ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY.

BORN: NATCHEZ, MISS.

HAVING lost her mother in infancy, Rosa was adopted by her maternal aunt, Mrs. Vertner, by whose name she was known. Miss Vertner was married at seventeen to Claude M. Johnson, Lexington. Although assuming at this youthful age the domestic and maternal cares of life, she wrote incessantly, and her poems were readily accepted by prominent periodicals. Her first volume appeared in 1859: Woodburn, a novel of southern life, was brought out just at the beginning of the civil war; this was followed by Crimson

MRS. ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY.

Hand, Daisy Dare, with other shorter poems.
Alexander Jeffrey, the present husband of
the subject of this sketch, is a gentleman of
Scotch descent, with whom she lives quietly
at her home in Lexington. Through all the
varied experiences of later life,not untouched
by sorrow and suffering, she is gentle and
patient; and George D. Prentice speaks none
too highly of her, when he beautifully says:
"And thou hast that strange gift
The gift of genius, high and proud and strong,
At whose behest thoughts beautiful and swift
Around thee throng."

GRECIAN POETRY vs. MODERN SCIENCE.
There dwelt a youth in ancient Thrace,
Whose voice and lyre entrancing
Bewitched with song the human race,
And set creation dancing.

The gods and goddesses above Heard him in silent wonder: Juno forgot to lecture Jove,

And Jove forgot to thunder;

The sea-snakes heard and wagged their tails,
The porpoise burst with pleasure,
The fishes weighed it on their scales,
And found a perfect measure;
The mermaids gathered round in flocks,
And strewed his path with corals:
The syrens heard, and from the rocks
Cast down their watery laurels;

The trees picked up their trunks and swayed
About in measures mazy;

The rocks rolled round and danced and played
In waltzes wild and crazy.

There comes a thrill down listening years
Throughout creation ringing,

Perchance the music of the spheres "

Still echoes his sweet singing.

Now, Orpheus loved a maid who died

The day they were united;

He rushed below to seek his bride,
And Pluto's realm delighted

By striking soft his golden shell."

I never have forgiven

This seeking for his love in hell

Before he searched through heaven. 'Twas like a man to go there first,

And scarcely worth remarking,

But Tantalus forgot his thirst
And Cerberus ceased barking.

Things without motion swayed about
While Ixion's wheel stopped turning;
The fire was stirred, but not put out,

And Orpheus left it burning.

The vulture even forgot to prey

While listening to that lyre:

Some creatures of the present day

Might show a like desire.

But truth must triumph. Lo! a glance
Our modern science merits,
She says no wonder rocks can dance
When they're possessed by spirits.
A savant gives mysterious hints

That modern quartz are leaking,
And that the fiery hearts of flints
With vinous streams are reeking.

Let modern humbug still increase:
I fling with fierce defiance
The gauntlet of poetic Greece
At prosy modern science.

I swear the strains of Orpheus' lyre
Did cause the stones to frolic,
And left them all with hearts of fire
And nature's alcoholic!

O shade of Bacchus! see with scorn
Thy purple glories flicker,

When mortals, drunk on rye and corn,
Press rocks for stronger liquor.

BABY POWER.

Six little feet to cover,
Six little hands to fill,
Tumbling out in the clover,
Stumbling over the sill;
Six little stockings ripping,
Six little shoes half worn,
Spite of that promised whipping,
Skirts, shirts, and aprons torn!
Bugs and bumble-bees catching,
Heedless of bites and stings,
Walls and furniture scratching,
Twisting off buttons and strings.
Into the sugar and flour,

Into the salt and meal,
Their royal baby power,

All through the house we feel! Behind the big stove creeping, To steal the kindling-wood; Into the cupboard peeping,

To hunt for somesin dood." The dogs they tease to snarling,

The chickens know no rest,

Yet the old nurse calls them "darling," And loves each one.. the best."

Smearing each other's faces

With smut or blacking-brush,
To forbidden things and places
Always making a rush.
Over a chair or table

They'll fight, and kiss again
When told of slaughtered Abel,
Or cruel, wicked Cain.
All sorts of mischief trying,
On sunny days in-doors,
And then perversely crying
To rush out when it pours.
A raid on Grandma making,
In spite her nice new cap,
Its strings for bridles taking,
While riding on her lap.
Three rose-bud mouths beguiling,
Prattling the livelong day,
Six sweet eyes on me smiling,

Hazel, and blue, and gray.-
Hazel with heart-light sparkling,
Too happy, we trust, to fade-
Blue 'neath long lashes darkling,
Like violets in the shade.
Gray, full of earnest meaning,
A dawning light so fair;
Of woman's life beginning,
We dread the noon-tide glare
Of earthly strife and passion,
May spoil its tender glow,
Change its celestial fashion,
As earth-stains change the snow!
Six little clasped hands lifted,

Three white brows upward turned,

One prayer thrice heavenward drifted

To Him who never spurned

The lisp of lips, where laughter
Fading away in prayer,
Leaves holy twilight after

A noon of gladness there.
Three little beads, all sunny.
To pillow and bless at night,
Riotous Alick and Dunnie,

Jinnie, so bonnie and bright!
Three souls immortal slumber,
Crowned by that golden hair.
When Christ his flock shall number,
Will all my lambs be there?
Now with the stillness round me,

I bow my head and pray,

..Since this faint heart has found thee,

Suffer them not to stray.'
Up to the shining portals,
Over life's stormy tide,
Treasures I bring - Immortal;
Saviour, be thou my guide.

MABEL CRONISE.

BORN: TIFFIN, O., JUNE 18, 1860. WHEN nine years of age Mabel removed to Toledo, Ohio, where her father died in the same year. Ten years later she graduated, subsequently teaching Latin and universal history for several years. In 1887 Miss Cronise went to Europe, and wrote letters from there for various papers. She now is on the editor

MABEL CRONISE.

ial staff of the Toldeo Commercial. Her writings have appeared in the leading periodicals, including the Toledo Blade, Detroit Free Press, Chicago Interior, Arthur's Home Magazine, and many other equally prominent journals. In personal appearance Miss Cronise is rather tall and slender, with dark brown hair and eyes.

LENTEN DAYS.

Lenten days! supreme revealment

Of the human and Divine,

When the soul's grand thoughts awakened,
Glow like water changed to wine.

When, in resurrection garments,
Nature writes upon the sod,

On the grass blade and the lily,
The Apocalypse of God!
Days of quiet and contrition;
Days of peace and joy and rest!
Legacy of our Messiah!
Holy days, forever blest.

LEGEND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS.

Sweetest of all the traditions

Burgundian annals hold, Is one of the royal banner,

With its lilies white and gold. Burgundian monks and writers, Still the legend quaint repeat, Of Clovi's dauntless and daring, And Clotilda fair and sweet. This prayer before her altar Clotilda offered each day: ..Oh Christ, appear to my husband, Show him the Truth and the Way! ..He worships his heathen idols, Is blind to Thy love divine; On his darkened, inner vision

Let Thy endless goodness shine!" Months grew into years, but Clovis Still bowed to his idols cold, Scorning the Monarch of nations, Adoring his gods of gold!

One day in a fateful battle

The Huns made a deadly raid, The King saw his forces scattered

And his martial glory fade!

His men were falling like snowflakes,
On ev'ry side was the foe
Retreat meant death and dishonor,
Advance meant ruin and woe!

In vain he cried to his idols,
In vain implored he their aid,
The jeweled Ishon was powerless
To check the terrible raid.
With despairing, hopeless courage
He rallied his troops that day,-

Lo! as he breathed this petition,
Halted the Huns in affright
And Clovis with heav'n-lent valor
Dashed on with resistless might!
Thousands were conquered by hundreds,
For Christ nerved his hand that day,
And Burgundy's blood-stained banner
Waved high in the deadly array.
At night he knelt by Clotilda,-
..Oh wife, thy God shall be mine,
For He is able to succor,

He is mercy and love divine!

.. The Son He sent to redeem us,
My brother and Priest shall be;
I know His boundless compassion,
His wondrous beauty I see.
..Oh Christ! by Burgundy's standard,
I pledge to Thee service true,
Omnipotence, might and grandeur,
Thy mercy falleth like dew!

Your eyes once blind are now opened,
The truth eternal you see,

My peace that passeth all knowledge
On both of you henceforth be!

.. Your standard shall bear my symbol
On its field of azure blue,
Celestial lilies I give you,
I bring you a banner new!
..Transcendently fair and holy,
Be pure as these flow'rs divine,
Be worthy to bear My emblem,
Be worthy too, to be Mine!"
A vision sweet and surprising
The astonished monarchs see:

The blood-stained banner grows spotless
And blossoms with fleur-de-lis.
Three lilies stately and noble,
Power and comfort and love,
Type of the Tri-une God-head,

The Father, the Son, the Dove!

In awe they knelt by the lilies

And worshiped the Christ of LoveWho is king of all earth's nations, And king of the worlds above!

Still over a tranquil nation

The beauteous lilies wave, The symbol of Him, our Brother Whose arm is mighty to save. Sweet lilies, so fair and stately, The pledge of old ye renew, For Christ was the Rose of Sharon, But the Valley's Lily too!

ROBERT D. DODGE.

BORN: WARREN CO., ILL., DEC. 16, 1838. MR. DODGE has written poems for the press more or less for the past twenty-five years, many of which have received favorable mention. He now resides near Adel, Iowa, on a fruit and seed farm.

MIDNIGHT REVERIE.
Dimly the languid planets glow,
Softly the dewy night winds blow,
Bearing perfume of leaf and flower
And dreamy sounds of midnight hour,
While over all a mystic pall

Of gath'ring shadows rise and fall;
Fantastic shapes before my sight
Come for a moment then take flight.
How sights and sounds of nature seem,
Now strangely mingling with my dream;
What mystic raptures do contend,
How earth and ether seem to blend,
When sounds of earth to dreamland soar
And faintly echo on the shore,

I hear them now, the watch-dog's moan,
The chicken's long-drawn plaintive tone,
The little night-bug's tuneful strain,
Like to fall of a gentle rain.
Going not gone, I hear them still
Calling in turn from hill to hill;
The stars sink deeper in the sky.
The blending shadows hover nigh,
At last oblivion's veil is drawn,
And dog and bug and chicken gone.

A PEEP INTO THE FUTURE.
Now all aboard the Edison lightning train
Of flying cars that cleave the starry main.
We scorn the steam-car's crawling snail like
pace:

The storm cloud, too, makes such a sorry race,
It seems to turn and fly the other way,
As we pass by and swiftly onward stray.
Away we fly athwart the sky, and soon
We leave behind the failing earth and moon;
The affrighted sun darts from his proper

place.

The flaming stars fly backward into space;
At last when past the farthest world we fly,
We dash and flatten 'gainst th' all bounding

sky!

161

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

BORN: JOHNSTOWN, WIS., ABOUT 1850. WHEN thirteen years of age, Ella first began to write poetry, but it was many years before she received any financial return for these early efforts. Poems of Passion at once brought her into prominence, and she is now in receipt of a

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. good income. She is married, and resides in a beautiful home at Meriden, Connecticut. In speaking of past events, she says: "I had ceased to expect any sudden success in literature when I published Poems of Passion. The intense excitement the book caused, the hue and cry against its alleged immorality, and the consequently remarkable sales, were all a stunning surprise to me." She has written a novel, and still writes poetry for the leading periodicals.

EXTRACTS.

Love, to endure life's sorrow and earth's woe, Needs friendship's solid masonwork below.

Hearts are much the same;

The loves of men but vary in degreeThey find no new expressions for the flame. But now I know that there is no killing A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. There is no hushing, there is no stilling That which is part of your life and breath. You may bury it deep, and leave behind you The land, the people that knew your slain; It will push the sods from its grave, and find

you

On wastes of water or desert plain.

How poor that love that needeth word or mes

sage,

To banish doubt or nourish tenderness.

Days will grow cold, and moons wax old,
And then a heart that's true

Is better far than grace or gold-
And so my love, adieu!

I cannot wed with you.

Whoever was begotten by pure love,
And came desired and welcome into life,
Is of immaculate conception.

Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.

Rejoice, and men will seek you:
Grieve, and they turn and go.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all.

Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,

Your head like the golden-rod,

And we will go sailing away from here

To the beautiful Land of Nod.

Waste no tears

Upon the blotted record of lost years

But turn the leaf, and smile, oh, smile, to see The fair white pages that remain for thee.

THE LEGEND OF THE STORKS AND
BABIES.

Have you heard of the Valley of Babyland
The realm where the dear little darlings stay
Till the kind storks go, as all men know,

And O so tenderly bring them away? The paths are winding, and past all finding By all save the storks, who understand The gates, and the highways, and the intricate by-ways

That lead to Babyland.

The path to the Valley of Babyland

Only the kind white storks know.

If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains.

No man sees them come or go.

But an angel, maybe, who guards some baby, Or a fairy, perhaps, with her magic wand, Brings them straightway to the wonderful gateway

That leads to Babyland.

All over the Valley of Babyland

Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss;

And under the ferns fair, and under the leaves

there

Lie little heads like spools of floss.