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HON. P. T. TURNLEY. Then silent and smooth on the waters serene, BORN: DANDRIDGE, TENN., SEPT. 6, 1827.
My miniature craft would glide down the
stream, For twenty-six years Mr. Turnley was in the
Every object I saw on the land or in air army. He was married in 1873 to Miss Mary
Seemed joined at the earth to another as fair,
[bank, And the buckeye and birch lean over the Where oft I went swimming the summer's
day through, Is the place, I am sure, where I tied my
canoe. The pine board paddle, which blistered my
hand, And the rough hickory pole, I stuck in the
sand; Slipped the old hempen line through a ring in
the bow, Which I roguishly stole from Mark's little
scow, Then tramped down the weeds, just wet with
the dew, And made fast to a limb, my little canoe. It was lonely and dark, 'neath that old oaken
tree, HON. P. T. TURNLEY.
And under those willows still darker to me; Rutter. Mr. Turnley is a resident of High-| For the few twinkling stars were hid from land Park, II., of which city he is Mayor.
As they kissed tiny waves that leaped into MY LITTLE CANOE.
light; I was dreaming last night, of a beautiful Then an owl's sudden shriek, and solemn toostream,
hoo, Of long years ago, when scarcely thirteen, Made me tremble with fear as I tied my When the happiest hours that fell to my lot
canoe. In sunshine or shade, whether chilly or hot, Were those which I spent without hat or a Of the many who lived on the farm at that shoe
time, Poling round through the rapids in my little Only Hannah and Mark still linger behind! Not an Indian who lived, whether young one But of those whom I knew, to have lived on or old,
that shore, Could equal my skill in the use of the pole. There appeared in my dream, a great many Over ledges of rock so high and so thick
more; Where the wild waters rushed so rapid and And high above all distinctly in view, quick,
(true, Sat one who had watched me in my canoe. I could shoot my frail bark as an arrow so It was she who most loved her rollicking bor, Yet touch not a stone with my little canoe.
At the age when the lad thinks most of his Down through the rapids, and over the
And she looked just the same, to me in my I steered my canoe with a rough hickory pole;
dream, Still down to the eddies so deep, clear and As when watching me splash in that beauticalm,
ful stream; That pebbles two fathoms appeared but a But, the moment my dream seemed perfect Where the tall willow trees that grew on the
and true, shore
Mary noved her left arm and swamped my Appeared roots to sky and tops down below.
It is not very long
In story or song,
All day the shots sped O'er the field which the foeman was winning. And yonder a hillock
Ringed round with the dead, Marked the spot of its fatal beginning. A battery planted
Begrimed o'er with smoke,
The dead stillness broke
Not a man stood to tell
On the spot where he fell,
The fuse that had called
Whose strong sinews had palled
Bleeding and pale,
It shall bear them our tale,
A horseman sprang forth,
Is the land of my birth,
Quick down on your knee,
At the wounded like thee,
And the gaze eye to eye
On this gore-covered sod,
Shall give nerve to my arm as I wield it,
Goes up to its God,
And my quarrel is just,
Has never seen rust,
And thy place vaunting foe?
That my spirit shall know
Great rolling drops lave;
Knows the eye of the brave,
On the service-browned hand,
Long long ago,
Yet a brother to know
But proud hate
'Neath the black smoking lide He dug up the earth wet with blood, And there laid his own sword,
With his foes by its side
If a moral it read,
Has more than its meed
A cordial good cheer,
Here's a tear,
MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. MRS. LOU BEDFORD's first work, A Vision and Other Poems, was published in 1881, and by permission was re-produced in London. This volume elicited many fine enconiums from such men as Oliver Wendell Holmes, Longfellow, and Paul Hayne. In 1888 appeared
But surely morning, with its rosy light
breastI watch the sun declining to the west, Rejoicing that the Evening time is come!
MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. Gathered Leaves, a very fine collection of her later poems. This lady has had six children three sons grown to manhood reside in Dallas, Texas; the youngest child and only living daughter is attending college. The other two children, a grown daughter and son, with their father, are resting under the shadow of the trees." Personally Mrs. Bedford is of medium height and size, with black hair slightly threaded with gray, and dark-brown eyes. The lady is still a resident of Dallas.
NOTHING BUT LEAVES. How sad, how very sad it would be,
When the toils of life shall be done, And we shall ascend above the sky
To meet the Eternal One,
Green, crimson, and golden, too, -
And glistening with morning dew;
Tho' I've labored and sorrowed here;
In a brighter, happier sphere; But 0, I feel that I have no sheaves Have naught but a bundle of fading leaves. Methinks, perchance, the Savior will look
At my wayworn, bleeding feet, And a gentle smile of pity and love
My averted eyes will meet; That he'll not condemn tho' I bear no
And remembereth we are dust;
In His Righteousness to trust;
And long for the hour of rest;
On my loving Savior's breast;
And trust in Thy grace alone;
All my duties, one by one,
EVENING TIME BEST. There are who say that evening time is best When ev'rything in Nature sinks to rest;
Altho' the morning hour is passing fair, With warmth and beauty springing every
where, And Hope a-brooding in the balmy air, And drowning with glad music anxious
Pass outward, one by one;
Until, perchance, 'tis gone;
Pass outward, one by one;
Until they, too, are flown;
EXTRACTS FROM GATHERED LEAVES
THE POET'S SONGS. Immortal and pure, methinks that Song
Is an angel that walks the world of men; And every emotion, deep and strong,
Tells of her presence, herself unseen; And the Poet, chosen and set apart
To give true voice to that sacred Guest, Must feel, if he'd stir the great world's heart The sting of the thorn in his own breast.
That trembles to the Poet's lyre,
Is caught up by the heavenly choir;
NEW YEAR'S THOUGHTS.
Whence we gaze far out to sea,
Then dance back laughingly;
A grain of the gleaming sand,
EXTRACTS FROM A VISION.
From o'er the hills That lie so dark against the southern sky, Float gentle zephyrs that, through all the day Have wandered 'mid the orange groves, o'er
beds Of violets, and by the cool, clear streams; And now they come, bearing upon their
THE POET'S HOME,
trees, Vales, mountains cataracts, its glorious
views; Its streams, lakes, bays, straits, oceans, gulfs
Dawn, Parting the sable curtains Night had draped About the gorgeous couch where Nature
slept, Came up the eastern stair. Awhile she paus
ed Upon the threshold; but the star, that
gleam'd So brightly on her forehead, heralded The full-orbed day; the darkness backward
swept, And Morning flashed her beams upon the
THE WIND Softly the evening breeze
Is coming now –
Fanning my brow:
No one can tell;
Through shady dell;
'Mid waving corn: Or where Aurora fair
Awakes the mora –
Among the pines:
And flow'rs, and vines:
Its bound'ry trace!
MRS. MARY A. A.SENTER. Borx: GREAT FALLS, N, H., SEPT. 1, 1835. Tais lady was educated at New Haven, Conn., and at Northfield, N. H. Her father was a noted Methodist clergyman. She married
A form that seem'd like a truant from heaven, And that never sinn'd, but to be forgiven. Though death was so stern, he left the trace Of a holy smile on her calm white face; Methinks 'twas a shade that the spirit had cast As away from that temple so lovely it pass'd.
IT MATTERS NOT.
Fall in my life's short day,
Burst from my lips alway.
And darkness gathers now,
My weary aching brow.
That I must journey through,
Or Him who suffered too.
Its glitter nor its show,
I all your sorrows know.
To this vain world of sin,
And Jesus reigns within.
I stand on death's lone shore,
To gently bear me o'er.
MRS. MARY A. A. SENTER, E. L. Senter, a speculator, and now resides in the town of Exeter, N. H. The poems of Mrs. Senter are distinguished for their classic beauty, deep feeling, and delicate descriptive power.
THE DYING GIRL. Her spirit was leaving its temple of clay, And on wings of purity vanished away, While she raised her hand in the gesture of prayer,
[there. That the God of Heaven would welcome it And the tears roll'd down her cheek of snow, As she murmur'd it forth in accents so low, That you saw but the motion ber pale lips
gave, While her bosom heaved like a swelling wave. And her white hands shook as she held them
in air, And like autumn leaves they seem'd wither
ing there, Till like autumn leaves they fell to rest, Oo a pulseless heart and silent breast. And thus death had won for its chamber so
dark, With an arrow that ne'er had miss'd its mark,
WILT THOU COME NOT THEN? When at last the twilight falleth,
And the shadows come apace, And around me friendship calleth, Many a dear familiar face,
Wilt thou come not then? When my life has almost drifted
To the far-off golden shore, Ere the curtain is uplifted, Hiding heaven never more,
Wilt thou come not then? When my eyes with earnest pleading,
Look for those that are most dear, As my life is fast receding, Shall I know that thou art near?
Wilt thou come not then? Ere my voice is hushed forever,
And my eyes are closed for aye, Ere my hands can clasp thine never, Ere the angels bear away,
Wilt thou come not then? Must the golden bowl be broken,
And the vale of shadow past, Ere I hear the dear word spoken, Saying I have come at last?
I shall see thee then!