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BORN: NATCHEZ, Miss. HAVING lost ber 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. John

son, 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

The gods and goddesses above

Heard him in silent wonder; Juno forgot to lecture Jove,

And Jove forgot to thunder; The sea-snakes beard 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 fints With vinous streams are reeking.


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."

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.

GRECIAN POETRY vs. MODERN SCIENCE. There dwelt a youth in ancient Thrace,

Whose voice and lyre entrancing Bewitched with song the buman race, And set creation dancing.

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,

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,


BORN; CHELSEA, MASS., MAY 25, 1839. Miss HILDRETH has been an invalid for a number of years, and is now living in the quiet country town of Harvard, Mass. Her poems have been published from time to time in many periodicals of prominence.

NEW YEAR'S EVE. Hark, 'tis the chime of the midnight bell, Resounding far over hill and dell, Just to remind us, that to-day Has passed forever from us away. Nothing strange - yet each stroke brings So many thoughts of so many things; For the year is dying with the day, And the Past is gone, -- forever and aye. What does the year carry forth for me, To the wide embrace of Eternity? What does it take from my life away? --- Not one thing, surely, that ought to stay.

Last year's green lies under the snow:-
But the daisies are only waiting below.
Ring on to the end, Sweet, Hallowed Chime!
Thou art bringing to me a glad, new time;
For my heart hears this answer to every

- The Father's arms leave none without!"

I ask of the stars their mystery,

As they wink in the distant blue, And I could be content with all,

If I but life's mystery knew.


BORN: TIFFIN, O., JUNE 18, 1860. WAEN 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

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 be their aid,
The jeweled Ishon was powerless

To check the terrible raid.
With despairing, hopeless courage

He rallied his troops that day,. Will you let our nation perish?

Charge on that savage array!" Repulsed by myriad lances,

Forced back through heaps of the slain, Wounded, defeated and helpless

He cried in his bitter pain: « Oh Christ whom the greatest worship,

Oh Christ of mercy and love, Declare Thy marvelous goodness,

Send aid to me from above! · The human is weak and erring,

I have not seen Thee aright, Grant to me a clearer vision,

Give to me the inner sight! . I feel Thou art pure and holy,

In carnate mercy and right. Invisible pow'r and splendor, Ruler of darkness and light! Avenge me of my aggressors,

Thy glance can put them to flight, Speak! and their legions shall vanish

In the breath of Thy own might!"

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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.

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! . Long suffering, kind and patient,

Thy promise never shall fail,
Supremest homage yield Thee,

My Sov'reign Divine I hail!"
His hand lightly grasped the standard

As he breathed his solemn vow,
But lo! a glory resplendent

Hath gilded that banner now! A voice of surpassing sweetness

Speaks low to the startled king,
..To my brother won from idols
Good tidings of joy I bring!
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!

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, Whiie 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 cbicken 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



BORS: JOHNSTOWN, Wis., ABOUT 1850. WREN 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

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.

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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 0 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.

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 degree-

They 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 husbing, there is no stilling
That wbich 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.

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.

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