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SIX THOUSAND YEARS AGO.

In Eden's bowers a sinless pair
Was placed by God below,
Monarchs of earth, and sea and air
Six thousand years ago.

And fadeless groves of fruitage fair
Through paradse did grow;

The tree of life was blooming there
Six thousand years ago.
No pestilence at noonday stalked
With poisoned shaft and bow,
Nor fell disease in darkness walked
Six thousand years ago.

No winter frost, no summer blight,
Laid withering herbage low;
No tempest cloud obscured the light
Six thousand years ago.

No sickness, sorrow, death nor pain
Caused tears of grief to flow;
No graves were heaped above the slain
Six thousand years ago.

'Twas sin that palled the world in gloom, Made earth a wild of woe,

And ope'd for man the grave and tomb,
Six thousand years age.

But Christ will come in him we trust,
And crowns of life bestow;
Regain the Eden that was lost

Six thousand years ago.

God's paradise shall bloom once more,
And cloudless skies shall glow
O'er heaven-blest scenes, as once before,
Six thousand years ago.

That restitution, Lord, we wait,
Though circling years move slow,
Since exiled from our blest estate
Six thousand years ago.

PEOPLE WILL TALK.

We may get through the world, but 'twill be very slow,

If we listen to all that is said as we go;

We'll be worried, and fretted and kept in a

stew,

For meddlesome tongues will have something to do;

For people will talk.

If quiet and modest, you'll have it presumed
That your humble position is only assumed;
You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, or else
you're a fool,

But don't get excited, keep perfectly cool;
For people will talk.

If generous and noble, they'll vent out their spleen,

You'll hear some loud hints that you're sel

fish and mean;

If upright and honest, and fair as the day,

They'll call you a rogue in a sly, sneaking

way;

For people will talk:

And then if you show the least boldness of heart,

Or a slight inclination to take your own part, They will call you an upstart, conceited and vain,

But keep straight ahead,don't stop to explain; For people will talk.

If threadbare your dress, or old-fashioned your hat,

Some one will surely take notice of that, And hint rather strong you can't pay your way,

But don't get excited whatever they say;

For people will talk.

If you dress in the fashion don't think to es

cape,

For they criticise then in a different shape: You're ahead of your means, or you're tailor's unpaid,

But mind your own business, there's naught to be made;

For people will talk.

Now the best way to do, is to do as you please, For your mind, if you have one, will then be at ease;

Of course you will meet with all sorts of abuse,

But don't think to stop them, it ain't any use; For people will talk.

DELUSION.

We madly follow pleasure,
The phantom of a day;
We dance to folly's measure

While with remorse we pay.
We flatter those above us,
Their frailties imitate,
Neglecting friends who love us
To fawn on those we hate.
Each has his beau ideal

And each deplores his lot; We overlook the real

In search of what is not. We hear the voice of reason Resolve and hesitate; Defer then for a season

And heed it when too late. While happiness pursuing

O'er land and sea we roam; The goddess thus we're wooing Is waiting us at home. Still counting on the morrow, We reach the end at last; Then worlds would give to borrow One moment from the past.

THE LIFE WEB.

The lattice is open, the roses nod
Over the casement gray;

The web is there with the silken floss;
A fair hand tosses the shuttle across,
And a bird sings over the way.

The sun mounts high, and the roses fade;
Unheeded falls the song;

The pattern is still for the weaver spread,
But the work is marred by the tangled thread;
Life's noon is dull and long.

The thread is broken, the shuttle is still,

The worker has gone away;

The lattice is closed for the hours of rest,
And the crimson dies in the darkening west;

So ends a wearisome day.

Ah, the web is there with its broken threads

Its tangled skein, and all;

But the bird has flown and the snow lies

deep;

The worker is sleeping her last long sleep

Under the pure white pall.

VOICELESS.

If I could sweep these mists of life away, Then stand where God omnipotent would

speak,

And grasp his thought and feel the pulse of

power

But when I strive earth binds me, helpless,

weak.

If I could paint the picture of a soul -

A thought creation, wondrous, infiniteThe beauty of God's image shadow forth, The coming glories that our spirits wait; If nerves of fingers could but strike the chords

That nature whispers in the ear of thought; The melody of ocean's chant, winds wail;

Some echo from the crystal sea be caught.
My soul is dumb! I broke the golden pen;
I hid my brush and colors from my sight;

I swept the organ keys in one wild cry,
And bowed my head amid a darksome night.

LEGEND OF THE PINE.
EXTRACT.

When all the battles in heaven were o'er,
And Lucifer cast into hell,

The victors gathered the crowns and harps
Of the angels that sinned and fell.
The broken fragments were ground to dust
And hid in the rocks of the earth;
The strings of the harps, without a hand
To give to their music birth,

God gathered together and gave them all,

As leaves to the pine tree cold,

But the wroughten band that held them fast Was hid with the crowns of gold.

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JOHN BLAKEMORE TULLIS.

BORN: MARSHALL, TEXAS, DEC. 31, 1866. SINCE 1883 the poems of Mr. Tullis have appeared in the local papers of Georgia,

JOHN BLAKEMORE TULLIS.

Texas and Louisiana. He follows the occupation of a druggist at the place of his birth.

FOND OF MUSIC.

Fond of music, fond of singing,

Music, music, everywhere,

Time's on moment pinions winging,

Downy music all the year.

Trees are preachers, leaves are sermons,
Buds are texts of richest kind;
Dew is dropping-sweet as Hermon's,
From them to enrich the mind.
Plants can sing, and sing so sweetly,
Half a mimic I can stand;
Listen, listen - won completely,
With the music of the strand.
Ocean lifts its hollow thunder,
Diapasons swell and die;

I can hearken, pause, and wonder,
Music's loving child am I.
Islands sing,-on coral seated,
Continents accompany;-
Harmony is thus completed,
Swelling, thrilling to the sky.
Brooklets sing to rivers chanting,
Bounding to them night and day;

Blest in blessing-both are panting
For the ocean far away.

Rest and cadence-journey ended,
(For hereafter is their aim;)

Anxious ever to be blended,

With the source from whence they came.

Plants are musicians nightly,

Requiems they sing of day;

Time and tune they picture brightly,
One incessant sparkling lay.

Seasons warble in their courses,
Dissonance they never try;

Light and air and beat their forces
Which on passive earth they ply.
Air is music-made of gasses,
Dreadful, separate in lay:

Blended, though of diverse classes,
Life-inspiring is their sway.

Providence is music ever,

Intervals are incidents;

Chords and conchords-erring - never,

Well resolv'd are all events.

Nature is a school of singing,

Creatures are impell'd with joy;

Walking, swimming, creeping, winging,
Harmony is their employ.

TO A ROSE.

Fair emblem of beauty and health,
Alluring and pleasing the eye;
Deceptive, like riches and wealth,
That makes themselves pinions to fly.

To-day, thou art luxury's self;

To-morrow, the hand of decay,

As ruthless robber of self,

Will spoil thee or snatch thee away.

I, yesterday, saw thee peep out

Thy prison-bud, bristled with green;

I answered, a rose, without doubt,
The color of those I have seen.
Then thou was promise display'd,
With sweetness commingl'd and blent;
Did'st glisten with hope in the shade,
Without either blemish or rent.
But thou hast a thorn I discover,
Whoever dare touch thee, beware:
Or friend or acquaintance or lover,
'Neath beauty and sweetness a snare.
Fair emblem of beauty and health,
So blooming and dulcet and gay,
The spoiler will take thee by stealth,
Life's luxury is but a day.
Man's life is in flowers portrayed,

For youth is the bud, full of scent;
And manhood the flower display'd,

With thorns and with sorrows all rent.

MRS. KATE T. WOODS.

BORN: PEEKSKILL, N. Y.

THIS writer has published some sixteen volumes of prose, and numerous poems. She

MRS. KATE TANNATT WOODS.

is the wife of Col. George H. Woods, of Salem, Mass., where she now resides.

DAN'S WIFE.

Up in early morning light,

Sweeping, dusting, "setting right,"
Oiling all the household springs,
Sewing buttons, tying strings,
Telling Bridget what to do,

Mending rips in Johnny's shoe,
Running up and down the stair,
Tying baby in his chair,

Cutting meat and spreading bread,
Dishing out so much per head,
Eating as she can, by chance,

Giving husband kindly glance,

Toiling, working, busy life,
..Smart woman,

Dan's wife."

Dan comes home at fall of night,
Home so cheerful, neat and bright,
Children meet him at the door,
Pull him in and look him o'er,
Wife asks how the work has gone?"
"Busy times with us at home!"
Supper done - Dan reads at ease,
Happy Dan, but one to please.

Up stairs, tossing to and fro,
Fever holds the woman low,
Children wander, free to play,
When and where they will to-day.
Bridget loiters - dinner's cold,
Dan looks anxious, cross and old;
Household screws are out of place,
Lacking one dear, patient face;
Steady hand-so weak, but true-
Hands that knew just what to do,
Never knowing rest or play,
Folded now-and laid away;

Work of six, in one short life.
Shattered woman,
Dan's wife.

1

445

MRS. ANNIE P. OLIN. BORN: DE RUYTER, N.Y., MARCH 31, 1833. AFTER receiving her education this lady taught school for a while, and subsequently was married to H. S. Olin. Her poems have received publication in the local press.

WELCOME CHILDREN.

Welcome children, happy children,
Come from busy toil or play,
Here to cheer us by your presence,
All for you this picnic day.
Don't you think the birds are happy
Singing from the boughs so high;
Not as blithe as you, our children,

Nor so artless - watch them fly!
Then, how fly your thoughts, the echoes
Coming from your store of mind,
And these prompting grow to motives
"Till your character we find.

MORTIMER CRANE BROWN.

BORN: ROME, N.Y., SEPT. 11, 1857. WHILE following alternately the occupation of farming and teaching, Mr. Brown occasionally finds time to court the muse, and his pro

MORTIMER CRANE BROWN.

ductions have been published in the Yankee Blade, Good Housekeeping, and the local papers generally. Mr. Brown is now living in South Dakota, at Beresford.

AUTUMN DREAMS. When the maples turn to crimson 'Neath the fingers of the frost, When the gardens and the meadows All their summer bloom have lost; When from off the lowland marshes Blue ethereal vapors rise, And a dreamy haze is floating,

Thro' the mellow, sunlit skies.Then I know the year is dying, Soon the summer will be dead;

I can trace it in the flying

Of the black crows overhead.

I can hear it in the rustle

Of the dead leaves, as I pass,

And the south wind's plaintive sighing
Thro' the dry and withered grass.
Ah, 'tis then I love to wander,

Wander idly and alone;

Listening to the solemn music

Of sweet nature's undertone; Wrapt in thoughts I cannot utter,

Dreams my tongue cannot express, Dreams that match the autumn's sadness In their longing tenderness.

Thoughts of friends my heart hath cherished
In the summer days gone by;

Hopes that all too soon have perished,
E'en as summer blossoms die.
Luckless plans and vain ambitions,
Stranded, long ere summer's prime,
Buried, as will be the flowers,

'Neath the winter-snows of time.

Yet, altho' my thoughts are sadder
Than in summer's wealth of bloom,
'Tis a sadness that makes better,
And is not akin to gloom.
Ah, the human heart seems purer,
Much of earth's defilement lost,
When the maple turns to crimson
'Neath the fingers of the frost.

AFTER.

After the burning heat of day,

After the stifling, dusty way,

After the weary hours of strife

That dim the eye and try the heart,

Cometh the restful, cooling breeze,

Cometh the dewy touch of trees,

Where balmy fragrance soothes the brow,
And bids each throbbing pain depart.

After the round of household cares,
The daily cross each mother bears,
After the thickly crowded hours

That leave no time to rest or pray,
Cometh the evening, calm and sweet,
Cometh the tread of home-bound feet,
And clinging clasp of loving arms,
Beguiling every care away.

After the battle-field of life,
After the hours with danger rife,
After the weary, uphill toil

That marks each day of life below
Cometh a certain recompense,
Cometh the soul's inheritance,

The goodly land where crystal streams Through verdant meadows gently flow.

LULLABY.

EXTRACT.

Evening shadows, sweetly falling, Lull the little one to sleep,

And the night bird's gentle calling Echoes through the silence deep. Sleep, my baby, do not fear,

Mother is beside thee,

Holy angels hover near,

Harm cannot betide thee.