ELLA A. GILES.

BORN IN WISCONSIN, FEB. 2, 1851.

MISS GILES has already written and published several works, including Bachelor Ben, Out From the Shadows, and Maiden Rachel. Her poems and sketches have appeared in the leading periodicals, and have been widely

ELLA A. GILES.

copied by the western local press. Miss Giles is rather tall, slender, and a decided brunette. She now resides in Madison, Wisconsin, with her father, engaged in housekeeping and literary work.

DEFEAT.

I know thee not! Alas for those

To whom thou canst thy form disclose.
Oft I discern fiend-shapes afar
In dim outlines, but lo, a star
Shines also from black space; a friend,
Disguised as foe, fierce storm-clouds send.
My will hath taught me how to gain
Profit from loss, pleasure from pain.
Willis supreme! Grim specters rise
No more when I have missed a prize.
I fear no foes but those within,
My soul dreads no defeat but sin.
And what sin is I can decide
For self alone, I am my guide.
Success in myself at any cost,
Attain I that and naught is lost.

BEGONE SUSPENSE.

Thou wretched, haggard, tottering dame!
Exile from Hades! without name
Save such as in thy changeful moods
Thou givest thyself; thy form obtrudes
Its ugly shape into the mind
And hungers there with looks unkind
When men dare dream of being blest
With Hope; that less exacting guest
Of whom thou jealous art whene'er
Thou see'st her timidly draw near.
Begone, Suspense, from hearts that ache
With dim forebodings! Better break
'Neath one fell blow of certainty
Than meet thy cruel, treacherous eye
Which nothing tells, yet doth suggest
Ills that elude the keenest quest.
Begone forever, evil hag!

When thou'rt away no more will lag
Life's weary hours; with swifter pace
Time's feet will run their destined race.

OH, YE BEAUTEOUS HILLS OF
FRANKFORT.

Oh, ye beauteous hills of Frankfort,
Wist ye why to-day we sigh?
Gentle hills that sit and listen
To the tender, leaning sky;
Shadowed hills, enlaced with sunshine,
Mist-embosomed, silence-clad,-
Do ye feel our yearning homage;
Know why we no more are glad?
'Tis because, amid your forests,
In the hush of Arnold's wold."
Walks a bard who speaks your language,-
One to whom ye oft have told
Secrets of transcendent sadness,
Which so freely forth he breathes
That he low-rebukes our rapture,

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And to us your sigh bequeaths.
Oh, wild-tangled wold, soul-wooing,
Stretched in smiling, careless grace
'Neath the arch of clouds far distant,
But for him, upon your face

We could only read a story

Fraught with radiant joy's deep thrills; But he lives, and he your voice is,Your own voice, ye once-mute hills! Griefs vicarious does he suffer,

Till your strength is the world's gain; Happy hills? Nay, mounts transfigured By the poet's steadfast pain.

FORGIVENESS.

Forgiveness is the fragrance, rare and sweet, That flowers yield when trampled on by feet That reckless tread the tender, teeming earth; For blossoms crushed and bleeding yet give

birth

To pardon's perfume; from the stern decrees Of unforgiveness, Nature ever flees.

GEORGE W. KETTOMAN. BORN: GETTYSBURG, PA., APRIL 17, 1853. MR. KETTOMAN is known as the South Mountain Bard. At nine years of age he commenced to court the muse and since that time he has written more than five thousand pages of manuscript. In 1876 Mr. Kettoman was

GEORGE W. KETTOMAN.

married to Miss Carrie B. Smith, of Decatur, Ill., by whom he has had two children - a son who died of diphtheria at the age of eight; the other, a daughter, who is still living. Mr. Kettoman has studied medicine. His best poems have not yet been published.

HAZEL GREEN.

There is a land dear to my heart
As freedom to the fawn,

And from my memory ne'er shall part
While life in me lives on.

'Tis where the Lehigh broad and bright
Doth pour his glimmering sheen
Down thro' a vale of love and light
To beauteous Hazel Green.

Around her quiet cottage home
Do sheep and cattle browse;

And meadow pink, and daisy bloom,
And violet and rose.

And there near to a beechen grove
High gleams the chapel vane,
And choristers sing God's high love
With saintly Hazel Green.

Down holm and mead her nimble feet

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Go tripping thro' the dew;
And pure is the song, and clean and sweet,
That flows to me and you.

Her basket with wild flowers in it
She bears with artless mien:
In soft blue gown and jaunty hat-
God bless our Hazel Green!

No marquis, duke or titled earl
Walks in her suitors' train,
But those who love the farmer girl
Are Nature's noblemen.
And no proud empress sable-robed,
Or jeweled southern queen,
Can dare compare with her so rare,
God's own sweet Hazel Green.

THE EARL OF EILDER.

Out from the village of Auber-weir,

The Earl of Eilder rode;

The sunlight bronzed his curling hair,

And warm on his helmet glow'd.

With quick proud step his charger paced,

And shook his scarlet plume,

For a grander rider never graced
That village of song and bloom.

He rode out thro' the morning air,
Toward the glimmering sea,

And after him ran a lady fair,

CryingListen, Sir Knight, to me!" Her cheek was pale as the lily white, And her tears ran down like rain; And in her eye was the wild, wild light

That cometh of ceaseless pain.

His bridle rein he tightly drew,

WILLIAM HENRY H. HINDS.

BORN: WEST MILAN, N. H., JAN. 20, 1821. MR. HINDS is a dentist by profession; he has written Poems for over half a century, which have appeared in the leading periodicals of

WILLIAM HENRY H. HINDS.

the East. Capt. Hinds passed through the war of the rebellion. He has a family of three, and now resides in Kennebunkport, Maine.

WELCOME, SWEET BIRDS OF SPRING.
Welcome, sweet birds of spring,-
Again on tireless wing,--
Ye came your songs to sing,
And flowers and sunshine bring.

How we love your singing,

To hear your sweet notes ringing,-
Which abroad you're flinging,
On the morning air.

In the tree-tops clinging,
On the green turf springing,
O'er the blue waves winging,
We hear you everywhere.
Welcome, blithesome, bluebird,
Your twitter first we heard,
And like some magic word,
Our inmost heart is stirred.
Far your lone heart winging,
First were you in bringing,

News of Nature's springing,
Into new life again.

We love your song out-pouring,
While northward you are soaring,
And Nature's God adoring,
In musical refrain.

Welcome, robin red-breast,---
In pretty crimson vest,

And coat of ash, you're dressed,-
Of all spring birds, loved best.

For 'twas dear "Cock Robin"

Set our young hearts throbbing,

And our bosom sobbing,

As on parental knee,

We sat, and saw in sorrow,

The cruel, cruel sparrow,

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With bow and blood-stained arrow,"

And him dead, under the tree.

Welcome, sweet merry lark,
All Nature seems to hark,

For thy morning songs, that mark, "Twixt the dawning and the dark.

Welcome, Bob o' Lincoln,

We hear you now, we think, on
Some quiet river's brink, on

A water-willow bow.

You're a jolly fellow,

Dressed in black and yellow,
And your voice's so mellow,
We seem to hear you now.

Yes, you're looking down,
With such a comical frown,
Now you're bobbing round
Just like a feathered clown.

Welcome, twittering swallow,
Scarce our eyes can follow,
As o'er hill and hollow,
You're flitting everywhere.

You are such happy creatures,
You seem like winged preachers,
Sent from Heaven, to teach us
Of God's loving care.

Then welcome, birds of spring,
Ye make our hearts to sing,
And praise our Heavenly King,
..Who giveth each good thing."

Ye bring us joy and gladness,
And drive away our sadness,
Ye free our hearts from badness,
With your innocence and song.

God bless you happy singers,
For while your sweet note lingers,
It still shall serve to bring us
To Heaven's happy throng.