Across that bourne whence Avon's bard has said,

Once passed, No trav'ler yet has e'er returned."

And soothes away the bitter pangs of doubt,
And satisfies the longing of the soul -
Then high upon the mountain top of life
It comes again far sweeter than at first,
Unfolding all the beauties that are found,
Wherein the hope of childhood fresh and
strong,

Combined with wisdom's golden ray, serene,
Gives life fruition full for hopes deferred,
And like the rising sun gives light and
warmth

To all the world, awakened fresh from sleep; And thus my soul's refreshed with hope sublime,

While calmly treading life's uneven way.

MRS. ANNA R. HENDERSON.

BORN: CHERAW, S. C., JULY 1, 1853. AFTER leaving school Anna traveled with her parents in South America, living over a year on a coffee plantation near Rio Janeiro, Brazil. After returning to the United States, several years of her life were spent in Marietta, Ohio; finally locating in Williamstown, W. Va., she was there married in 1878, and is still a resident of that place. Her poems have found their way in various periodicals, and for the past few years she has been a constant contributor to Wide Awake, Pansy, Little Men and Women, and others. In person she is tall and slender with dark brown eyes and hair.

BLOSSOMS.

When first the springtime's fair array

In Northern lands I saw around me, An apple tree, a great bouquet,

With showers of blushing petals crowned me. I shook them lightly from my brow;

"Your charms," I said, can never please me, Weary with winter's cold and snow,

No Northern pleasure can appease me.

I hardly see, I cannot prize

The beauty which each bloom discloses; For, O, my heart is all in love

With orange flowers and Southern roses. Yea more, methinks I shall not find

Room in my heart for Northern faces,
So closely are its tendrils twined
Round far-off friends with Southern graces."
Successive years 'neath Northern skies

Far absent from my native bowers,
Have weakened not those blessed ties
That bind me to the land of flowers.
Yet am I changed, when blossoms fall,
I greet them with as true a blessing,
As those which crowned me at the call,
Of coating South winds soft caressing.

My stubborn heart has larger grown,

And has a thousand sacred places, Where Love shall evermore enthrone, Most fondly cherished Northern faces. With earnest love I gladly clasp

The palm where Northern firmness lingers, But reach my other hand to grasp

The precious warmth of Southern fingers. The songs I sing shall breathe a strain In praise of Northern vales and mountains, But evermore the sweet refrain

Shall be of Southern palms and fountains; And for the flowers I love the most

Their beauty in my heart enshrining; With apple blossoms of the North Shall Southern orange blooms be twining.

MRS. MARTHAWINTERMUTE

BORN: DELAWARE CO., OHIO, SEPT. 6, 1843. THIS lady's work, entitled Eleven Women and Thirteen Men and other works, contains a beautiful story in prose, and a collection of her finest poems. The book is a very fine one and has had an extensive sale. Mrs. Winter

MRS. MARTHA WINTERMUTE.

mute's poems have appeared in the Youth's Companion, and a number of other journals equally as prominent. She was married in 1863, and now resides in Newark, Ohio, engaged in literary work.

LAURELS.

Victory men do not inherit;:

Keep not back the wreaths of merit,
That become the conqueror's brow-
Laurels: ask not what they cost,
Go win thou!

If thou gainest fame's fair chaplet,
Let it live.

..Unto him that overcometh
I will give."

Of the lip that strangely weareth
Wreaths of peace, while spirit beareth
Sorrows dark and sins that mar-
Laurels: ask not what they speak-
What of war?

But the grace that overcometh
Go thou seek!

It is conquest if thou find
Peace of mind.

There be laurels never given
Until wars and storms have driven
Heart and mind and soul to rest,
As the blooming flowers are laid
On death's breast.

Yet make thou thy life victorious,
Thou may'st win

What is more than earthly honor,Strength within.

THE ROSE.

The perfect flower no art can paint,
To bird and bee decoy,

But far, and faint,

And redolent with joy,

Its living fragrance steals their sense, And draws to fuller recompense.

MY DREAM.

I chanced to-day so near to that land, Where the loved and immortal dwell, That I felt the clasp of a spirit hand, And heard what her lips would tell.

I caught from a soul a cherished wish, And it seemed akin to care,

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Too deep, too subtile for song like this,
It was shaped in a realm so fair.
'Twas a longing quest for a heart astray,
And lost in this world of sin,

She fain would be sending my soul away,
Praying and calling him in.

A Magdalene, now pure and free

I once helped, swept silently near,
And kissed my eyelids, with lips, to me,
That seemed like the drop of a tear.

So pitiful soft and tender with love ---
I cared not to lift them to see,
Till I felt she was gone, then gazing above,
Fell back her whisper to me:

"I have sisters fair in death and night, Where the proud of the world will not go,

I wish you might bring them"-- away in light, [snow. Was she gone, gleaming whiter than And I saw the celestial feet of a saint,

I once cheered, when he stumbled below, And he touched my lips, Ye shall never faint,

46

Ye shall drink where His rivers flow." I drew this lesson all Heaven is near, And longing the lost to find, The words I utter, the look, the tear, The prayer and the service kind Will live above - and the bread I cast, On the waters - I there shall find. It may seem so fruitless, but O! at last, The angels my sheaves will bind.

I'D RATHER.

I'd rather write one Heavenly thought
To shed its sunlight on the years-
I'd rather know that I have wrought
Some kindness --- wiped away some tears;

Or given a hope to banish care

And lift a fainting heart above,
Or helped my brother's grief to bear,

And gained that wondrous goal-- His love;

Than sit on earthly throne with kings,
And sway ths scepter of their fame--
O, wealth and fame are little things
Compared with goodness in a name.

I'd rather be a fragrant flower,
To bloom in purity - then die,
Fulfilling in a single hour

My mission 'neath the sunny sky,

Than gain the transient fading goal

For which so many hearts have striven,I'd rather open all my soul

And drink the hallowed light of Heaven.

And if His presence still may come,
And go with me and give me rest,
I'd rather cease to mourn and roam
And lean upon the Saviour's breast.

I'd rather leave earth's weary pain
To those who will but plod and moil,
And ever with my heart remain

Far from the tumult and the toil.

I'd rather hear his voice of peace

And blend my soul with him and be Where raging of the waves must cease And toiling on the weary sea.

Then, O, from out that sheltered home
I'd reach, and heavenly love inpart,
Until my spirit should become
A home for every weary heart.

MRS. ANNIE W. PIERCE.

BORN IN CANADA, DEC. 8, 1870.

MRS. PIERCE has written poems for a few years only, which have appeared in the local press. She has also written several stories, in which she is now engaged.

SPRING IS COMING.

Spring is coming, spring is coming!
Don't you see it? Look around!
Don't you see the grass is peeping
From the dark, and cold damp ground?

See! the sky is getting brighter!
See the white clouds as they go
Flitting o'er the bright blue Heavens,
Looking like huge banks of snow.

HORACE BIRNEY WILLARD.

BORN: VOLNEY, N. Y., MAY 2, 1825. GRADUATING in 1849, Mr. Willard subsequently practiced medicine for twenty years, which profession failing health compelled him to abandon. He served several years in the county board of supervisors; one year as

HORACE BIRNEY WILLARD. Mayor of Fort Atkinson; and in 1861 was a member of the Wisconsin legislature. Mr. Willard has been often called to other places of public trust and responsibility. He is now vice-president of the Citizen's State Bank at Fort Atkinson, Wis., where he now resides.

THE TRUTH SHOULD BE SPOKEN AT ALL TIMES.

Is silence a lie?

How guilty am I

Who suppress many truths from duty or

choice,

And lay them away

For some future day,

If, indeed, they ever be given a voice.
If truth must be spoken,
Then hearts must be broken,
And family ties often sundered in twain;
Wouldn't editors' wives
Lead miserable lives

If, on every occasion the truth should obtain?
Should ministers tell
The truth about hell,

Would editors' sleep give the same quiet rest?

A maxim quite old

Says that.. Silence is gold,"

While speech, tho' 'tis truth, is but silver at best.

QUANDARY.

--

To he, or not to lie, with me,
The solemn question seems to be.
In such a world, where naught is real-
Where love and friendship are ideal --
Where lying is the legal tender,
And Truth's large discount seems to render
Bankrupt all who dare invest ---
Where joy and peace and sacred rest
In hope and faith and fancy dwell,
Where human nature since it fell,
As we are told, and don't deny,
Is a contradiction and a lie,

And feeds on falsehood; as we know,
On carcass feeds the carrion crow--
Whether 'tis better for age or youth,
To mix with lies some little truth,
Or take quite clear their natural food.
Behold there goes a hungry brood
Of turkey-buzzards; o'er the plain
They soar, scorning all fresh slain
Quadrupeds, that, untainted lie
In rich abundance; by and by
They snuff with fierce avidity
Quintescence of putridity,

And there they feed-- there they fatten.
Do you suppose that they would fatten

44

On the sweetest kinds of diet?
Could you ever make them try it?
Should moral buzzards be coerced
To feed on truth when so aversed?
Lying! Why, 'tis the Goldsmith Maid"
Of politics. Who rides the jade
Is sure to win in every heat;
While ignominious defeat
And dire disgrace, do but await
The honest, truthful candidate.
In literature 'tis much the same;
Ambition's son who covets fame,
Finds it in fiction and romance.
It only needs a furtive glance
To see th' immortal mind demands
The works of Dickens, Elliot, Sands.
We thank the Lord they lived, lied,
And pray their like be multiplied;
Living, we laud and glorify,
We monument them when they die.
Then in the social world, ah me,
What should we do, what would we be,
Could we speak nothing but the truth?
What palsied tongues for want of use-
What wretched souls for want of food-
How stagnant all the neighborhood
How stupid our tea-table talks,
Insipid all our evening walks;

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No cheek would tingle with delight

At Flattery's tongue, or eye grow bright.
How sweet the words. I love you well,”
From woman's lips-though false as hell,
The depths are stirred, the thrills are given,
And sweetest thoughts of life and Heaven
Exalt the soul. What tho' she lied,
Would not the lie be sanctified?
Who does not know, as well as Knox,
That lying may be orthodox?
That Abraham denied his wife,
Because he fancied that his life
Was jeopardized by her sweet face,
Or by her symmetry and grace?
And Jacob, too, as well we know,
Lied, and was blessed in doing so;
Oh, such a master-stroke of lying
To a father, old and dying!
Such a rich reward receiving
For his falsehood and deceiving,
In vain we search historic page
For parallel in any age.

George, of the hatchet," never lied:
He lived and loved, and when he died
He left no son to bear his name;
No child or chick to share his fame:
Such was the poor reward he met,
While Jacob lives in Israel yet.

CLARA MAY HOWARD.

BORN: AZTALAN, WIS., OCT. 8, 1856. AFTER teaching for two years, Miss Howard was compelled through poor health to give up that position. Her poems have appeared for the past two years in the local press, and have been extensively copied. She is now living at home in Harvey, Wisconsin.

ROSE GERANIUM.

When winter's chill is in the air,
And all the earth is bleak and bare,
What a comfort thou art!

How dear to my heart!

My darling Rose Geranium!

Thou art dearer than all the flowers of

spring:

What flower of them all such perfume can bring?

I've kept thee for years,

Mid smiles and tears!
My pot of Rose Geranium!

Bruised and broken, like a loving heart,

Thou givest all the more sweetness. A

part

Of thy leaves are faded and dead, But just as sweet, tho' life has fled, Thou fragrant Rose Geranium!

Oh! that our natures like thine might be, Giving sweetness to all, and from envy free,

For the memory of kind words said
Will live long, when we are dead,
Like the fragrance of Rose Geranium.

EXTRACT.

To-night comes a picture before me,
As I sit in the firelight glow,
Watching the embers slowly falling,-
"Tis a scene from long ago.

It carries me back to my childhood,
The same childish fancies I feel,
As were conjured up by the firelight,
And the time of the spinning wheel.

GEORGE GRANT WITTY. BORN: HOPKINSVILLE, KY., JAN. 23, 1862. ALTHOUGH admitted to the bar in 1885, Mr. Witty has never been actively engaged in the practice of law. He has taken a prominent part in politics for many years, and is regarded as one of the leading republicans of western Kentucky. His poems have appeared in the local press from time to time, and have received favorable mention. He is now employed in teaching, and resides with his wife in Milburn, in his native state.

THE MAID THAT LIVES ON THE HILL.
Just where the hillside meets the vale,
And where the bubbling rill
Comes tumbling recklessly along

Beside the olden mill,

There stands a cottage nestling

Upon a hill so sweet,

And one fair face and form divine,
Seems Heaven to complete.

The maiden that lives on the hill

Is as sweet as the lily fair,

And not more divine is the moss-rose or

thyme

Or the violet she wears in her hairThe light in her modest black eyes

She caught from the rose blushing morn, And the smile on her cheek so modest and meek,

Was placed there by sunlight and storm. I met this fair maiden divine, Where daylight lingered long,-When downy breasts of robins pressed

Their loved mates tired with song;
She placed her sweet fair hand in mine
And raised her eyes above,

And softly answered, "I am thine,
Thee only can I love."