of other days before my vision coming, 
 As in murmurs low 
 Tales of long ago, 
 
 Tells the streams at mystic gloaming. 
 
67 
 
 Vanished, every trace 
 Of a vanquished race, 
 
 Swept away by times effacing finger — 
 Indian squaws and braver 
 Fill forgo b ten graves, 
 
 Legends only of their tribe in memory linger. 
 
 Where the wolf's dread howl, 
 And the panther's growl 
 
 Made discordant music near the forest: 
 Graceful herds now graze, 
 Fields of tasseled maize 
 
 Yield to the husbandman a golden harvest. 
 
 Where the red man's spear 
 Felled the agile deer, 
 
 By the stream of Squaw Creek's whispering waters 
 Gleams the reaper's blade, 
 Walk in the twilight shade 
 
 With their lovers, Avon's beauteous daughters. 
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK 
 
 You may get through the world, but 'twill be very slow. 
 If you listen to all that is said as you go; 
 Y^ou'll be worried and fretted and kept in a stew. 
 For meddlesome tongues must have something to do. 
 For people will talk. 
 
 If quiet and modest, you'll have it presumed 
 That your humble position is only assumed — 
 You're a wolf in sheep's clothing or else you're a fool. 
 But don't get excited — keep perfectly cool, 
 For people will talk. 
 
 And then, if you show the least boldness of heart. 
 Or a slight inclination to take your own part. 
 They will call you an upstart, conceited and vain; 
 But keep straight ahead — don't stop to explain, 
 For people will talk. 
 
68 
 
 If threadbare your dress and old-fashioned your hat. 
 Some one will surely take notice of that. 
 And hint rather strong- that 3^ou can't pay your way: 
 But don't get excited, whatever they say, 
 For people will talk. 
 
 If your dress is in fashion, don't think to escape. 
 For they criticise then in a different shape; 
 Your ahead of your means, or your tailor's unpaid: 
 But mind your own business — there's naught to be made. 
 For people will talk. 
 
 Now. the best way to do is to do as you please: 
 For your mind if you have one. will then be at ease. 
 Of course you will meet with all sorts of abuse; 
 But don't think to stop them — it ain't any use. 
 For people will talk . 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 AXXA DEMPSET. 
 
 Silent is the eloquent voice of our bard, 
 Checked is the flow of his magical pen; 
 
 Enshrined are the beautiful words it has traced 
 With his name, beloved in the hearts of men. 
 
 Near the blue Atlantic thou sleepest; 
 
 Its restless surge shall thy requiem be; 
 Its crested billows inspired thee oft 
 
 With wondrous thoughts of eternity. 
 
 He gladly answered the summons to go — 
 •'It restores me my loved ones," he sighed; 
 
 He had patiently waited the Master's call. 
 As Evangeline waited when Gabriel died. 
 
 At the '"station" thou hast waited 
 
 For a score of weary years, 
 Since thy lovely bride was taken 
 
 Leaving thee sad and lone in tears. 
 
69 
 
 Beyond the portals of the tomb 
 
 Thy "Rose of Affection" thou didst meet: 
 The parted are made forever one. 
 
 The lovely bride and the poet-laureate. 
 
 Thou hast left this land of shadows: 
 
 But thy memory will remain: 
 All the poems thou hast left us 
 
 Will their beauty still retain. 
 
 Farewell, immortal bard, thou prince of poetry, farewell 
 Inscribed is thy name on the pages of time. 
 
 Thou hast won the immortal crown of fame. 
 Thou brilliant composer of ryhine. 
 
 POEM. 
 
 LIEUT. S. F. BEXXETT. 
 
 Ho. Comrades! Gather round the board 
 
 'Tis pleasure calls to-day! 
 We do not hear the bugle note. 
 
 That summons to the fray! 
 A sweeter music now invites 
 
 A calmer spirit thrills 
 Than that which urged us times agone 
 
 0"er Southern vales and hills. 
 
 The musket hangs upon the wall 
 
 Unused and rusty, too; 
 The absence of the blouse of blue 
 
 Shows better work to do. 
 Upon the shelf the old canteen 
 
 With battered sides is seen. 
 For still we love to cherish these. 
 
 To keep old memories green. 
 
70 
 
 No more our weary bodies rest 
 
 Upon the sodden ground, 
 With one gum blanket to invite 
 
 To sleep and rest profound: 
 While midnight music, devilish 
 
 The dire mosquitoes make, 
 And brayings of the festive mule 
 
 The sleeping echoes wake! 
 
 No more our heads are pillowed on 
 
 A billet hard of wood, 
 Or, softer yet, the army shoes 
 
 In the same neighborhood; 
 Nor do we wake, when weeping clouds 
 
 Their ample stores have shed, 
 To find perchance, with muttered curse 
 
 A puddle for our bed. 
 
 "Fall in!*' Awakes us not at morn; 
 
 No more the irksome drill 
 Makes sour the disposition sweet 
 
 Of John, or Jake, or Bill. 
 Guard mounting on the dubious 
 
 Line, shall fret our souls no more: 
 At distance safe, we contemplate 
 
 The weary marches o'er. 
 
 No more the jack-knife snaps in 
 
 Twain, to split our "hard-tack 1 ' fare, 
 And skippers in the bacon now, 
 
 No more compel our care. 
 ''Sow-belly"' is a memory — 
 
 If not a pleasant one, 
 And with its doubtful pedigree; 
 
 Thank Fortune, we are done. 
 
 And, Comrades, we can hardly claim 
 
 Republics are unkind, 
 For, in the list of high awards, 
 
 The "Vet"' is not behind; 
 Not few the fat things he has taken 
 
 From the official board, 
 And generous pensions help deplete 
 
 The Nations ample hoard. 
 
71 
 
 At church, or in the public hall 
 
 The •'Vet" receives his due, 
 By being brought the softest chair. 
 
 Or giv'n the cushioned pew. 
 And orators exalt his name 
 
 On glory's brightest page. 
 And "set him out*' in colors fine — 
 
 The hero of the age! 
 
 The ladies, bless their precious souls 
 
 Regard him with a smile. 
 Rewarding his attentions sweet 
 
 In most devoted style; 
 Among the gentle sex he moves 
 
 A conqueror again. 
 AVhile those who never wore the blue 
 
 May envy him in vain! 
 
 Ah. well! 'Tis meet that they who fought 
 
 To save the flag we love 
 Be given now the highest place 
 
 In Dame Columbia's love: 
 That, in her gifts of gratitude 
 
 They e'er receive the best, 
 And that the evening of their days 
 
 Be full of quiet rest. 
 
 Who would begrudge the soldier old 
 
 His corner by the fire. 
 His pipe of consolation, and 
 
 His tales that never tire, 
 His place of honor at the board. 
 
 His share in all good cheer. 
 Or any gifts that help to make 
 
 His sojourn pleasant here? 
 
 Not much he needs whose service true 
 
 Is told by empty sleeve, 
 Or by the limping gait that gives 
 
 At eve, nor morn, reprieve. 
 Whose weary marches on his face 
 
 Are traced by many a line, 
 Where once the ruddy glow of health 
 
 Shone like the ruby wine. 
 
72 
 
 To-day he knows a People's heart 
 
 Beats measure with his own. 
 And crowns him greater in its heart 
 
 Than king upon his throne; 
 So once again a Hip Hurrah! 
 
 While flaunts the flag he bore, 
 And veteran hero greets 
 
 And lives his "battle o'er! 
 
 But, while our hearts rejoice to-day 
 
 In pleasures ever dear, 
 We pause to think with moistened eye 
 
 Of those who meet not here, 
 The '"boys" who shared our cup and couch: 
 
 The loyal, true and brave 
 Who sleep a long and silent sleep. 
 
 Within the quiet grave! 
 
 No more the rallying cry shall wake 
 
 The unresponsive ear, 
 Nor battle's hell of awful sound, 
 
 Or Victory's brave cheer, 
 Sweet be thy sleep where loving hands 
 
 Have laid each sacred form 
 Beyond the w^eary march's pain, 
 
 Beyond the battle's storm! 
 
 Good Comrade Nelson whom the boys. 
 
 Of "D" can ne'er forget, 
 The roll-call answers not to-day. 
 
 His sun of life has set 
 A faithful soldier, honest man, 
 
 A friend in shine or storm 
 We guard his sacred memory 
 
 In hearts forever warm! 
 
 And greatest of the silent throng 
 
 Our great commander lies 
 Encoffmed and with pall and shroud. 
 
 Amid a Nation's sighs! 
 The hero whom a hundred fights 
 
 A conqueror e'er has known 
 Surrendered, only when the call 
 
 By Death's pale lips was blown. 
 
We mourn him not because his fame 
 
 O'ershadowed every clime, 
 Or that of glory's mountain peak 
 
 He reached the brows sublime 
 A tenderer, deeper, sentiment, 
 
 Our hearts affection move, 
 Than thought of glory makes to life, 
 
 "We mourn because we love." 
 
 Thought eaons yet to be shall grow 
 
 The glory of his fame 
 And earth's remotest nations bow 
 
 In honor to his name! 
 To liberty shall sacred be 
 
 The soil on which he trod, 
 His country greatest gift, himself 
 
 A masterpiece of God. 
 
 But let us lift our hearts in praise 
 
 To Him the Lord of Light. 
 Who gave our arms the victory 
 
 The battle to the right! 
 May he protect our land beloved 
 
 From every traitor foe 
 And water in his love the soil 
 
 Where freedom's oak shall grow. 
 
 Long may the flag that waved o'er Grant, 
 
 And led the hosts in blue 
 That o'er a Union all complete 
 
 A people loyal true, 
 No cloud of treason to eclipse 
 
 The glory of its stars. 
 No shameful blot or stain or smirch 
 
 The beauty of its bars. 
 
 But should a foeman dare to use 
 
 'Gainst it an impious hand. 
 While one of the old guard remain 
 
 Alive, in all the Land, 
 That one, forgetting wounds and scars 
 
 Would seize again the gun. 
 And hobble on his soldier crutch 
 
 To shoot the traitor down. 
 
Vale! And when the season round 
 
 Into a full orbed year, 
 And "Harvest Homes" are being sung 
 
 At firesides far and near, 
 May once again the Ninty-Fifth 
 
 Partake of ample cheer, 
 And, when the roll is called, respond 
 
 Without one missing, Here! 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE VILLAGE BOY 
 
 ANNA CERES HEGWYN. 
 
 The much abused Village boy 
 
 To-day shall be my theme, 
 I know that black and deep his sins 
 
 To "Mistress Grundy" seem. 
 In his defense my pen I'll speed, 
 
 Though she may frown and blame, 
 Though I shock her propriety, 
 
 I'll "get there just the same." 
 
 I must admit, 'tis sadly true 
 
 That often a village boy 
 Thinks that he a hunting trip 
 
 On Sunday can best enjoy, 
 Don't stir your temper up, my friend, 
 
 Nor a long lecture frame — 
 If he wants to hunt on Sunday, 
 
 "He'll get there just the same." 
 
 The same applies to fishing, 
 
 To skating and croquet, 
 With which our wayward village boy 
 
 Whiles Sabbath hours away 
 I know these things are not quite right, 
 
 And some correction claim, 
 But still the average village boy 
 
 "Will get there just the same." 
 
When he is in society 
 
 Don't stand upon the watch. 
 And follow him with Argus eyes, 
 
 Each word and look to catch 
 If you've taught him virtue's moral worth 
 
 He'll not disgrace his name 
 If not, relax your vigilance. 
 
 For ••he'll get there just the same."' 
 
 And when he would a courting go 
 
 "Tis wise to "let him be." 
 "Tis his own heart that is concerned. 
 
 Xot that of you or me 
 Don't criticise his sweet-heart so, 
 
 Don't try to spoil his game! 
 For if he's bound to wed the girl. 
 
 "He'll get there just the same."' 
 
 If he should join some other church 
 
 Than that which 3 t ou hold dear, 
 You need for his soul's welfare 
 
 And salvation have no fear 
 You think your own doctrine the best. 
 
 (For this you're not to blame.) 
 But more than one road leads to Heaven. 
 
 And "He'll get there just the same.*' 
 
 I do maintain, our village boy 
 
 Whose deeds annoy you so. 
 Behaves no worse than did his "pa" 
 
 Some twenty years ago. 
 Tell me. my friend, when you were young. 
 
 Were you sober, staid and tame? 
 Did you never kick across the tugs 
 
 To ''get there just the same?" 
 
 Although our patient editors 
 
 Grant my effusions space, 
 For too lengthy contributions 
 
 Exists another place; 
 But for this fact. I'd show 3-0 u why. 
 
 Though you talk him deaf and lame 
 The village boy will, doubtlessly 
 
 Arrive there just the same." 
 
76 
 
 QUAKER MEETINGS. 
 
 R. DAKKOW. 
 
 History tells of Quaker meeting's long- ago 
 
 In the days when Penn treated the Indians so; 
 
 His rule was peace, good will and love, 
 
 80 wise and good that it seemed to come from above. 
 
 Though Penn is gone his memory still survives, 
 
 His doings beautiful and g-ood still live, 
 
 And on Sunday evening's bright 
 
 His followers true sing, "How pleasant is each Sunday night. 
 
 The business of the week is seen in loving eyes, 
 In ball, sleigh-rides and surprise parties; 
 They are not cast down by any mote — 
 Those people on the Quaker boat. 
 
 If you would see one who knows no blue 
 Pass all by and a Quaker view, 
 They can drive over bridges that are half gone, 
 Tumble over the moon if they only could get on. 
 
 They're fast of course, they're on the go, 
 They're always ready for each puppet show; 
 Let old foggyists their notions boast, 
 Be wise and join our Quaker host. 
 
 NOT GONE-HENRY MITTENDORF, 
 
 MRS. LITTLE. 
 
 One day I strolled through a forest tall, 
 
 Where giant trees majestic stood 
 Peaceful and calm, a silence o ? er all, 
 
 Not a sound to disturb this grand old wood. 
 With a sudden gush and rush and roar 
 
 Fell a grand old oak to the ground, 
 Then the sun shone brightly as before, 
 
 The wind had left but a mournful sound. 
 
77 
 
 I sadly approach the prostrate tree, 
 
 Not a branch was decayed, not a leaf was brown; 
 In its aged bark perfection I see 
 
 But an unseen blight in the heart is found. 
 
 It has stood the storms of many years, 
 It has sheltered many loving- friends, 
 
 Now we bathe its fallen form with our tears 
 While each lofty tree top in sorrow bends. 
 
 Each little flower has a tear in its eye. 
 
 Each child comes to grieve o'er its aged friend, 
 The green soft grass even seems to sigh 
 
 Of so much grandeur — is this the end. 
 
 No children sad, say not father is gone; 
 
 Though you sadly miss his loving voice 
 He will wait for you till the glorious dawn. 
 
 Then together we will all rejoice. 
 
 Like this noble oak he has stood for years 
 A worthy example for old and young. 
 
 His guiltless life our memory endears, 
 
 Although with grief our hearts are stung. 
 
 Then Father, friend, companion dear 
 
 We bid thee a long and sad farewell, 
 We would not wish to hold thee here, 
 Though how deep we miss thee no tongue can tell. 
 
 TO SPECULATORS. 
 
 IOWA DROVER. 
 
 Raise the prices of provisions, 
 
 Fleece, ye rich, the helpless poor: 
 If they starve 'tis little matter; 
 
 Emigration sends us more. 
 Enter into combinations, 
 
 Banks the money will supply. 
 Little stock it takes to make it; 
 
 Just some paper and a die. 
 
78 
 
 Lower the mechanic's wages, 
 
 Rob the laborer of his due; 
 What are their half-faniished children, 
 
 What their weeping- wives, to you? 
 You can dwell in splendid houses, 
 
 Feast upon the very best, 
 And your children and your spouses 
 
 Be in silk and broadcloth dressed. 
 
 What to you, if vice is shedding 
 
 All around its mildew blight, 
 And the clouds of ignorance spreading 
 
 Shadows of in tensest night? 
 What to you, if degradation 
 
 Caste th forth its filthiest slime? 
 There are prison house and gallows; 
 
 Yes, to punish poor men's crimes. 
 
 You are the Solons of the country. 
 
 You the laws and statutes make: 
 Wisely you have framed enactments. 
 
 Either to evade or break. 
 Let the poor and needy tremble, 
 
 Screened by neither power nor place; 
 Poverty must feel correction, 
 
 Lowliness endure disgrace. 
 
 COLUMBIA'S EMBLEM. 
 
 EDNA DEAN PROCTOR, IN CENTURY. 
 
 Blazon Columbia's emblem T 
 The bounteous golden corn 
 
 Eons ago, the great sun's glow 
 And the joy of the 'twas born 
 
,79 
 
 From Superior's shore to Chile, 
 
 From the ocean of dawn to the west, 
 With its banner of green and tasseled sheen 
 
 It sprang at the sun's behest, 
 And by dew and shower from its natal hour; 
 
 With honey and wine 'twas fed 
 Till the gods were fain to share with men. 
 
 The perfect feast outspread. 
 For the rarest boon to the land they load 
 
 Was the corn so rich and fair; 
 No star, nor breeze o'er the fartherest seas 
 
 Could find its like elsewhere. 
 In their holiest temples the Incas 
 
 Offered the heaven sent maize, 
 Grains wrought of gold in a silver fold, 
 
 For the sun's enraptured gaze, 
 And its harvest came to the wandering tribes — 
 
 A God's own gift and seal; 
 And Montezumas festal bread 
 
 W 7 as made of its sacred meal. 
 Narrow their cherished field; but ours 
 
 Are broad as the continents breast. 
 And lavish as flowers the sheaves, 
 
 Bring plenty and joy and rest; 
 For they strew the plains and crowd the wains. 
 
 When the reapers meet at morn 
 Till blithe the cheers ring, west winds sing 
 
 A song for the garnered corn. 
 The rose may bloom for England, 
 
 The lily for France unfold, 
 Ireland may honor the shamrock, 
 
 Scotland the thistle bold. 
 But the shield of the Great Kepublic, 
 
 The glory of the west 
 Shall bear a stalk of tasseled corn, 
 
 Of all our wealth the best. 
 The arbutus and the golden rod 
 
 The heart of the north may cheer, 
 And the mountain laurel for Maryland 
 
 Its royal clusters rear, 
 And jasamine and magnolia 
 
 The crest of the south adorn, 
 But the wide Republic's emblem 
 
 Is the bounteous golden corn. 
 
80 
 
 MONEYLESS MAN, 
 
 HENRY STANTON. 
 
 Is there no place on the face of the earth 
 Where charity dwelleth, where virtue hath birth? 
 Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave, 
 And the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive. 
 Is there no place on earth where a knock from the poor 
 Will bring- a kind angel to open the door? 
 Ah search the wide world wherever yon can, 
 There's no open door for the moneyless man. 
 
 Go look in your hall, where the chandelier's light 
 Drives back with its splendor the darkness of night, 
 Where the bright hanging velvet in shadowy fold, 
 Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold, 
 And the mirrors of silver take up and renew 
 In long lighted vistas the wildering view; 
 Go there in your patches and find if you can 
 A welcoming smile for a moneyless man. 
 
 Go look on yon church of the cloud-reaching spire 
 Which gives back to the sun his look of red fire, 
 Where the arches and columns are gorgeons within, 
 And the walls are as pure as a soul without sin — 
 Go down the long aisle, see the rich and the great 
 In the pride and the pomp of their worldly estate; 
 Walk down in your patches and find if you can 
 Who opens a pew for a moneyless man. 
 
 Go look on yon judge, in dark flowing gown 
 
 With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down. 
 
 Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong. 
 
 And he punishes right, while he justifies wrong; 
 
 Where jurors their lips on the bible have laid 
 
 To render a verdict they've already made; 
 
 Go there, in the courtroom and find, if you can 
 
 Any law for the cause of a moneyless man. 
 
si 
 
 Go look in the bank, where Mammon has told 
 His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold; 
 Where safe from the hands of the starving and poor 
 Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore; 
 Walk up to the counter — ah, there you may stay 
 Till your limbs grow old and your hair turns gray 
 And you*ll find at the bank, not one of the clan 
 With money to lend to a moneyless man. 
 
 Then go to your hovel, no raven has fed 
 
 The wife who has suffered so long for her bread, 
 
 Kneel down by the pallet and kiss the death frost, 
 
 From the lips of the angels your poverty lost, 
 
 Then turn in your agony upward to God 
 
 And bless while it smites you, the chastising rod, 
 
 And you'll find at the end of your life's little span 
 
 There's a welcome above for a moneyless man. 
 
 BE KIND TO THE LOVED ONES AT HOME 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Be kind to thy father for when thou wert young, 
 
 W T ho nursed you so fondly as he — 
 He taught the first accents that fell from thy tongue. 
 
 And joined in thy innocent glee; 
 Be kind to thy father for now he is old, 
 
 His locks intermingled with gray, 
 His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold — 
 
 Thy father is passing away. 
 
 Be kind to thy mother for lo! 
 
 May traces of sorrow be seen, 
 Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort her now, 
 
 For loving and kind has she been: 
 Remember thy mother for thee she will pray 
 
 As long as God giveth her breath. 
 With accents of kindness that cheer her lone way 
 
 E'en to the dark valley of death. 
 
8:> 
 
 Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth; 
 
 If the smile of thy joy be withdrawn, 
 The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth, 
 
 If the dew of affection is gone; 
 Be kind to thy brother wherever you are. 
 
 The love of a brother shall be 
 An ornament purer and richer, by far 
 
 Than pearls, from the depth of the sea. 
 
 Be kind to thy sister not many may know 
 
 The depth of a true sisters love, 
 The wealth of the ocean lies fathomless below 
 
 The surface that sparkles above; 
 Be kind to thy father, once fearless and bold. 
 
 Be kind to thy mother so near, 
 Be kind to thy brother, nor show thy heart cold, 
 
 Be kind to thy sister so dear. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Martha Evarts Holdeti— "Amber.' 
 
 JOHN CAFEK SHIRLEY. 
 
 Ye do my memory wrong, kind friends, 
 
 To think of me as dead. 
 When earth shall hide my broken form 
 
 And last farewells are said, 
 My spirit shall come forth again 
 
 To mingle with the lives of men; 
 The brave, the tender and sincere 
 
 Shall feel my touch, my voice shall hear. 
 
 In twilights of the coming years 
 
 The plantive murmur of the waves 
 That break in music on our shore 
 
 Shall seem more life-like, more like human tears. 
 Though I should be no more. 
 
83 
 
 And from the haunts that I have known 
 My life shall never pass away; 
 
 More holy shall the night appear 
 
 Beneath the touch of moon and stars. 
 
 More full of hope the light of day 
 When I shall sleep alone. 
 
 Xew strength shall blossom in the spring. 
 
 When flowers shall come again, 
 And sweeter breath to everything 
 
 In the warm summer rain; 
 My voice shall whisper in the trees. 
 
 In song of bird and hum of bees. 
 
 Where rippling waters laugh at morn 
 My form shall sometimes stand. 
 
 Upon the mossy tress shall rest 
 The pressure of my hand; 
 
 And o"er the trembling blades of grass 
 My airy steps sometimes shall pass 
 
 And through the rustling corn. 
 
 And all who think may think of me 
 
 And all who love make known 
 That life is sweeter for the faith 
 
 That one brave heart has shown; 
 And all who battle for the right 
 
 Or strive against the wrong 
 Shall take new courage when* they see 
 
 How I have striven alone. 
 
 MOTHER.— A Tribute. 
 
 M. A. DeLaxey. 1870. 
 
 Mother dear thou alas art gone 
 To rest upon the joyful shore. 
 
 In the home of the Immortal One 
 Whom we honor love and adore. 
 
84 
 
 And though the pang's of grief sink deep. 
 
 And scalding tears do blind my eyes, 
 Yet for thy loss I should not weep, 
 
 Happier thou beyond the skies. 
 
 But the word mother is name 
 
 Of truly affectionate love, 
 The thoughts which I now reclaim 
 
 Cannot forbear my spirit to move. 
 
 That name is the centre of all 
 Which makes early childhood so dear, 
 
 To the memory when we recall 
 Thy love and attest with a tear. 
 
 My foot-steps were tottering and weak, 
 When a child, with thee by my side 
 
 With lisping tongue I tried to speak, 
 In both thou wert ever my guide. 
 
 And then when grown to riper years 
 Sent from parents friends and home, 
 
 My mother's parting tears 
 
 Filled my memory when alone. 
 
 Then the welcome when home returned 
 
 To the lowly place of my birth, 
 My heart within my bosom burned 
 
 To meet thee and my native earth. 
 
 And when life's dutie? coming on 
 Led me from parents roof again, 
 
 A mother's blessings were given upon 
 One who knew not their worth till then. 
 
 How lightly we think of the one 
 
 Who directs our infantile ways, 
 Until from the living she's gone 
 
 And death has numbered her days. 
 
 Her teachings to me so sublime, 
 
 So beautiful and so pure 
 Will stand the eternal wrecks of time. 
 
 And living will live and endure. 
 
 Mayest thou from the regions above 
 
 Behold those to whom thy life was so dear; 
 
 Following thy dear precepts of love 
 For creatures of this earthly sphere. 
 
85 
 
 When my time has come, dear mother 
 
 To leave this our valley below — 
 To leave friends, sister and brother. 
 
 ThouTt point me the way as I go. 
 
 For death to us all will come 
 
 To close this, our earthly career. 
 To take us to our Father's home. 
 
 To the reward for merit here. 
 
 Adieu, adieu our own loved one. 
 
 The earth is o'er thy lifeless form. 
 Thy voice is mute, thy spirit gone 
 
 To that blest land where breathes no storm. 
 
 EVENING, 
 
 MRS. LITTLE. 
 
 The sun was sinking* down the west 
 As through the woodland I strolled: 
 
 The birds were seeking places of rest. 
 The bells from the village tolled. 
 
 From the south the gentle evening breeze 
 Waved o'er the fields of hay — 
 
 Backward and forward rocked the trees. 
 As the birds sang farewell to day. 
 
 Far in the east like mountains of gold 
 The clouds in their splendor stood. 
 
 And the voice of distant thunder rolled 
 And re-echoed through the wood. 
 
 Darker and darker the clouds did grow. 
 
 As the sun drew near the west: 
 Fainter and fainter the high clouds glow 
 
 As the sun sank down to rest. 
 
 Father, still farther did I stroll 
 
 Till I neared a crystal river; 
 The village bells had ceased to toll. 
 
 The breeze made the light trees quiver . 
 
86 
 
 Weird and dark had the clouds grown now. 
 
 One looked like the face of a man, 
 And a frown seemed gathered o'er his brow. 
 
 As a dagger he held in his hand. 
 
 High in the heavens rose the silver moon, 
 One by one came each well known star, 
 
 Lifting from earth its cloak of gloom 
 Painting wild pictures near aud far. 
 
 THE MODERN WOMAN. 
 
 J. J. BURKE. 
 
 Her smile is like a sunbeam 
 Gently stealing oe'r the wave, 
 
 Her form is like the willow 
 Bending o'er Napolean's grave. 
 
 Her hair hangs down her shoulders 
 In a snarled and tangled mess, 
 
 And her feet peep out from under 
 Her Mother Hubbard dress. 
 
 Her eys they shine like diamonds 
 
 Or pearly drops of dew, 
 And she wears upon her feet 
 
 A side buttoned shoe. 
 
 Her face is like a saucer 
 
 Or the bottom of a pan, 
 She's a darling, she's a daisy, 
 
 And she's looking for a man. 
 
 Her voice like the rumble 
 Of a distant train of cars, 
 
 And she wears a Mother Hubbard 
 Like a gibboon on cross bars. 
 
 Her hair hangs down her forehead 
 Like the foretop of a mule, 
 
 While she talks about her fellow 
 And chews gum in the school. 
 
87 
 
 She dances like a fairy 
 
 In the merry waltz and reel, 
 
 But "twould puzzle her tremendous 
 To get up a square meal. 
 
 She plays upon the organ, 
 And sing's just like a bird. 
 
 But in household economy 
 She doesn't know a word. 
 
 Her face is wreathed in smiles 
 On each Sunday afternoon, 
 
 But on Monday it frowns dark 
 As a thunder cloud in June, 
 
 Her hands are soft and white 
 As a gentle flake of snow, 
 
 But she has a bunion on each foot— 
 A corn upon each toe. 
 
 THE ANGRY MAN 
 
 A. E. N. 
 
 Bid you ever get cross, Dexter, cross, 
 
 From your head away down to your toes, 
 
 If not you have suffered a loss, 
 And so have your few petty foes. 
 
 I tell you 'tis splendid to feel it — 
 Strong* anger all over you roll; 
 
 Each virtue, 'tis sure to reveal it, 
 And polish all gems of the soul. 
 
 To-day I'm enrapped in its vapor 
 
 And shrouded from brain pan to head; 
 
 Of love there's not even a taper, 
 
 Whose ray through the curtain can shed. 
 
88 
 
 At dawn was a negro band playing*; 
 
 How tramp, tramp, the boys waddled home: 
 In anger I caught myself praying, 
 
 Their heads might be beat like their dram. 
 
 Why rouse a man deep in his slumber, 
 
 By wind stoutly blowing a, horn. 
 And pounding on skins in vast numbers; 
 
 Oh. why were the black villains born. 
 
 A sleepy man late to his pillow. 
 
 All nervous with illness and care. 
 Aroused by the wolf visaged fellows 
 
 Who growls on the orphy clyde there. 
 
 Then squeak goes the piccale nigger. 
 
 And screech goes the wretch on his fife; 
 How I wish that trombone could disfigure 
 
 The scoundrel who blows it for life. 
 
 They have passed, my tired frame 1*11 turn over 
 And strive to forget their vile noise: 
 
 Too late for my peace I discover, 
 
 And hear the tramp, tramp of the boys. 
 
 I invited a friend to take dinner — 
 A Thanksgiving dinner, it looked, 
 
 But as sure as I know I'm a sinner 
 The turkey with onions was cooked. 
 
 The oysters were ancient and tainted. 
 
 The chickens were tougher than sin. 
 The nuts were of cottonwood painted. 
 
 The wine was log-wood and gin. 
 
 And now at the hour of eleven — 
 
 Meridian past understood, 
 My room no resemblance to heaven, 
 
 The day seemed a wreck on the strand. 
 
 I'm angry in speen and in liver. 
 
 I'm angry in marrow and bone; 
 My blood flows in madness of fever, 
 
 And judgement and reason are gone. 
 
 I tell you beware, do you hear me, 
 
 You Dexter so gentle and meek; 
 
 Could I see you to night, were you with me. 
 We would revive the old times at Fourth Lake. 
 
89 
 EXCUSABLE. 
 
 MRS. AXXIE FRITCH. 
 
 He spoke "sweet wife. I love you so that should I pass away 
 And leave vou free within my grave, my cold and lifeless clay 
 Would turn and toss uneasily, should my soul look from above 
 And see you on another man bestow your hand and love." 
 
 She made him answer, ' 'Husband mine, the day shall never 
 dawn 
 
 When in my life another man your cherished place shall own: 
 This promise now I give to thee, from a fond and faithful 
 
 heart — 
 Nor life, nor death my loyalty from you shall never part." 
 
 The years sped on and dire disease laid the stalwart husband 
 low, 
 
 And unprovided for, left he the w r ife who loved him so; 
 
 Helpless within the iron grasp of the bony hand of want — 
 
 Haunted by daily grinding- care that spectre grim and guant. 
 
 She who within the downy nest of plenty erst had lain, 
 Was forced to face the cold, cold world, and toil for paltry gain, 
 She to whom poverty and want were merely w r ords before, 
 Now heard the wolf of hunger howling fiercely at the door. 
 
 What then, just this, within the breast of another worthy man 
 
 The pathos of her sorry plight the spark of love did fan, 
 
 For pity is akin to love — at last a day djd come. 
 
 When he offered her his name and heart, and the shelter of his 
 home. 
 
 She, "my words bind me to him who sleeps the last long sleep,'" 
 
 "He should have made it possible that you could your promise 
 
 keep; v 
 
 If he as previously announced does squirm uneasily, 
 Just let him squirm; why didn't he secure your future, see." 
 
 The moral of this ballad sad — a superfluity, 
 Were it to have the same set forth in meter long by me, 
 And every man who loves his wife is but a selfish scamp 
 Unless on promised widowhood he joins a Woodman Camp. 
 
90 
 
 THE FIRE AT EVANSTON 
 
 A. E. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 All peacefully slumbering- fair Evanston lay, 
 While the hours of the night swiftly sped on their way 
 No sound broke the stillness, the sky was serene. 
 The harvest moon smiled in its pale silver sheen. 
 
 AVhen hark, a wild cry, how it startled the night: 
 The fire spirit comes in its anger and might. 
 Arouse ye; poor mortals, no longer delay, 
 Quick! quick, ere ye perish! be up and away. 
 
 We sprang* from our beds in confusion and fright. 
 To behold such a grand, such a terrible sight, 
 I have longed for adventure, but ne'er did aspire. 
 To rise like a phoenix, right out of the fire. 
 
 The angry flames rose, spurning human control, 
 
 Like the waves of the sea, onward, onward they roll; 
 
 The homes that all peaceful at eventide lay, 
 
 Were smouldering ruins at dawning of day. 
 
 But let us not murmur, or think of the cost, 
 
 But thank the kind Father no lives have been lost. 
 
 He gave and He takes, be his name ever blest. 
 
 Let us trust to His wisdom, for He knoweth best. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 A. E. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 'Tis night and the wild wind is out on the wing, 
 
 Then close to the fire the easy chair bring, 
 
 And listen awhile to the curious song 
 
 That the ''Winter King" sings as he hurries along. 
 
 "So dismal, so drear,** did you say. can it be 
 Tt seemeth like wonderful music to me; 
 Sure none but a master musician e'er played 
 Such wild martial airs, or such soft serenade. 
 
91 
 
 In the springtime its voice is so loving* and sweet. 
 It woes the shy flowers from their hidden retreat; 
 It calls to the birds on the far southern shore. 
 Come back to your homes for the winter is o'er. 
 
 And then comes the summer, so parching and dry, 
 The sweet flowers at noontide droop, wither and die: 
 Say are you not glad when he visits you now. 
 And cools with his kisses your feverish brow. 
 
 And yet 'tis the same wind of which you complained. 
 When it rose in the Winter so strong and unchained: 
 I love the soft zeplryrs that sigh in the spring. 
 And I love the wild notes of the rude "Winter King." 
 
 He seems so unfettered, so tireless to me 
 That I often have longed his companion to be: 
 I'd fly to the prairie, I'd sweep o'er the lake. 
 And in the desert my course I would take. 
 
 I'd climb the high mountains. I'd cross the blue deep. 
 And then "mong the sweet southern flowers I'd sleep. 
 But even their breath could not tempt me to stay. 
 For soon like the wind I'd be up and away. 
 
 Oh! pause for a moment wild rover I pray, 
 And tell me the road you have travelled today; 
 Did you come from that beautiful land, let me know. 
 Where the earth has a delicate carpet of snow? 
 
 Where the lowliest thing is all mantled in white 
 
 Leaving beauty and purity only in sight? 
 
 But he hurries along, pausing not for reply. 
 
 If he spoke he would say, "I am going. Good Bye." 
 
 THE OLD YEAR, 
 
 MRS. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 The dear old year is dying, 
 
 'Tis fading out of sight; 
 The hours are swiftly flying, 
 
 'Twill be arone ere mornmsr liarht: 
 
92 
 
 We fain would bid it linger. 
 But it's course we cannot stay, 
 
 For time's unerring- finger 
 
 Marks the hours that pass away. 
 
 Yes the dear old year is going 
 
 And we sigh to see it go, 
 It has brought us hopes and sorrows, 
 
 It has brought us joy and woe; 
 It has brought us bitter trials. 
 
 But we kiss the chastening rod, 
 For the year is but the agent, 
 
 Of a wise and loving God, 
 
 The dear old year is dying; 
 
 Let us drop a farewell tear, 
 And with smiles instead of sighing 
 
 Let us greet the glad new year. 
 Of the future we are guessing, 
 
 All its sorrow and its joys, 
 It may bring us peace and blessing, 
 
 It may also bring alloys, 
 
 The dear old year is dying; 
 
 Like all that went before 
 The last hour will soon be lying 
 
 With the things that are no more; 
 Hark, the old clock in the tower 
 
 How swift the time has fled. 
 It strikes the midnight hour 
 
 The dear old year is dead. 
 
 THE CONFLAGRATION 
 
 MRS. A. E. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 Chicago in ruins! the city on fire: 
 
 Oh. who can imagine a picture so dire; 
 
 The red flames are leaping like waves o'er the street, 
 
 And madly devouring whatever they meet; 
 
93 
 
 In vain do we try, human power cannot stay, 
 The flood that is sweeping* a city away, 
 For the demon of fire holds his revel tonight, 
 And to-morrow a Nation will weep at the sight. 
 
 Yes. beautiful city, the pride of the west; 
 
 For thee, shall a Nation in mourning be dressed; 
 
 For still, like a great greedy monster, the fire 
 
 Speeds onward and onward, leaps higher and higher, 
 
 While palatial dwellings so lofty and great, 
 
 And low humble cottages share the same fate; 
 
 The poor homeless wretches are mad with despair, 
 
 And shrieks, groans and curses are rending the air. 
 
 Even life is destroyed by the demons hot breath; 
 What a terrible form hast thou chosen, oh death! 
 We turn from the spectacle, sickened and faint. 
 The scene is too dreadful for language to paint; 
 The Angels must weep such a sight to behold, 
 For the half of the horrors can never be told. 
 A black cloud of smoke like a funeral pall, 
 Hangs o'er the doomed city, God pity them all. 
 
 A LESSON FROM THE FOREST, 
 
 MRS. L. COLLIER. 
 
 ^Twas bland October, autumn's mildest mood 
 Was spread o'er swelling upland fields and wood. 
 Soft airs come from the slooping skies, 
 And trees draped in rich autumnal dyes, 
 The flounting flowers by soft winds caressed—- 
 Gave to the pinions of the sweet southwest, 
 Their wealth of fragrance and their scented air 
 Breathed love and peace and quiet everywhere. 
 
 The clustered grapes upon the vine still clung, 
 And blushing apples in the orchard hung; 
 While every congregating bird in noisy chime. 
 The sturdy husbandman in the soft haze 
 Sang as he gathered in the golden maize- 
 Dame Nature's task was done, serenly blest 
 She laid her in the arms of peaceful rest. 
 
M 
 
 The dreamy beauties of the autumn day. 
 Beguiled my feet through autumn depths to stray. 
 And lingering- 'neath the whispering trees I thought 
 Of many lessons the forest taught; 
 That the exterior rugged though it be. 
 And rough and homely as it seems to me 
 Yet holds the life sap of the mighty oak. 
 And warns me not to judge man by his cloak. 
 
 And their proud tops which so majestic rise 
 Until their branches seem to meet the skies. 
 Murmur a majestic language to the breeze. 
 Toys with the crimson drapery of the trees. 
 The lisp of foliage bright, which yearly shed 
 Low at their feet doth but enrich their bed. 
 And bids my soul be strong, nor tamely grope. 
 O'er the dead ashes of some cherished hope. 
 
 There by the leaves, half hidden closely clung 
 Bird homes constructed when the year was young; 
 These wind wrecked nests on every sheltering tree 
 Should teach earthling's hospitality, 
 Then too, each varigated edg'ing leaf 
 Tells but too plainly that my life is brief. 
 And as they lightly fall and silent lie 
 I know that I and all mankind must die. 
 
 And then the maxim learned so long ago, 
 
 At school — "large trees from little acorns grow,"' 
 
 Is demonstrated here, and says to me. 
 
 4 'Despise no man, although of low degree, 
 
 I care not what nation, kith or kin. 
 
 This makes the man. right principles gvithin: 
 
 Our wisest statesman came of lowly birth. 
 
 Our nation's glory from the humble hearth. 
 
 Ah, many are the teachings such as these. 
 
 Y\ T e glean while slowly wandering througm the trees: 
 
 Voiceless they come as God's great truths are sent— 
 
 The simple and the great sublimely blent; 
 
 I love those solitudes, their murmurings seem 
 
 As soft and peaceful as a poets dream. 
 
 Then let me often to the depth repair. 
 
 Yet I am not alone for God is there. 
 
WHEN? 
 
 MRS. L. COLLIER. 
 
 When shall these yearnings forever be o'er? 
 When shall we sorrow in silence no more? 
 When shall we gaze on the slow passing years? 
 (raze, nor our visions be blinded with tears. 
 
 When shall the sun as the glad days begin. 
 Rise on a world unpolluted with sin? 
 When shall the stars in the blue arch above 
 Smile on humanity wedded in love? 
 
 Musing I sit w T hile the day slowly wanes. 
 Glowing like fire on the town's western panes. 
 And the domes on the churches appear all ablaze. 
 Bathed in the light of the sun's shining rays. 
 
 Slowly he sinks in the rosy draped west. 
 Dips his broad disc in Pacific's still breast: 
 Eve's trailing robes are embroidered with gold. 
 Fitting dramas fair form to enfold. 
 
 From the low perch in the maple tree above. 
 The robin is telling his mate of his love. 
 While from the grove, over-browing the hill 
 Conies the plaint notes of the lone whipporwill. 
 
 Insects whose short one-day life now is done — 
 Sink to their death with the low sinking sun : 
 Wandering streams that have sung all the day 
 Join in the chorus of Ci passing away." 
 
 Hung in the heavens the red planet Mars 
 
 Peers through the closely vine wreathed lattice bars. 
 
 Fraught with aroma the wild breezes stray 
 
 From the deep meadows of newly mown hay. 
 
 Yet while we gaze the sweet vision has fled. 
 Sunset in crimson and orange and red. 
 And while we watched the bright colors at play 
 Hangs the pavilion of sable and gray. 
 
96 
 
 Here in the twilight I sit all alone, 
 Cold is the hand I once clasped in my own, 
 Hushed is the voice that my bosom has stirred, 
 Now with the angels its music is heard. 
 
 Faded the light from the soul speaking eyes, 
 Cold as the marble that marks where she lies, 
 Mute the white lips whose sweet council I miss 
 As there a balm for such an hour as this. 
 
 Soon shall these yeanings forever be o'er, 
 Soon shall we meet on the heavenly shore, 
 Then shall we gaze on the fleet pinioned years- 
 Gaze, nor our visions be blended with tears. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 MRS. COLLIER — 1873. 
 
 In our northern clime, where the wintry snows 
 Lie thick on the ground and the north wind blows. 
 Clashing field and wood in a glorious rime, 
 There's joy at our merry Christmas time. 
 
 It matters not that the passing breeze 
 Sighs through the branches of leafless trees, 
 That the flowers are dead, and the phantom crowd 
 Are hidden away 'neath a snowy shroud. 
 
 That the thin born cloud is cold and gray, 
 Which floats through the blue fields away; 
 That the silvery stars from the shadowy height 
 Look down on the earth asleep to-night. 
 
 Ah, who could long for the budding spring. 
 With her bowers, where the wild birds sing, 
 For summer blossoms and scented dews. 
 Or boasted autumn's fast changing hues. 
 
97 
 
 Far down the length of the frozen street 
 Ring* sharply and distinctly the horses feet. 
 And the sleigh bells jingle in merry chime 
 With the mirth and joy of the festive time. 
 
 And the ringing laugh of the passing throng 
 Falls glad on my ears, as they pass along, 
 And my pulses beat in a livelier pkvv, 
 As I watch them approach and haste away. 
 
 They heed not the cold and piercing frost, 
 Though their wrappings are by rude winds tossed: 
 Xor care though half hidden among their curls, 
 The snowflakes glisten like purest pearls. 
 
 But listen, again the night wind swells 
 
 The silvery chimes of the Christmas bells; 
 
 As I turned from the window my heart is awed. 
 
 While I dwell on the matchless iove of God. 
 
 And my mind wanders through the lapse of years. 
 To the time when first from the starry skies. 
 Over Bethlehem's plains shone the beacon ray, 
 Which should lead a lost word from sin away. 
 
 And I humbly follow through, sometimes afar 
 In the hallowed light of the guiding star, 
 And my heart with love and gratitude swells, 
 While I list to the chime of the Christmas bells. 
 
 TO CARRIE ON LEAVING HOME 
 
 MRS. COLLIER. 
 
 You ask me. dear sister, some verses to write 
 
 Expressly for you and for Harry: 
 The length, style and subject "twas truely polite 
 
 To leave to myself, my dear Carry. 
 
 And yet o'er the page, the lines I may trace 
 Little merit ma^have to commend them, 
 
 Still know in your heart you will give them a place. 
 It is friendship that prompts me to send them. 
 
98 
 
 My little Nellie just passed through my room 
 And I drew her up fondly and kissed her, 
 
 How deep are the depths of a fond mother's love: 
 Are they deeper than love of a sister? 
 
 As I wandered this morning- through meadow and grove 
 
 To pluck a boquet from the wild wood, 
 I twined them together and thought of the love 
 
 That bound us together in childhood. 
 
 And memory, dreamy as autumn's soft haze, 
 
 Tinged each recollection with glory, 
 And with that look backward, I sighed for those days. 
 
 'Tis the same sweet, sad oft' written story. 
 
 And though now far away, in your own chosen home 
 
 Still cherish the old time affection 
 For those you have left and may love's watch fires burn 
 
 On the shrine of thine own heart's erection. 
 
 On another arm now you have chosen to rest, 
 Which in fondness your slight form encloses; 
 
 Your joys and your cares you confide to the breast 
 Where your head oft so fondly reposes. 
 
 But bright pinioned hope with a roseate glow, 
 To your vision bright fancies is weaving 
 
 When you left the home circle, Oh, how could you know 
 How sad were the hearts you were leaving-. 
 
 But if the dim future dark storm clouds reveal, 
 
 Portentously threatening the morrow, 
 Yet be not cast down, for our trouble that's real 
 
 Is less than the trouble we borrow. 
 
 I do not ask that the sky may be clear, 
 
 That never a dark cloud may lower, 
 For when would earth's beauty and fragrance appear 
 
 If never refreshed with a shower. 
 
 But I pray that each cloud may be spanned with a bow. 
 
 Effulgent with brightness and splendor 
 And each hour of adversity be all aglow 
 
 With His love so exquisitely tender. 
 
 And when o'er thy lifepath the night shadows lie 
 And you have finished the work He has given, 
 
 May you lay your life's love-tasks exultantly by, 
 And await all the dear ones in heaven. 
 
99 
 
 LIFE'S PATHWAY. 
 
 MRS. L. COLLIER. 
 
 I've watched the flowers of springtime 
 
 Unfolding- one by one. 
 And the fields and scented wood lands 
 
 Put their summer glory on, 
 And the trembling sparkling dew drops 
 
 On the tinted rose heart lay, 
 While higher and higher Phoebus 
 
 Slowly trod the path of day. 
 
 Making golden the fleecy cloud wreaths 
 
 As they passed rapidly through the sky; 
 The flowerets grew in the tufted meadows, 
 
 And rejoiced in the cool shadowy life, 
 In its lowly channel the dimpling brooklet 
 
 Where the birds loved to drink, 
 Rippled on sweet and cool, 
 
 And sweet herbs grew on its sloping brink, 
 
 I've gazed with admiration 
 
 On the happy careless maid, 
 And for her life long happiness 
 
 My heart unconcious prayed; 
 Beside her stood a manly youth 
 
 In God's own image made, 
 And in his own he held her hand 
 
 In the twilight's gathering shade. 
 And I saw him call the blushes 
 
 To wreath her girlish brow, 
 While he murmured low the tale of love 
 
 And breathed the solemn vow, 
 That love's bright star should guide them; 
 
 She little thought 'twould dim 
 When she gave, with woman's trusting love 
 
 Her happiness to him. 
 
 But I looked again on the spring flowers. 
 
 Drooped withered one by one, 
 And their fleeting forms had from my gaze 
 
 Like waking visions gone, 
 And a tear fell on the faded rose. 
 
 L.ofC. 
 
100 
 
 And yet in my despair 
 While I pressed the perished to my lips 
 
 The fragrance still was there. 
 And the wild wood late so verdant 
 
 Gone is its verdure now. 
 But the hidden le*if germs slumber still 
 
 Upon the parent bough, 
 And awaits the laggart coming 
 
 Of the soft warm breath of May, 
 To don their robes, while the wild bees hum. 
 
 And the scented breezes stray. 
 E'en while I watched the cloud wreaths 
 
 In the airy fields at play; 
 A sudden change passed o'er the scene, 
 
 That sultry August day. 
 And the fleecy white was darkened. 
 
 And the angry wind swept by, 
 Hurled them on their shadowy wings 
 
 Through the dark and threatening sky. 
 The fire bolts leaped from heaven, 
 
 While the thunder answered back. 
 And strong men paled as they gazed 
 
 On the fierce tornado's track, 
 But a calmer scene awaits me now — 
 
 The tempest fierce is spent, 
 And a radiant bow of hope and peace, 
 
 Now spans the firmament. 
 I sought the wedded pair — a gloom — 
 
 Had fallen on their hearth, 
 And many were the woes, to which 
 
 Inconstancy gives birth; 
 W T ho could have guessed the maid was now 
 
 A lone heart stricken wife? 
 Oh, sad would be her fate 
 
 If this were all of life. 
 But I saw the tear dimmed vision 
 
 Turn longingly to Him; 
 Who knows our hearts most cruel smart, 
 
 Whose eyes can never dim 
 And with heart encouraged, gladdened — 
 
 She kissed the chastening rod, 
 And a halo from the glory world. 
 
 Lit up the path she trod. 
 
101 
 LOST FRIENDS. 
 
 MRS. COTTIER. 
 
 When friends are called to leave us 
 
 For that far unknown shore. 
 Ah. how the thoughts doth grieve us 
 
 That we shall meet no more. 
 Until we too, have gone the way 
 
 That all the living go; 
 Our heads are bowed in sadness. 
 
 Our hearts are filled with woe. 
 
 The sunlight for a season 
 
 Has from our life's path flown. 
 We cannot list to reason 
 
 But sigh and weep and moan. 
 How keen must be the vain regret: 
 
 If we have failed in duty 
 'Twill rob our day and night of peace. 
 
 Our life of half its beauty. 
 
 If we were always kind and true 
 
 To those who've gone before us, 
 Remembrance will no sorrow bring 
 
 And cast no shadow o'er us. 
 And time that changes all things 
 
 Can find for us a balm 
 The darkest night precedes a dawn. 
 
 The direst storm a calm. 
 
 Then dry your tears and cease to mourn. 
 
 Those partings are but brief. 
 If we fulfill our mission here . 
 
 We'll find no time for grief. 
 We'll work for those who still remain 
 
 In charity and love. 
 And when we lay our burdens down 
 
 We'll join the lost above. 
 
J 02 
 
 MEMORIAL TO MAMMIE QUINN, 
 
 MRS. COLLIER. 
 
 How you thought her yours, the sunny creature 
 That filled your home with music joy and light: 
 
 Rippling* sunshine in her every feature, 
 
 Brightening all your soul with glad delight. 
 
 How you thought her yours and gently taught her 
 
 Every little graceful childish art, 
 "Till it seemed your little winsome daughter 
 
 Of your existence was a part. 
 
 Could you learn that God but lent her 
 
 To your loving care a little space. 
 Back to his dear fold you prevent her 
 
 From resuming her accustomed place. 
 
 For the world is cold and uncongenial 
 
 To the growth of heaven s fairest flowers: 
 
 Why then hesitate to trust our dear ones 
 To a care more tender far than ours. 
 
 Yet I know the heart is well nigh broken 
 
 As we yield to Him our treasure up, 
 And we feel that truly we are drinking. 
 
 To its very dregs, the bitter cup. 
 
 Yet again dear friends you behold her 
 When life's lessons all are understood. 
 
 In your arms of love you will enfold her. 
 Grow r n to beauteous womanhood. 
 
 MIDNIGHT Dec. 31st 
 
 MRS. COLLIER. 
 
 Let the bell shrwly tell the strokes 
 That on the night airs wander here. 
 
 As time in this still hour invokes 
 A blessing on the dying year. 
 
103 
 
 Yes. let the strokes be slowly tolled 
 
 Upon the slumbrous midnight air. 
 The fleeting moment I would hold. 
 
 Though fraught with sorrows none may share. 
 
 Above me is the star gemmed dome 
 
 Of heaven, so quiet and so blest. 
 It seems indeed the fitting home 
 
 For weary ones who sigh for rest. 
 
 And through the ether slowly drifts 
 
 The fleecy cloudlet, fragile, fair. 
 While through oft recurring rift 
 
 The silent stars are watching there. 
 
 I love the stars the evening hour 
 
 Has regal beauties, which the day 
 Knows not. and yet its gentle power 
 
 Holds my soul a sovereign sway. 
 
 I love the stars for nearer heaven 
 They hold their stations and convey 
 
 To me e'en through the cloudlet riven 
 A stranger holier power than day. 
 
 Beneath just fallen, the solemn shroud 
 
 I see where e're I turn my eyes. 
 The fleecy drapery from the cloud 
 
 Upon the earth untrodden lies. 
 
 And through the distance faintly comes 
 Sweet strains of music, and the glance 
 
 From bright lighted halls, where some 
 Are whirling in the dizzy dance. 
 
 Others this hour are met in prayer. 
 
 Apart from life's mad strife and din. 
 And join in praise 'til lingering there. 
 
 They watch the glad new year begin. 
 
 How many are there while I trace 
 
 These lines who wait with bated breath. 
 
 Or shivering sigh and tear wet face. 
 Beside the loved asleep in death. 
 
 Ah. there was one so dear and true. 
 
 And with the thought the tears will flow. 
 Who joined the festive pleasure too— 
 
 But just one little year ago. 
 
104 
 
 To-night her small white hands are pressed 
 
 Upon the bosom cold and white. 
 And pulseless the silent breast 
 
 Beneath the winter snows to-night. 
 
 When sad November's chilling blast 
 Ran shivering up the brown hill side. 
 
 And frost and hail marked where it passed. 
 Then she and all the flowers died. 
 
 Xow when the spring time warblers come. 
 
 And all the fields with flowers are strewn. 
 Then I shall mark their waking- bloom. 
 
 But I must watch them — but alone 
 
 "Tis gone, upon the midnight air 
 
 The last reverbration dies. 
 Like some frail creature of our care 
 
 That perishes before our eyes. 
 
 So while I turn with smiles to greet 
 And bid the welcome new born year. 
 
 Forgive the sigh with which we meet. 
 Forgive the unforbidden tear; 
 
 For memory's bonds are sadly sweet 
 That binds me to the good old year. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 LOVINA S. COLLIER. 
 
 Peacefully, still, they have laid her to rest. 
 
 With the hands that have coiled for me clasped on her breast, 
 
 Silent and answerless now to my woes. 
 
 Silent and still in her dreamless repose. 
 
 All that Death left for our tears or our care. 
 
 But Heaven seems dearer since Mother is there. 
 
105 
 
 Quiet and pulseless the dear form now lies 
 Now for the first time, unheeding my cries. 
 Weary, she turned from her labors away, 
 Love -labors faithfully ended to-day. 
 Sleep fell so silent and dreamless and chill. 
 Kissing- her eye-lids down tenderly still. 
 
 Labors which none but a mother can do. 
 Loves which none but a mother can know 
 All her life long** did her blessings combine. 
 Mingling" her smiles and her tear drops with mine, 
 All her life long since to her I was given. 
 She led me along on the pathway to Heaven. 
 
 Earnestly taught me His name to revere. 
 Loving the right, the wrong always to fear. 
 By patient example, reproof or a kiss. 
 How can I love her sufficient for this. 
 Now that her life-work is finished. I see 
 That all were alike meant in kindness to me. 
 
 She is gone, she has left me to journey alone. 
 
 But the land seems not distant to where she is gone, 
 
 And the days or the years perchance swiftly will flee 
 
 Then I know there'll be rest and a welcome for me, 
 
 And together the joys of eternity share. 
 
 For Heaven seems nearer since Mother is there. 
 
 LITTLE WILLIE. 
 
 MRS. L. COLLIER. 
 
 My heart is lonely, Willie 
 And turns lovingly to thee. 
 
 And I wonder if my darling chil 1 
 Is thinking now of me. 
 
!()(> 
 
 For around the world, dear Willie 
 "Mongst strangers thou must roam: 
 
 Driven from a mother's fond embrace, 
 And the sheltering arms of home. 
 
 But oh, may heaven protect you 
 And guide your youthful feet, 
 
 And with the good and virtuous 
 May you delight to meet. 
 
 My soul is heavy, darling — 
 
 Too heavy for to write, 
 I long to clasp you in my arms 
 
 To my aching heart to-night. 
 
 The stars are shining calmly down 
 From their high orbs above, 
 
 But they are not higher Willie 
 Than thy fond mother's love, 
 
 And mirrored in the deepest depth 
 
 Of yonder sleeping lake, 
 Another firmament appears — 
 
 A star gemmed sea to make, 
 
 Yet the cold quiet dreamy depth 
 
 Of yonder wavy sea, 
 Are not as deep, my absent boy 
 
 As a mother's love for thee. 
 
 And as I note the broad expanse 
 Of the star-lit dome of blue, 
 
 Such is the love, my darling child, 
 My poor heart bears for you. 
 
 Twelve Mays have come and passed 
 
 Since first upon my breast 
 Thy velvet cheek was pillowed 
 
 In childhood's" holy rest. 
 
 Only twelve fleeting years 
 
 Have taught you all you know 
 
 Of this too heartless loveless world, 
 Through which thou'st doomed to go. 
 
 Yet not alone dear Willie 
 
 Thy footsteps thou shalt bend, 
 
 For day by day I pray that God 
 
 Will be the orphan's friend. 
 
107 
 IN MEMORIUM OF A YOUNG MANXMAN. 
 
 ME. L. COLLIER, 
 
 Fold the hands tenderly over his breast, 
 Weep, for our weeping disturbs not his rest. 
 Close the eyes gently, all death chilled and dim. 
 Faded earth's beauty and sunshine for him. 
 
 From the broad forehead so damp and so fair. 
 Carefully smooth back the dark, wavy hair; 
 Oh. how our friendship has round entwined, 
 Genial and gentle, manly and kind. 
 
 On the damp forehead do not forget this, 
 Press for his mother one fervent kiss; 
 God pity her, when she knows that to-day 
 We lay with tears in the cold clamy clay. 
 
 Far, far away in the ocean girt foam, 
 Now is she waiting her darling to come; 
 How will this message fall, startling and dread, 
 Chilling life's blood, ;, your W T ille is dead." 
 
 Never again will she hold to her breast 
 
 The still form that lies in its undisturbed rest. 
 
 Never again in her pride and her joy 
 
 Clasp in her bosom, her own returned boy . 
 
 Though far from thy kindred in a strange land. 
 Round thy bier gathers a sorrowing band, 
 Sweet be thy slumber, peaceful thy rest, 
 May thy awakening be with the blest. 
 
 A VALENTINE FARLEY. 
 
 Give this to Mike Mclntyre, 
 
 Quick, and don't stop; 
 He shoes males and jacks 
 
 Down in Gibbons' shop; 
 He lives in Lake Forest 
 
 A learning his trade, 
 As gay a yoimj masher 
 
 As ever was made. 
 
108 
 
 THE MICE, 
 
 M. FARLEY. 
 
 And when the day is past and gone, 
 
 And night just at her birth, 
 Begins to cast her shadow 
 
 O'er the snow clad frozen earth, 
 And when the funny little stars 
 
 Are twinkling* up on high, 
 And Luna glides serenely on 
 
 And brighten's up the sky, 
 I light my lamp and start my fire 
 
 And get the old stove hot, 
 And bake my pan-cake, fry my meat 
 
 And boil my coffee pot, 
 Then all the trials of the day 
 
 And troubles are forgot, 
 And with an appetite, made keen 
 
 By the cold and frosty air 
 I sit me down contented 
 
 To my humble bill of fare; 
 I envy not the rich and great, 
 
 Who in their mansions fine 
 Can have the choicest dainties 
 
 When e'er they wish to dine, 
 And drink their ale and porter 
 
 And the most expensive wine; 
 For porter house and mutton chops, 
 
 Frogs legs and oyster stew 
 Would with my stomach disagree, 
 
 And never, never do. 
 But give to me my pancakes 
 
 And some fat bacon fried 
 And good strong coffee steaming hot, 
 
 And then I'm satisfied; 
 But after all it's not so nice, 
 
 I've no companion but the mice; 
 When in their bed of straw, so soft, 
 
 Keep a raising h — 1 up in the loft, 
 
ios> 
 
 And cutting" up all kinds of capers, 
 
 And nibbling- holes all through the papers; 
 They're bound to see when comes night. 
 
 The time that I put out the light, 
 And then I hear their leader run 
 
 And shout, "Come on we'll have some fun 
 It's dark below and Mike's in bed, 
 
 Let's go and eat the meat and bread,"' 
 Then such ad d infernal clatter — 
 
 Some tumble in my pancake batter, 
 Some gnaw my meat, the little traitors, 
 
 And some attack my sack of potatoes; 
 Oh, for a half a dozen traps 
 
 To nab those cunning little chaps, 
 My hand with longing fairly twitches 
 
 To catch and kill these little witches. 
 
 MR. ANDERSON 
 
 Dear sir your note has come to hand 
 
 And was read with strict attention, 
 I cannot meet with your demand, 
 
 Nor pay the bill you mention; 
 For I'm clear run ashore on cash, 
 
 As poor as any crow; 
 I have no friends to cut a dash, 
 
 Nor pay the debt I owe, 
 But grant me fourteen days of grace, 
 
 And when the time is ended 
 I'll twoddle up some moonlight night 
 
 With the money, or I'll send it. 
 Then grant me these few days of grace, 
 
 Don't importune or parley, 
 And may you then live long 
 
 Is the prayer of your Mike Farley. 
 
110 
 
 WHISKEY HOT TO BLAME. 
 
 M. Farley.— 1890 
 
 Whiskey you are my deadliest foe. 
 
 You struck nie many a cruel blow. 
 
 Oft in the dust you laid me low, 
 
 But 111 admit without a frown 
 
 You never struck when I was down. 
 
 The only thanks we owe to thee 
 
 You sometimes find us lodging* free, 
 
 Beneath some bush or in the road 
 
 You often find us an abode. 
 
 Or when you slyly steal our sense 
 
 You lay us quietly by some fence, 
 
 To sober off as best we may 
 
 And sleep the vile effects away. 
 
 That beasts of prey, that nightly roam. 
 
 The morning finds us skulking home 
 
 To hide our guilty aching head, 
 
 'Ere Phoebus rises from his down bed. 
 
 But w T hiskey 'tis a burning shame 
 
 That you've got to stand the blame, 
 
 Y^our but an agent in the hand 
 
 Of a vile wretch throughout the land. 
 
 Who through tempting damning holes 
 
 Holds traffic in poor wretches souls: 
 
 The way this traffic first began 
 
 "Twas started by an honest man. 
 
 By an old captain long at sea 
 
 Who kept a large menagerie, 
 
 And when his vessel he had moored. 
 
 His birds and beasts all secured, 
 
 He felt himself in famous tune. 
 
 And went and started a saloon. 
 
 One day the old man drank too free — 
 
 In fact got on quite a spree, 
 
 And being hot felt a desire 
 
 To clothe himself in light attire. 
 
 A looker on who chanced to gibe. 
 
 For it got cursed with all his tribe. 
 
 And that's the reason some folks say 
 
Ill 
 
 We have the nigger here to-day. 
 
 Time rolls on: that fearful curse 
 
 Has ever yet been growing worse. 
 
 Until now at the present time 
 
 The world o'ernows with sin and crime: 
 
 You have filled the land with misery. 
 
 You have built the jail and gallows tree. 
 
 And in the church yards lone and drear 
 
 I've seen the graves you've made there. 
 
 When Gabriel's trumpet sounds aloud 
 
 To gather in the mighty crowd. 
 
 And calling up without delay. 
 
 Get up my boys, 'tis judgment day. 
 
 And from your long sleep you arise 
 
 And you sit up and rub your eyes: 
 
 Won't you be struck with blank surprise 
 
 When you behold your victims there. 
 
 With oaths and yells of dark despair. 
 
 And crying in their misery. 
 
 •"There stands the man who ruined me:" 
 
 And when your record you must show 
 
 I fear you will be down below. 
 
 Old Satan's bellows for to blow. 
 
 Just how furious you will yell. 
 
 As demons drag you down to hell. 
 
 And as through its fiery depth you sink 
 
 "Tis my impression you will think. 
 
 "Twas better had you ne'er sold drink. 
 
 There in that fire and glooming heat. 
 
 With manacles on hands and feet. 
 
 No gentle breezes there to fan 
 
 The burning brow of guilty man. 
 
 No cooling zephyr there e'er blows: 
 
 You'll long then for your summer clothes. 
 
 And as you fret and fume and puff — 
 
 You're drinking then your own vile stuff: 
 
 Your fusil whiskey, rotten beer. 
 
 You'll see the sign, no tavern here: 
 
 For that vile stuff that you will sell 
 
 Would not be sold, or drank in hell. 
 
 Then quit the trade ere its too late. 
 
 Take warning by the drunkards fate. 
 
 Who in life's path so struggles on 
 
112 
 
 With health and strength, and honor gone; 
 
 A path that used to lead him through 
 
 A blooming- land, where flowers grew 
 
 Has been made desolate by you. 
 
 And you now think him vile and low, 
 
 But pause and think who made him so, 
 
 'Twas you, and you deserve to be 
 
 A partner in his misery. 
 
 Then quit this damning- trade. 
 
 Repent the misery you've made; 
 
 Then man will lose his darkest woes, 
 
 And life be blooming as the rose. 
 
 Don't bring to ruin and misery 
 
 The poor man and his family, 
 
 Lest you'll find some future day 
 
 You've ruined yourself, as well as they. • 
 
 A FARMER'S LIFE ON THE PLAIN 
 
 MIKE FARLEY. 
 
 How pleasant is a farmer's life 
 
 In these much landed plains, 
 His days are spent in toil and strife. 
 
 And nothing is his gains, 
 He works just like a galley slave 
 
 From early morn till night, 
 But the D 1 a nickel can he save. 
 
 Though he tries with all his might. 
 He's parched with thirst, no water near. 
 
 He heaves a heavy sigh, 
 And from his eye rolls down a tear — 
 
 For alas the Lake bed's dry; 
 And when his crops begin to grow 
 
 They're checked by the drouth. 
 And struck by hail and cyclone flood. 
 
 And hot winds from the south; 
 This is the way his life goes on. 
 
113 
 
 He wakes some sunny morn 
 The bug's have come the taters gone, 
 
 The gophers g*ot his corn. 
 The fruit of all his labor goes; 
 
 He views it with alarm and growls, 
 "Is the mortgage on the farm? ,, 
 
 His patient wife she sings a song 
 And takes a daily stroll. 
 
 Dragging her gunny sack along, 
 And looking out for coal; 
 
 Her beaming face is all aglow, 
 A smile lights up her brow, 
 
 She sees a chunk and stoops down low; 
 "Tis not ready just now. 
 
 And so from year to year they go, 
 The husband frets and mopes; 
 
 The only crop they're sure to grow 
 Is a crop of blasted hopes. 
 
 LINES IN MEMORY OF MARY 
 
 MIKE FARLEY. 
 
 How often in the calm still night 
 
 When everything looks dear, 
 My mind will wander back again 
 
 To that old church yard there. 
 To think of her, the young, the fair, 
 
 The beautiful, the gay, 
 Whose flower was up just in its bloom 
 
 And fell into decay; 
 A flower that just began to cast 
 
 Its fragrance all around. 
 Cut off by death's untimely frost. 
 
 And laid in the cold ground. 
 May balmy breezes softly blow, 
 
 May grasses gently wave. 
 May flowers grow and angels watch 
 
 Sweet Mary's grave. 
 
114 
 
 A SONG, 
 
 M. FARLEY. 
 
 "Tis Sunday evening*, lovely and serene — 
 
 A solemn silence hovers o'er the scene. 
 
 The sun has softly sunk to rest, 
 
 And tranquil note softly lies at rest. 
 
 And as I watch the light clouds float along 
 
 I hear you sing, "One winter's night we met," 
 
 The echo floating through my memory yet: 
 
 You mind I traveled one night through the snow 
 
 To hear it sung, the air it pleased me so. 
 
 And as the sweet refrain came to an end. 
 
 Thinks I, where's Patti now or Jennie Lind, 
 
 Or why will folks to hear good singers roam, 
 
 When there's as good, and better too, at home. 
 
 THE SHIRT. 
 
 M. FARLEY. 
 
 Mike I'm mad, I am; you and your shirt are both a sham. 
 The one I've got is not worth a clam; 
 It's ripped behind and tore before, 
 The deucest shirt I ever wore. 
 
 It would be more than I am able 
 
 To stretch it with a cable, 
 
 So now my hearty duke 
 
 Don't for those ten shillings look. 
 
 For if you do, I'm not in sport, 
 I'll have you up before the court, 
 And know by what authority 
 You sell unlicensed goods to me. 
 
 ^Vell now I close, but for your life 
 
 Don't show this letter to your wife, 
 
 For she, poor thing, 'twould sorely grieve her. 
 
 To think you such a deuced deceiver. 
 
115 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 Mike, my darling* Irish boy 
 You fill my very heart with joy. 
 
 1 love you. see my heart doth burn; 
 0. give me yours back in return. 
 
 I met you lately at a dance. 
 
 How I love to see you prance, 
 
 How gracefully you skipped the floor 
 
 From the fireplace, back to the door, 
 
 And once when turning at the door 
 
 I fear'd you'd fall upon the floor; 
 
 Those Irish steps your special pride, 
 
 Spread your legs almost too wide. 
 
 At church last Sundav. in the crowd, 
 
 Oh. wasn't your sweet heart proud; 
 
 Oh yes. indeed, my joy was great 
 
 To see you standing at the gate. 
 
 I stole a glance at those sweet eyes, 
 
 Ye Gods! then judge of my surprise. 
 
 That much loved face was shaven bare, 
 
 That downy mustache wasn't there — 
 
 I couldn't see a single hair. 
 
 Oh. Mike dear, how could you do it. 
 
 My sweetest love I fear you'll rue it? 
 
 Some thought it made you look old, 
 
 It was some protection from the cold. 
 
 Well Mike. I hope that when you shaved it 
 
 Y T ou had forethought, and carefully saved it, 
 
 And didn't throw it in the street 
 
 For fear it would stick the children's feet; 
 
 Some shoe-makers would money spend 
 
 To get the bristles for his waxed end. 
 
 A VALENTINE 
 
 M. FARLEY. 
 
 And now good night my darling Kate 
 
 And meet me at the garden gate. 
 
 You may be sure if the night is not dark 
 
lift 
 
 That 111 be there at seven sharp. 
 
 Be sure and don't let Curly bark, 
 
 Don't let your aunt or uncle spy 
 
 Your slipping* out upon the sly, 
 
 And guard against Joe and Frank and Charley. 
 
 And heaven bless that Michael Farley. 
 
 Should he be there we are undone. 
 
 He'll throw a damper on our fun; 
 
 We must find some means his tongue to gag 
 
 Or he'll let the cat out of the bag". 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 M. FARLEY. 
 
 Mike, what made you run away 
 
 And leave your sweet heart here to stay, 
 
 To pine away, to weep and mourn, 
 
 A wretched maiden all forlorn. 
 
 You left last fall, one lovely morning* 
 
 Without a single moment's warning*; 
 
 You g*ave me such a sudden start 
 
 You almost broke my young* heart. 
 
 Curse old Armour! Curse him double, 
 
 May he be doomed to growl and grumble, 
 
 May the hog market take a tumble, 
 
 Until his pork, when brought around 
 
 Be scarcely worth two cents a pound, 
 
 For he enticed my love away 
 
 To slave his life out night and day, 
 
 For darned small thanks and little pay. 
 
 He's salting' hams and rolling barrels, 
 
 And eating half cooked grub at Farrels. 
 
117 
 GRANNIE. 
 
 M. FARLEY. 
 
 Oh then begannie I forgot about Grannie. 
 
 As she sits a rocking and knitting her stocking; 
 
 Just tell her that I am not getting fat. 
 
 But as poor as a rat 
 
 For want of some pie. 
 
 And don't you neglect to give her my respect. 
 
 That is all I could send to the Queen; 
 
 Tell her I have no fears but shell yet live for years, 
 
 To see that our graves are kept green. 
 
 A SUMMING UP, 
 
 M, FARLEY, 
 
 A mighty war late begun, 
 
 'Tween Mc. of Shields and Deerfield's son. 
 
 And each have taken to the field 
 
 Resolved to die before they'll yield. 
 
 The way this mighty war arose, 
 
 Justitia famous for his prose 
 
 Accused Lake Forest in her pride 
 
 Of trying old Deerfield to divide, 
 
 And in a bitter fierce oration 
 
 Defied that wealthy corporation. 
 
 The Mayor and each Alderman • 
 
 In conclave met to form a plan. 
 
 And find a champion for their cause — 
 
 A man deep studied in the laws, 
 
 And eager sought among their men. 
 
 To find one mighty with the pen. 
 
 The one they chose, right well they knew 
 
 Had courage bold, his heart was true. 
 
 And for three long years had worn the blue. 
 
1 1 8 
 
 Had rebels fought on* southern plain. 
 
 Was ready now to fight again: 
 
 Now that the Union was restored 
 
 To try the pen in place of sword. 
 
 So down he sat and seized his pen, 
 
 Oh, didn't Justitia catch it then; 
 
 At his opponent now he hammers. 
 
 Outraging spelling books and grammars. 
 
 And in his headlong haste and hurry 
 
 He sadly maimed poor Lindley Murray. 
 
 After this galling, scathing lecture 
 
 The folks began to conjecture, 
 
 That Deerfield's hero was vanquished quite. 
 
 Had left the field and lost the fight; 
 
 But no such thing, for off he went 
 
 To pore o'er Blackstone and old Kent, 
 
 To see if he could find a flaw 
 
 That might be covered by the law. 
 
 And deep in venom dipped his pen 
 
 And answered Laughlin back again: 
 
 His bold assertions did confute 
 
 And tore him clear up by the root, 
 
 And still, each cause is well defended. 
 
 No telling when this war is ended; 
 
 Filling our town, oh, sad to see 
 
 With strife and bitter rivalry. 
 
 You'll scarce find a boy or man 
 
 That don't belong to either clan, 
 
 And now I ask for information, 
 
 What means all this retaliation, 
 
 The folks would like, I have no doubt 
 
 To know what this war is all about? 
 
 Justitia, come, I mean no harm, 
 
 This contest cease and mind your farm: 
 
 Repair your fences, plow and sow, 
 
 And let poor unlucky Laughlin go, — 
 
 Not worth your steel, is such a foe. 
 
 Small honor, it seems plain to me 
 
 You'll gain by such a victory. 
 
 If he's not smart, he's not ill looking. 
 
 But still a bird not worth the plucking. 
 
 And Laughlin you return again 
 
 And try your chisel and your plane: 
 
in 
 
 You'll find your hammer and your saw 
 AVill pay you more than quoting- law: 
 And be a good and honest creature. 
 You'll never thrive in literature. 
 Cast bitter feelings all aside. 
 Shake hands, be friends, you both have lied. 
 And in the future pull together; 
 Abandon all this sensless blather. 
 Don't public approbation seek, 
 <»ive wiser men a chance to speak 
 And cease this fierce and bitter strife. 
 Return again to private life. 
 
 LINES IN MEMORY OF MARY REDMOND, 
 
 ED. COOXEY. 
 
 Farewell Marj^. thou art happy 
 In the mansions of the blest. 
 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 Farewell Mary, we shall miss thee 
 When as falls the shades of eve'n. 
 
 Thought is busy faintly picturing 
 Blissful scenes of thee in heaven. 
 
 Farewell Mary, we shall miss thee 
 When the light of morning breaks. 
 
 And the dreams of night are faded. 
 And the soul to reason wakes. 
 
 Farewell Mary, we shall miss thee 
 When around the cheerful hearth: 
 
 Heart to heart in sweet communion. 
 Thy loved name shall check our mirth. 
 
 Farewell Mary, we shall miss thee 
 When again we're called to stand. 
 
 Weeping o'er the parting spirit 
 Of another of our band. 
 
120 
 
 Farewell Mary, we shall miss thee, 
 Till the last great day shall come: 
 
 And the Judge from heaven descending" 
 Welcomes all his children home. 
 
 Then no more we'll miss thee, 
 
 But together we shall soar 
 Through the blissful happy region. 
 
 Singing praise forever more. 
 
 VERNON SCHOOL 
 
 JAMES CALLAHAN. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, scholars and friends 
 
 Perhaps 'twould please you to hear 
 All the news of our school — all its objects and ends, 
 
 And what we've done the last year? 
 
 Though it is dingy, gloomy and small, 
 
 And tiresome old desks fill all space, 
 And old useless charts hang about on the wall. 
 
 That take from black-boards the space. 
 
 Yet much in this room has been taught. 
 
 And many a useful thing learned, 
 And many a sly little trick has been wrought 
 
 When the back of the teacher was turned. 
 
 For we have all kinds of girls here and all kinds of bo}^s- 
 
 W T e have Irish and German and Yanks; 
 Some who delight in a bedlam of noise, 
 
 And mean and nonsensical pranks. 
 
 Kut we have others who come here to study and learn. 
 
 W 7 ho in youth know the value of time, 
 Whose far seeing minds can already discern 
 
 Life's difficult pathway to climb. 
 
121 
 
 But we have one in our midst whom none of us see, 
 
 Yet whose action we all can behold, 
 The blind God of love, daring Cupid is he 
 
 Who has enteral our strange little fold. 
 
 Down o"er that north aisle his song" ever flits, 
 
 And many a shaft does he send 
 Through the tender young heart of a girl, who sits 
 
 Some two or three seats from the end. 
 
 But there are others as well, who his impress affects, 
 
 Yet whose secrets no one can descry, 
 And since he is leaving so soon, I suggest. 
 
 We say nothing more than good bye. 
 
 TOBACCO, 
 
 M. FABLE Y 
 
 Oh soothing tobacco, thy praise I'll re -sound. 
 
 Thou dear little weed that grows out of the ground; 
 
 Without thee I'm lonely, without thee I*m sad, 
 
 And with the I'm happy and merry and glad, 
 
 On earth there is nothing with thee can compare, 
 
 The salve that heals misery, grief and despair: 
 
 I'm sure I can hardly tell what I would do 
 
 If I were deprived of a smoke or a chew, 
 
 I fear I'd be guilty of many a trick 
 
 If I were deprived of my Kinnekinnick; 
 
 But when I've got thee I'm at peace with mankind- 
 
 A happier fellow you scarcely could find, 
 
 With a pipe in my mouth I puff out the smoke' 
 
 I'm ready for argument, song or a joke, 
 
 And when the day's over, and my work is done, 
 
 And night with its hours of enjoyment comes on 
 
 I sit in the corner, my pipe in my mouth 
 
 And watch the blue curling smoke coming, 
 
 My cares and my troubles are then all forgot:- 
 
 I'm happy, though toil and privation's my lot. 
 
122 
 
 And imagination with her magic wand 
 
 Doth summon my thoughts into fairy land, 
 
 And bright thoughts flow fast through my brain; 
 
 Things that seemed impossible now seem quite plain. 
 
 Would woman but use it then man would have peace, 
 
 Her bickering jawing and scolding would cease. 
 
 Her husband, poor henpecked and brow beaten man 
 
 Would bless the first day that woman began, 
 
 And then the whole household, both old and young 
 
 W 7 ould be safe from the darts of her terrible tongue. 
 
 No family jars would then ever occur, 
 
 Her husband would hear no complaint or murmur, 
 
 But quietly performing his duty would smoke, 
 
 And the peace of the household would never be broke. 
 
 THE SOD SHANTY ON THE CLAIM. 
 
 M. FAELEY 
 
 I was looking rather seedy while holding down the claim, 
 And my victuals were not always served the best, 
 
 While the mice played 'round me, as I nestled down to sleep 
 In my little old sod shanty, on the claim. 
 
 The hinges were of leather and the windows^had no glass, 
 W T hile the board roof let the howling blizzards in, 
 
 And I'd hear the hungry cayote, as he sneaks up through the 
 grass 
 Round my old sod shanty, on the claim. 
 
 Yet I liked the novelty of living in that way, 
 Though my bill of fare w T as always rather tame, 
 
 Still I was happy as a clam on this land of Uncle Sam. 
 In my little old sod shanty on the claim. 
 
 But when I left Lake Forest a bachelor so gay. 
 
 To win my way to wealth and fame, 
 I little thought I would come to burning twisted hay 
 
 In my little old sod shanty, on the claim. 
 
123 
 
 My clothes were plastered o'er with dough, and I was looking- 
 like a fright, 
 
 And everything was scattered round the room. 
 
 But I wouldn't give the freedom I have in the west 
 
 For the beauties of an eastern dining room. 
 
 I oft' wished that some kind-hearted woman would pity on me 
 take, 
 
 And relieve me from the mess that I was in; 
 The angel, how I'd bless her if she her home would make 
 
 In the little old sod shanty on the claim. 
 
 And when our fortunes we had made on the prairies of the west. 
 
 Just as happy as two lovers we'd remain, 
 And forget the trials we'd endured at first, 
 
 In our little old sod shanty, on the claim. 
 
 And when time enough had lapsed and all those little brats. 
 
 To man and modest womanhood had grown, 
 'T would not seem half so lonely, when 'round us we could lo3k 
 
 And see other young sod shanties on the claim. 
 
 A SUMMER REVERIE. 
 
 ANHA E. MERRIOTT. 
 
 A field of waving summer grass, 
 An emerald sea with billows green, 
 
 O'er which the south winds gently pass, 
 And make an ever changing sheen 
 
 Of silvery brightness, then a passing shade 
 That casts a gloom o'er all the forest glade. 
 
 Beneath, the blushing berries grow 
 
 In rich profusion in the shade, 
 And careless passers never know 
 
 What wealth beneath their feet is laid, 
 Like treasures rare upon the bed of ocean. 
 
 That lie unmoved by all the wave's commotion, 
 
124 
 
 On every side the grand old trees. 
 
 Draped in their robes of glossy green, 
 As columns vast, the poet sees, 
 
 Of Nature's temple, and between 
 Flowers unnumbered on their light stems swinging. 
 
 From which the breeze sweet scent is ever bringing*. 
 
 And over all the azure sky, 
 
 Upon the tree-tops seems to rest; 
 And white clouds floating dreamily 
 
 Make golden curtains in the west, 
 When at the close of day the sun descending 
 
 Unto the earth, a beauty new is lending. 
 
 Such is the vision that I see, 
 
 And often view with longing eyes 
 A poem bright from Nature's book, 
 
 That fills me with a glad surprise, 
 And gives fresh strength and courage for life's duty, 
 
 And lends a new and varied charm to beauty. 
 
 And then I think of other fields. 
 
 A happy land all free from care; 
 Think of the bliss earth never yields. 
 
 God gives to his beloved there; 
 And if to earthly scenes such beauty's given. 
 
 Oh! what shall be the lovliness of Heaven? 
 
 THE BECKONING HAND, 
 
 ANNA E. MEEEIOTT. 
 
 A Child's Dream. 
 
 A little child upon her bed 
 
 In midnight's hush lay dreaming, 
 
 A solemn silence round her cast. 
 Its strange mysterious meaning. 
 
 Upon the grass before her home, 
 In blissful ease reclining, 
 
 She watched the glorious sun above, 
 In heavenly splendor shining. 
 
And gazing* at the shining blue 
 
 She saw the walls expand. 
 Opening as far as eye could reach. 
 
 A pathway wide and grand. 
 
 And at the farther end appeared. 
 
 As if to her "twas given. 
 To view it with her mortal eyes. 
 
 The battlements of Heaven. 
 
 Arrayed in robes of dazzling white 
 
 An angel form appeared. 
 Advanced, and waved a beckoning hand. 
 
 Then slowly disappeared. 
 
 The vision faded from her sight. 
 
 And with the light of morning. 
 vShe woke and saw Aurora's blush. 
 
 The eastern sky adorning. 
 
 And as she thought upon her dream 
 
 With quick, childlike decision. 
 She said. "The Lord a lesson meant 
 
 In sending me this vision. 
 
 Perhaps ere many days have gone. 
 
 Death, to me unappalling. 
 Shall come for me. and I shall hear 
 
 My Heavenly Father calling. 
 
 Once more that hand shall beckon me 
 Where the redeemed are singing. 
 
 And with their joyful songs of praise. 
 Heaven's golden arch is ringing." 
 
 She prayed that she might ready be 
 
 Whene'er she should be taken. 
 Her trust in God. firm as a rock. 
 
 Remain through life unshaken. 
 
 She saw a loving Father's care 
 How He that dream had given. 
 
 To lead her wandering, wayward, thoughts 
 Upward from earth to Heaven. 
 
 That hand still beckons her along. 
 
 Through scenes of sin and sighing. 
 To that bright land of light and love. 
 
 Where there is no more dvino*. 
 
LINES Btf A YOUNG LADY. ON HER BIRTHDAY 
 
 ANNA E. MERRIOTT. 
 
 4 "Twenty long years, and yet how short it seems!" 
 
 Thus we reflect as looking* o'er the past, 
 
 Memories of bygone days come crowding fast; 
 Some dark with sorrow; more of brightest beams. 
 And sweetest songs of birds and laughing streams. 
 
 With hope's bright radiance filled, and not downcast. 
 
 Onward we go, 'till, other twenties passed 
 Leave us still following the starry gleams 
 
 Of hope into the future. To the mind 
 Comes the strange question: "When a score of years 
 
 Again have rolled into eternity, 
 
 Shall they have left a heart to care consigned; 
 Or pearly gates 'ere then disclose the spheres 
 
 Of heavenly rest, endless felicity? 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 
 BY H. H. PARTRIDGE. 
 
 Dead! Wendell Phillips dead! It cannot be. 
 They never die who live for Liberty. 
 Hushed is his voice and absent now the form 
 That stood before the mob's wild, furious storm 
 Firm as an adamant, and, calm as brave, 
 The foe of slavery, the friend of slave. 
 He is not dead, such men can never die 
 While burning thoughts and loving ministry, 
 Ennobling deeds and eloquence and truth 
 Go forth to strengthen age and fire youth, 
 To stand heroic 'gainst the hosts of might, 
 For God, for man, and always for the right. 
 
 Is Wendell Phillips dead? His mouldering clay 
 May be from mortal sight now hid away. 
 But still he lives. He lives and ever will, 
 His words yet potent, though his lips are still. 
 
1:37 
 
 He lives and pleads for justice to the weak. 
 
 He lives, his words as eloquently speak 
 
 As when he reasoned here of truth and right, 
 
 Or threw on sophistry the strong, pure light 
 
 Of logic keen, dissolving into day 
 
 The clouds which others failed to roll away. 
 
 He lives inhabiting the hearts of men 
 
 For whom he gave his life, his voice, his pen, 
 
 TO WHICH CLASS. 
 
 ROBERT DARROW. 
 
 Dress me up in robes of silk 
 And let my food be honey and milk; 
 Oh, let me live a life of ease 
 Though my head be a head of cheese. 
 
 And this is the sad, sad way 
 The young misses talk of the present day; 
 A young man would shine in company, 
 A man among men he'd be. 
 
 Cigars and wine are his hearts desire, 
 With which to set his brain on fire. 
 He cares not for books or school, 
 He hates the teacher's rigid rule. 
 
 So he to manhood grows, 
 
 Knowing scarcely as much as the crows; 
 
 But the wise young miss, and the wise young man 
 
 Have formed a very different plan. 
 
 To weave a garment they have begun, 
 Brighter than any, the silk worm ever spun. 
 For they see no honor in a head as light as a float, 
 Nor yet in the form of a drunken bloat. 
 
 They seek for knowledge bright, 
 That shines with dazzling light, 
 And illumines life's stormy moor 
 Far away to the other shore. 
 
 Many the wrecks they see by the way 
 Of those who like butterflies shone but for a day: 
 Others without ballast were tempest tossed, 
 And wrecked and drowned on the stormy coast. 
 
128 
 
 "GOING IT BLIND." 
 
 R. DARROW. 
 
 When a man is seen walking- towards an ab3~ss. 
 And never from his course he does digress; 
 He heeds no warning* from. behind , 
 It must he that he's ••going- it blind.'* 
 
 When a man is walking the railroad track along 
 And heeds not the bell's ding dong, 
 When he tlrus is deaf to warnings kind.. 
 It must.be that he's w 'going it blind.*' 
 
 When a miss can't think of anything but balls 
 Which take place in pleasures hall; 
 When she on poisoned sweets would dine 7 
 It must be that she's * 'going it blind."' 
 
 When a young miss bows to fashion will, 
 
 When she dresses up to •'kill;'* 
 
 When she in paint would shine, 
 
 It must be that she's '•going it blind.'' 
 
 W r hen a young man wants to be in every place. 
 When he bets on each horse race, 
 When he tries to spend every dime, 
 It must be that he's ••going it blind." 
 
 When a young man at the saloon dives in gin. 
 When he swallows it down without a grin, 
 Those chaps in every row we find, 
 It must be that they're "going it blind."' 
 
 W 7 hen old folks stick to old fogy ways. 
 When they rail about these modern days, 
 And try to turn back the wheels of time, 
 It must be that they're "going it blind." 
 
129 
 THE BLUE VIOLET. 
 
 MRS. LITTLE. 
 
 Little blue violet, modest and sweet. 
 
 Timidly lifting- your face to the sun 
 Lowly and meek, like a saint at our feet; 
 
 Living" in shade like a mute little nun. 
 
 Little blue violet, nod your sweet heal. 
 
 Lift thy soft blue eye to heaven, 
 Pure angels are watching* thy mossy, green bed. 
 
 Protecting the life they have given. 
 
 Why droop thy head, when stronger flowers 
 Stoop down to kiss thy brow so pure. 
 
 Or shade thee from the chilling showers? 
 Then why so modest and demure? 
 
 And when at night thy dewy eye 
 
 Is folded in thy leaves, 
 Oh, gentle flower, so soon to die, 
 
 Thy neighbor flower grieves. 
 
 At dawn of morn thy azure head 
 
 Shakes off its tears of glistening dew, 
 
 And round, about thee, fragrance shed, 
 It's delicacy known to none but you. 
 
 A few short days, Oh! fragile flower. 
 
 Your sweet blue eye is seen. 
 But soon you droop in your shady bower 
 
 And ]eave naught, but a bunch of green. 
 
 Little blue violet, a, last farewell 
 
 We give to your modest face, 
 And in the spring, when the buds all swell. 
 
 Oh! welcome, flower of grace. 
 
 Then close thy fragile lids of blue. 
 
 And droop thy slender stem 
 And the sighing winds shall sing to you: 
 
 Little blue violet, farewell till then. 
 
130 
 
 HEART-BROKEN. 
 
 MRS. F. LITTLE. 
 
 All crushed and broken 
 She tearless stood, 
 
 O'er the tiny casket 
 Of costly wood. 
 
 My heart is broken, 
 My life is done, 
 
 Oh, take me with you 
 My lost little one. 
 
 She tenderly raised it 
 
 And carried it out; 
 She entered a carriage 
 
 Which was standing* without. 
 
 A friend on passing", 
 
 Was shocked to see 
 The lovely face 
 
 So full of misery. 
 
 She entered beside her, 
 And drew her head down, 
 
 And watched the tears roll 
 Off her silken gown. 
 
 Her sympathy o'er flowed, 
 She asked in accents mild, 
 
 "Dear friend, let me help you, 
 Have you lost your darling child?' 
 
 The grieved face grew indignant, 
 As she gathered up her boodle. 
 
 "My child! No, Heaven help me, 
 'Tismy precious, darling poodle." 
 
131 
 WELCOME NINETY-SIXTH. 
 
 MRS. J. HAETXETT. 
 
 Welcome Ninety-Sixth, 
 
 Welcome to our hearts to-day, 
 Welcome all, and welcome each; 
 
 We to you our tribute pay — 
 Let young- girls with nimble feet 
 
 Scatter flow^ers on your way; 
 Colors rich and odors sweet — 
 
 Sweet offerings of the fair are they. 
 
 Welcome Ninety-Sixth, 
 
 Every man to us is dear: 
 Laurels on each brow affixed, 
 
 Honors that you'll ever wear, 
 Proudly stand a noble band, 
 
 Heroes, and of you we're proud; 
 You have fought to save the land. 
 
 Welcome Ninety-Sixth, 
 
 Bring your tattered flag along, 
 Oft" by rebel bullets pierced, 
 
 It has won its own renown; 
 Gallantly it streams on high, 
 
 Blow breezes, spread it wide, 
 Let us each with moistened eye 
 
 Gaze upon its rents w T ith pride. 
 
 Welcome home Ninety-Sixth, 
 
 You have done your work and well. 
 You by conquests oft and rich 
 
 Do the victor's story tell; 
 How you faced the bloody foe, 
 
 Never faltered, never flinched. 
 How your comrades heart blood flow, 
 
 But at danger never winced. 
 
 Welcome Ninety-Sixth, 
 
 Would you brought but joy to-day, 
 But the widows sobs and tears 
 
 Does death's cruel deeds betray, 
 Mothers weeping for the boys, 
 
 Children's hearts too soon made sad: 
 They to-day share not in our joys. 
 
 For their loved are with the dead. 
 
132 
 
 To your fallen Ninety-Sixth, 
 
 Martyred at their countries* shrine, 
 We would glory e'er affix, 
 
 They in history bright will shine. 
 Fell they on the battlefield, 
 
 Starved in prison, dark and damned. 
 They the sword of heroes wield, 
 
 For they died to save the land. 
 
 Soldiers of the Ninety-Sixth 
 
 Put your swords and guns away, 
 You have now no need of these. 
 
 Peace has brought a brighter day, 
 Lay your warlike garb aside, 
 
 Keep them all to look upon, 
 They will ever mingle pride 
 
 With the victory they have won. 
 
 TO MARTIN AND MRS. MELODY 
 
 J. O. SHEA. 
 
 I thank you for kind words and deeds, 
 
 Shed on my path like dew, 
 For all the pleasant hours I've spent 
 
 In converse here with you, 
 For tongue that ne'er to mine replied 
 
 But in kindly words of cheer, 
 For every spring of happiness 
 
 My soul has tasted here. 
 
 How fondly now memory dwells 
 
 In scenes that long* have flown, 
 How like the past the present seems. 
 
 Though changed in looks and tone; 
 The self same, generous spirit yet 
 
 That decked life's early days, 
 Still brightly shines, and strongly twines 
 
 Your wreath of fading bays. 
 
133 
 
 And oh. when future years shall call 
 
 Your labors to a close. 
 When every trophy nobly won. 
 
 Your virtues still disclose, 
 May loving thoughts of bygone days 
 
 Yet gild the latest page. 
 And the birds of love go singing, down 
 
 On the leafless tree of age. 
 
 TWO HOMES, 
 
 MBS. F. LITTLE, 
 
 Two homes I have, and I cannot tell 
 
 Which one I love the best, 
 The one on the shore of Lake Michigan. 
 
 Or the one in the bonnie West. 
 
 Twas in old Illinois where I was born. 
 
 And childhood's days and youth passed by. 
 I gazed on the lake on my bridal morn. 
 
 And wondered if here I should also die. 
 
 But time with his ever changing hand 
 
 Has drifted us far away. 
 And on Dakota's rich black land 
 
 We seem to have come to stay. 
 
 I have often watched on a summer day. 
 
 The shimmering, trembling prairie heat. 
 When objects loom up tall and wierd. 
 
 And earth and sky seem to meet. 
 
 And the beautiful fields of waving grain 
 
 Heave like the rolling sea. 
 While over head the sweet voiced birds 
 
 Joyously sing. "We are free! We are free! 
 
 Then the beautiful moonlight winter nights. 
 
 When the snow, like polished marble gleams. 
 And miniature diamonds flash their lights. 
 
 Where the little gray rabbit chews and dreams. 
 
134 
 
 And over our heads a spangled dome, 
 Crossed with Aurora's changing* bars, - 
 
 Like splintered rainbows here and there, 
 Shooting their darts at the blinking stars. 
 
 Yet oft when revery finds me dreaming, 
 
 Do my thoughts rove far away. 
 To where the broad blue lake is gleaming 
 
 With the sun and waves at play. 
 
 Above its glistening bosom blue, 
 
 Peeping o'er the bluff so green, 
 As if to drink the lovely view — 
 
 A city's mottled brow is seen. 
 
 'Tis here my memory tarries, 
 
 Around my childhood's home; 
 And my heart a message carries 
 
 To the ones from whom I roam. 
 
 I see the white fence and fancy, gate, 
 The evergreens and pear trees tall, 
 
 And between their swaying limbs I wait 
 To see, what to me is best of all. 
 
 Yes a breeze goes past, they move, 
 
 And I see the dear old house 
 With the roses climbing o'er porch and roof, 
 
 And twined 'round the crab-apples boughs. 
 
 The white front door is open wide, 
 
 I see the parlor walls. 
 The pictures hanging side by side, 
 
 Where the same old shadow falls. 
 
 I see the kitchen's painted floor, 
 
 I hear the kettle sing; 
 Through the wood-shed door I see the beam 
 
 W 7 here hung my old rope swing. 
 
 I next ascend to my own dear room, 
 'Tis the same as when I saw it last; 
 
 The untouched bed, and the settled gloom 
 Which the darkened windows o'er it cast. 
 
 And on I go to the orchard green, 
 Where 'neath the apple tree's shade 
 
 The forms of my father and mother lean, 
 Enjoying the beauty, which labor has made. 
 
135 
 
 But when from this day dream 
 
 Reality awakes me, 
 I find 'tis but a phantom, 
 
 And sadness overtakes me. 
 
 For we are widely parted 
 And some have passed away; 
 
 The rest are scattered here and there, 
 The old home fallen to decay. 
 
 80 whether I love my childhood's home 
 Or the one in the care free west; 
 
 The home where we all shall united be. 
 Is the Home I shall love the best. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 On the Death of Willie, Infant Son of Wm. P. and Julia A. Yeoman. 
 
 A. E. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 Down from the star gemmed azure heaven 
 
 The Angels looked on the world below; 
 They saw to the keeping of mortals given, 
 
 A cherub as pure and as fair as snow. 
 Not a richer gem in the brightest cluster. 
 
 On the Master's starry crown they said, 
 "Quick, ere the world has dimmed its luster, 
 
 Let us claim this pearl for His royal head. 
 
 Oh! it was hard of the friends to ask it, 
 
 To bid their darling a last farewell, 
 To lay away in the tiny casket 
 
 The cherub form they had loved so well; 
 To see it lie as if sweetly sleeping, 
 
 By loving fingers decked with flowers, — 
 When His jewels are trusted in our keeping, 
 
 How prone we are to think they are ours. 
 
136 
 
 Oh! how we cling* to each fading- treasure. 
 
 But the loving Father knoweth best; 
 Earth has a snare, with its every pleasure, 
 
 They alone are safe, who early rest; 
 The breath of the world is cold and dreary, 
 
 There's a fairer home for that flower so sweet. 
 There it will never grow old and weary. 
 
 But wait and watch for your coining feet. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 MRS. F. LITTLE. 
 
 What word is there so sweet as love, 
 
 With a meaning so divine; 
 From earth below to heaven above. 
 
 It creeps like a beautiful vine. 
 
 It is not all of life to live, 
 
 Each heart must have its share of love, 
 For if no heart strives this love to give, 
 
 It nutters and pines like a wounded dove. 
 
 Tis a very simple little thing 
 
 Which every one can spare; 
 How many hearts to yours you may bring 
 
 By just letting it out. if there's any there. 
 
 How many poor creatures have faded away 
 
 For the want of a little love; 
 Waiting for death to shorten their stay, 
 
 And bring them their share from above. 
 
 How many little things a word of love may do. 
 
 Changing hearts of stone, filling eyes with tears; 
 Some creature bent on death, when perhaps a word from you. 
 
 That single word of love might ring in that heart for years. 
 
 Don't be selfish, sordid and cross, 
 
 And all your thoughts be on wealth; 
 Don't have folks say, "It would be a small loss 
 
 If you should depart or lose your health. 
 
137 
 
 The love of a child a comfort affords 
 By its innocent ways so sweet and mild; 
 
 The selfish miser may open his hoards 
 
 With no other key than the love of a child. 
 
 This little word of four letters 
 
 Shall spread like the wing's of a dove, 
 
 Which has burst from cage and fetters, 
 And the watchword of life should be love. 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 MRS. F. LITTLE. 
 
 Nature thou rare work of beauty, 
 
 Stretching far o'er earth's vast breast, 
 
 From the sun's pale brow at day break 
 To his rosy cheek in the glowing west. 
 
 Above, below on every side 
 
 Thine art and workman-ship displayed. 
 In the ocean's deep and heaving tide — 
 
 In the forest's grand and solemn shade, 
 
 E'en down to the minute scalloped leaf, 
 Wi'th it's graceful thread-like stem, 
 
 In the tiny bird with glossy breast, 
 
 In the oyster shell there's a hidden gem. 
 
 In everything the eye can see. 
 
 The same grand beauty dwells 
 On the mountain's bold and lofty crest, 
 
 In the glistening caves and mossy dells. 
 
 Each modest flower speaks thy name. 
 
 Each rich green leaf, and hardy fruit; 
 Old ocean bellows forth thy fame, 
 
 Volcanoes thunder thy salute. 
 
 In winter earth's face is a glittering mass 
 Of crystals which nature's chisel has made. 
 
 The trees like columns of splintered glass. 
 Each bush and shrub a graceful cascade. 
 
138 
 
 In summer these beauties disappear 
 
 And change to a robe of gorgeous green, 
 And this of all seasons in the year 
 
 With its rare, sweet beauty, is surely the queen. 
 Green earth blending softly, with deep azure sky. 
 
 Proud woods drooping courtesy's to clear little brooks. 
 Each flower shyly donning its delicate hue, 
 
 Little birds building nests in sly little nooks. 
 
 While a breeze softly whispers, "Nature is love,'* 
 
 And sunbeams dance through the treetops tall, 
 Cute squirrels surveying the cool, shady grove, 
 
 Nod to honey-bees making each blossom a call. 
 In autumn the golden, russet and brown, 
 
 The scarlet and green interwove, 
 Each send a bright messenger fluttering down, 
 
 Saying, "Beauty is dying above." 
 So the whole season round 
 
 Be the heart so inclined, 
 In each object is found, 
 
 Art and beauty combined. 
 
 Then look down at the flower, 
 
 Look over the thorn, 
 And bless the sacred hour 
 
 W T hen nature was born. 
 
 THE WATER MILL. 
 
 Listen to the watermill, through the livelong day, 
 
 How the clicking of its wheel wears the^hours away, 
 
 Languidly the Autumn wind stirs the greenwood leaves: 
 
 From the fields the reapers sing, binding up the sheaves. 
 
 And a proverb haunts my mind, as a spell is cast, 
 
 The mill will never grind again with the water that is past. 
 
 Autumn winds revive no more leaves that once are shed. 
 
 And the sickle cannot reap corn once gathered, 
 
 And the rippling stream flows on tranquil, deep and still. 
 
 Never gliding back again to the water mill; 
 
 Truly speaks the proverb old with a meaning vast, 
 
 The mill will never grind again with the water that is past. 
 
130 
 
 Take the lesson to thyself, loving- heart and true; 
 Golden years are fleeing by; youth is passing too; 
 Learn to make the most of life, lose no happy day, 
 Time will never bring thee back chances swept away, 
 Leave no tender word unsaid, love w r hile love shall last, 
 The mill will never grind again with the water that is past. 
 
 Work while yet the day light shines, man of strength and will. 
 
 Never does the streamlet glide useless by the mill; 
 
 Wait not till to-morrow's sun beams upon thy way, 
 
 All that thou can"st call thine own. lies in thy to-day; 
 
 Power intellect and health will not always last: 
 
 The mill will never grind again with the water that is past. 
 
 Oh. the wasted hours of life that have drifted by, 
 Oh, the good w T e might have done, lost without a sigh! 
 Love that we might once have saved by a single w 7 ord: 
 Thoughts conceived but never penned, perishing unheard, 
 Take the proverb to thine heart, take and hold it fast, 
 The mill will never grind again with the water that is past. 
 
 Oh, love thy God and fellow-man, thyself consider last. 
 
 Vor come it will, when thou must scan dark errors of the past. 
 
 And the fight of life is o'er and earth recedes from view. 
 
 And heaven in all its glory shines midst the pure, the good. 
 
 the true. 
 Then you'll see more clearly the proverb deep and vast, 
 The mill will never grind again with the water that is past. 
 
 A STORY OF WAR 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Pat Doyle walked out in his realms one day, 
 
 And thus to himself he did say; ' 
 
 "My greatness of late has taken wing, 
 
 But I yet will prove myself a king. 
 
 Yes, I'll send forth a mandate as bold. 
 
 As the scream of the war eagle of old.' T 
 
 So he went to his castle, his parchment unrolled. 
 
 And examined his weapons of steel and of gold, 
 
140 
 
 So scratching his head, for a cause was hard to be found; 
 
 And the new crop of politics scarce above ground. 
 
 But right over there to the westward, on Corduroy sod, 
 
 They were building a temple of worship to God; 
 
 And a scrape of a pen. or a word from the mouth 
 
 On this subject, would rouse the people east, west and south. 
 
 So. having thought out and completed his plan, 
 
 He took up his pen and straightway began. 
 
 "My people, awake! take warning in time, 
 
 If you wish to live a few years longer in this sunny clime; , 
 
 For long in your midst there has been a man trap, 
 
 Which for some cause or other has failed yet to snap. 
 
 They have now pulled the death trap to the ground, 
 
 And not one brick upon another can be found. 
 
 But on the place where the dead fall once stood, 
 
 They are building another one just as good; 
 
 Throwing bricks, mortar and timber together without plan or 
 form. 
 
 By far too weak to resist any wind storm. 
 
 You have other causes to look out for your "tin, ,, 
 
 For a committee is ready to take it all in, 
 
 And some time, perhaps, a highwayman bold, 
 
 May seize and run off with all of your gold," 
 
 And thus, having finished, he set forth on the wind, 
 
 And soon it occasioned a terrible din; 
 
 The air was set in a violent commotion, 
 
 And the earth heaved like the waves of the ocean. 
 
 And as none could stand the fierce blast, 
 
 All fell on their face 'till the simoon had passed. 
 
 But one Thomas O'Mahoney, a man sturdy and brave, 
 
 Said he would strangle the dragon, and the people would save. 
 
 So he went forth everywhere out on the ground, 
 
 And searched all over, but no dragon he found; 
 
 But he said to himself, "I've often been told, 
 
 Over in Deerfield once lived a giant, fierce and bold; 
 
 But I thought to the end of the world he had fled, 
 
 Because for a time I've heard nothing he's said, 
 
 I will send a solid shot right over there, 
 
 To see if there's a masked battery hid any where; 
 
 So the big gun was discharged with a noise like thunder; 
 
 And it seemed as if the earth was rent asunder. 
 
 But when the echo died out, and the smoke cleared away, 
 
 There stood the giant like a fierce lion at bay. 
 
 And he said, "'Tis you Thomas O'Mahoney that makes the war; 
 
141 
 
 You are the Brutus who'd cut the throat of the great Caesar. 
 
 So now into a terrible fix you have got. 
 
 You may run. but 111 chase you until you are caught."" 
 
 And now a fierce war between these giants is begun. 
 
 And no one can tell when it will be done. 
 
 But the wise ones would say to both, you'd better withdraw. 
 
 And while giving advice, this they say more. 
 
 "Tis cruel and wrong to re-open an old sore: 
 
 And the Muse would say to Doyle, cease this strife: 
 
 This warfare give o'er, and begin a new life. 
 
 Y^ou are a son of Vulcan, so now. 
 
 Go hammer your pen into a plow: 
 
 Seize hold of the handles, plow often and deep, 
 
 And you'll have plenty of corn to sell and to keep. 
 
 And if you'd be a prosperous man. 
 
 Follow your thrifty neighbor's plan. 
 
 Repair your fences, mend your ways. 
 
 And go to church on Sundays and holy days. 
 
 Then, if other honors bright you'd gain. 
 
 Remember, Burns said. "An honest man is king o' men."" 
 
 And Thomas O'Mahoney go back to the school room. 
 
 And there make war with pen. willow and broom. 
 
 Y^es. go back, and make good use of tongue and pen. 
 
 In training the juveniles at Sulphur Glen. 
 
 Use a course of study, drill and exercise. 
 
 And make those urchins strong, good and wise: 
 
 And this you'll find will bring more joy. 
 
 Than trying to make Pat Doyle a better boy: 
 
 And remember that a single act of good 
 
 Has more of honest fame than shedding seas of blood.*' 
 
 SWEET BY AND BY. 
 
 S. F. BENNETT. 
 
 There's a land that is fairer than day. 
 
 And by faith we can see it afar. 
 For the Father waits over the way 
 
 To prepare us a dwelling place there: 
 In the sweet by and by 
 
 We shall meet on that beautiful shore. 
 In the sweet by and by. by and by. by and by. 
 
142 
 
 We shall sing- on that beautiful shore 
 The melodious songs of the blest, 
 
 And our spirits shall sorrow no more, 
 I sigh for a dwelling place there. 
 
 In the sweet by and by we shall meet on that beautiful shore. 
 In the sweet by and by we shall meet on that beautiful shore. 
 
 To our bountiful Father above 
 
 We will offer our tribute of praise 
 For the glorious gift of his love, 
 
 And the blessed songs that hallow our days. 
 In the sweet by and by, by and by, by and by. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Lines on the Death of Mrs. Ghas. F. Heydecker. 
 
 LORENA OORSER. 
 
 Our family circle is broken, 
 
 Our loving mother is dead; 
 Her gentle eyes are closed in death. 
 
 Home to God her soul has fled, 
 
 But we must not weep for mother, 
 Though we sever here on earth, 
 
 And her eyes are closed in slumber, 
 And she sleeps beneath the turf. 
 
 But, dear mother, we shall meet you, 
 When this fleeting life is o'er, 
 
 And in that brighter world above 
 We will meet to part no more. 
 
 Father, do not weep for mother, 
 Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes. 
 
 'Ere long you will go to meet her 
 In the home bevond the skies. 
 
143 
 
 It's only for a little while 
 
 That yon have to watch and wait. 
 "Ere Jesns will bid yon enter 
 
 That beautiful golden gate. 
 
 Father, do not weep longer. 
 
 She has only gone before* 
 With the angels she is waiting 
 
 For us. on the golden shore. 
 
 Dearest mother, how we loved you, 
 Can it be that we must part. 
 
 There's no one can tell but Jesus 
 Of the anguish in our heart. 
 
 Can it be that we will never 
 
 Hear again thy joyous tone? 
 While the arms with loving pressure 
 Are around us fondly thrown. 
 
 When our journey on earth is o'er 
 And we climb the golden stair. 
 
 You will meet us and clasp our hands 
 And welcome us all up there. 
 
 Jesus will wipe away our tears. 
 
 Xo sorrow or death is there: 
 There shall our weary souls find rest, 
 
 When we enter that city so fair. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 X. c. c. 
 
 How oft we crush the fairest flower 
 Along the wayside blooming fair 
 
 We cherish not its beauty there. 
 We know not of its virtue rare. 
 
144 
 
 The tiny songsters carol forth 
 
 Their joyous songs in tender tone. 
 
 How strange we never prize its lay 
 Until the music bird has flown. 
 
 Thus with the friends we fondly loved. 
 
 Whose friendship twined a g^arland bright. 
 Our brow to deck in hours of joy. 
 
 And crown us in the gladsome night. 
 
 When absence severs hearts from hearts, 
 When cruel fate would bid us part, 
 
 'Tis then we learn the lesson which 
 Affection brings to fondest heart. 
 
 To cherish still the hallowed shrine, 
 
 Where peace holds reign to cheer and bless. 
 
 Where virtues sacred fount e'er flows, 
 True source of joy and happiness. 
 
 Mid all the chequered scenes of life 
 My love for home will e'er remain. 
 
 Recalling joys too bright to last — 
 Yes, joys I ne'er may feel again. 
 
 The friendship dear of long ago, 
 
 In memory true shall ever dwell, 
 Tho" face and form be lost to view 
 
 And lips must breath their last "Farewell." 
 
 [the end. ] 
 
145 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 POEMS BY ANNA BILINSKI GRIDLF.Y. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Ah, me! Ah, ine!" she sighed, '"how strange is life. 
 
 How few its joys, and how with sorrow rife." 
 
 The placid brow took on a gloomy frown 
 
 As soft white hands smoothed out her silken gown; 
 
 And into eyes unused to sin or pain 
 
 A troubled shadow for a moment came. 
 
 "Ah, me! Ah, me!" she sighed, "yet life is sweet 
 Tho" oft' we tread its path with weary feet."" 
 The golden head is crowned by widow's cap, 
 And o'er a child's worn playthings in her lap 
 Her tired hands are passing to and fro, 
 While from her eyes the shadows never go. 
 
 A MEMORY 
 
 Through the oriel window the softened sunshine fell. 
 And away from the distance the music of pealing bell 
 Came with a soothing cadence — falling and rising high, 
 Changing with every whisper of the low wind's wail and sigh. 
 
 The quaint room, rich in story, murmured of by-gone days, 
 Of love, and joy. and sorrow, in ever tuneful lays; 
 And solemn eyes of warriors, and faces young and fair. 
 Gleamed on the wall's dull back-ground like spirits pionioned 
 there. 
 
 Over an open volume on its mystic words intent, 
 
 With bearing calm and thoughtful, a fairhaired woman bent: 
 
 And the tender sweetness of the fair, Madonna face 
 
 Was heightened by the beauty of her garments* simple grace. 
 
146 
 
 A bunch of waxen lilies upon the Bible lay, 
 
 Yielding their dainty incense to light of the dying day; 
 
 But she who leaned above them like some rare, dowered Queen. 
 
 Was fairer than the flowers, so noble did she seem. 
 
 And I, who silent watched her from out the window wide. 
 Dumb by the mighty power of passion and of pride, 
 Then, and forever after, had counted all pain sweet, 
 Could I but bow repentant, low kneeling at her feet. 
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT, 
 
 Think not a life, however plain and humble, 
 That shapes its form to some diviner end, 
 
 Is lived in vain; howe'er it halt and stumble, 
 Its walk is yet above the common trend. 
 
 Of lives, the many are the poor and lowly — 
 The struggling, unrecked multitude of men 
 
 Whose shadowed years the ages light but slowly, 
 And sorrow hoards full measure still for them. 
 
 An yet from these our well-beloved and honored 
 Gleam out as stars of seven-fold magnitude, 
 
 They who from truth the richest stores have garnered. 
 Or traverse earth in Christ's similitude. 
 
 And who shall say how fair to God's clear vision 
 Must seem these lives wrought out in toil and pain, 
 
 Or how complete in his most wise decision 
 
 Will be their well-earned recompense and gain? 
 
 Press on, brave souls! the end is worth the gaining; 
 
 No life is void that does the good it can; 
 No life so lowly but by wise ordaining 
 
 Some strength out-reach to help a brother man. 
 
14 
 
 APATHY 
 
 I decerned them dead, the fever and the strife 
 Of wild ambition and of strange unrest. 
 
 And walked the somber level of my life 
 An aimless travler on an aimless quest. 
 
 The long-, still days flowed on in peaceful wise. 
 
 Each little duty and each hardship done. 
 Each da3 T to learn some new self -sacrifice. 
 
 Or read aright some lesson new begun. 
 
 And I was happy in a quiet way, 
 
 For peace is joy when born of o'er-much pain. 
 Sufficed for ma the calm in each new day. 
 
 Xor mattered much the sun-shine or the rain. 
 
 Alas, for one! What was it broke the spell? 
 
 A look, a word, a snatch of some old song, 
 And old ambitions I had known full well. 
 
 Thrilled thro" my being in a tumult strong. 
 
 Thus, in most hearts, however calm we seem. 
 
 Are smould'ring flames of some supreme desire. 
 Some silent love, or hope, or cherished dream 
 
 A fleeting breath may kindle into fire. 
 
 A FUNERAL PAGEANT IN ROME. 
 
 We stood beside the window in the darkness of the night. 
 Strangely moved and mutely silenced by the wierdness oi' 
 the sight. 
 And upon the still air falling, dying out. and rising high. 
 Came the solemn sound of chanting from the pageant pass- 
 ing by. 
 
 With the torch-lights brightly flaming o'er the faces in the 
 street; 
 With the bitter wail of voices and the heavy tread of feet: 
 Dow^i between the kneeling figures of the women weeping low. 
 Underneath the massive arches, came the mourners, pacing 
 slow. 
 
143 
 
 Old retainers of the dead one marched in column, two by two, 
 Bearing* in their hands long* flanibeanx. lighting* up the 
 Heaven's blue; 
 
 And a brotherhood of friars with their cloaks and sandalled 
 
 feet. 
 
 Pass with footsteps measured sharply to their voices' rythmic 
 
 be.it. 
 
 Then the black-robed priests attended each by churchly 
 servitor, 
 Chanting- loudty, chanting' slowly from the open books they 
 bore; 
 
 And the brown-robed, grizzled friars carried on the dismal 
 moan 
 
 Which throbbed and echoed mournfully between the sky 
 and stone. 
 
 On the shoulders of the bearers, in a blaze of torch-light red 
 
 Lay the bier, with black plumes waving o'er the figure of 
 the dead; 
 
 And we stooped to see the sleeper with his face turned to the 
 
 sky, 
 Careless of the gaze upon it from the people standing by. 
 
 Following after came the prelates and the dusky-vestured 
 priests; 
 
 Came the Carmelites and friars — while the charting never 
 
 ceased; 
 
 Two by two with heavy tramping down the Roman thorough- 
 fare, 
 Wound the wierd procession in the flambeaux brilliant glare. 
 
 Gliding on like some huge serpent underneath the city's gloom. 
 Wafting back the ghost-like music on their progress to the 
 tomb, 
 'Till the muffled foot-falls echoed like the murmurs in a dream, 
 
 And the torch-lights trailing fire seemed a hazy, mystic 
 gleam. 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 Could the world but judge our actions 
 By the thoughts that prompt them; 
 
 Would it be so slow T to value 
 And so ready to condemn. 
 
149 
 
 Could it see the grand intention 
 
 Working 1 for nngdity whole. 
 Foiled and baffled in their budding 
 
 Before the petals can unfold. 
 
 Would they take the human failure 
 With the dreary bear results. 
 
 For the deeds of sinful nature. 
 For the fruit of wrong impulse. 
 
 Could they know the circumstances 
 
 Which have wrecked our dearest hopes. 
 
 Could they know the airy nothing 
 Of the woof with which we wrought. 
 
 Would they blame us for our blindness. 
 
 When we toiled in perfect faith. 
 Would they scorn us that our toil in g- 
 
 Proved as lifeless as a wrath. 
 
 If to night across the ocean. 
 
 One lone wanderer could but know 
 All the unkindness of the answer. 
 
 Of the words which wounded so. 
 
 Could but understand the reasons 
 Which had made the meaning plain. 
 
 He had not become an outcast 
 Kneeling at the shrine of pain. 
 
 But alas 'tis by resultants 
 
 That our thoughts are misconstrued. 
 That our noblest, grandest wishes 
 
 Bv their weakness are imbued. 
 
 BEFORE THE INQUEST, 
 
 "Why do I sorrow? I will tell you sir. 
 
 Tell you with all of a woman's scorn: 
 Scorn for that cruel thing a flirt. 
 
 The meanest deathliest thing e*er born. 
 
150 
 
 "Last nigmt when I came from the hatters shop. 
 
 Weary and heart-sick, as a woman may, 
 Here on the threshold so silent and chill: 
 
 Shot through the heart my brother lay. 
 
 "That something- was wrong I had known for a week. 
 
 For his pallid face and his restless eyes 
 Belied the cheerful words of his speech, 
 
 And the merry tones of his gay replies. 
 
 "One night last week I came from my work, 
 I saw him with one whom I did not know, 
 
 Robed like a princess fair and sweet, 
 
 But a demon at heart, sir, to work such woe. 
 
 "Some high born lady with nothing to do 
 But to follow the bent of her own sweet will — 
 
 To win a man's love as a child plucks a flower, 
 If it madden, no matter if it starve or kill. 
 
 "Over his heart here I found her picture 
 
 Faded and blurred by his kisses warm, 
 And here in his hand, the heartless answer, 
 
 Cold pitiless words that did him harm. 
 
 "All night long I've watched beside him, 
 
 Cursing her folly in my bitter grief, 
 Cursing the woman who wantonly slew him, 
 
 Cursing, yet cursing' brings no relief. 
 
 "Out on a woman who wilfully shatters. 
 
 Belief in all goodness for vanity's sake; 
 Who leads hope on, nor dreams that it matters 
 
 If the brain go mad and the spurned heart break.*" 
 
jun is iyui