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JULIA H. THAYER. But raging hurricanes, in tumult hurled,

And blasting winds and tempests are her boast. BORN: KEESEVILLE, N. Y.

With thundering whir of ebon wings,from coast AT the age of ten Julia H. Thayer removed To coast they fly. by might resistless whirlcd. I with her parents to the state of Illinois, where | Then in their central calm betimes are furled, she has since resided as pupil and teacher

And rest content, for lo! a new-born host in her father's school, the Chicago Female

Of stronger life and fresher bloom arise. College, at Morgan Park. She first published | Even thus have all the greatest eras wrought her verses anonymously, but since 1870 until

Those changes that bave made our earth so the present time the productions of her pen,

wise, chiefly poetical, have appeared in various pa-Weak doubting heart receive the lesson taught, pers and pericicals under her own name. She Beyond each storm of grief a blessing lies, has received flattering inducements to write

Becalmed within the center of God's thought.

THE ISLAND SPRING.
Far from sbore, where salt seas only

Hurl white storms of angry foam,
Stands an Island, bleak and lonely,

Banished from earth's sylvan home.
Not a blade of floweret tender

Nestles to its rocky breast
Through the warmth of summer splendor,

Into wakening life caressed.
But as pure as from the mountain

Where the sweetest waters start,
Lol a sparkling crystal fountain

Gushes from its barren heart;
Fresh and clear, though all surrounded

By the briny waters wide,
Never once its laugh confounded

By the hostile, dashing tide;
Singing always with a spirit

Envying not the high-born spring:
Satisfied to just inherit

Dreams of wayside blossoming.
Canst thou recognize the presage,

O my heart, with better trust?
Canst thou read a heavenly message

On this tablet of the dust?

JULIA H. THAYER. prose, but is most devoted to the muse. She is seen at her best in religious poems and simple lyrics.

Miss Thayer is somewhat below medium heigbt, has dark curling hair, regular features and gray eyes. Upon the third fiuger of her left hand is a plain gold ring-to her it is priceless, being the first piece of precious metal that she received for one of her poems. Miss Thayer is not only a writer of lyrical poetry, but occasionally writes prose, and is also a fine musician. There is a conscientious fidelity in Miss Thayer's work, and to her the glorious West brings a laurel wreath that will not fade.

God will bid a fount of gladness

Spring from out thy rock-bound soul, Free from every tone of sadness,

Though wild seas around thee roll. Thou shalt sing the same glad measures

Caroled in earth's fairest bowers, Though bereft of life's green pleasures

And a world of dewy flowers.

COBWEBS.
Meshes touched with the morning-mist,
Sheer enough for the ghosts of fairies;
Gossamer forms that the vapor kissed
To the verge of a dream as light as the air is;
Discs of pearl from the fences that swing;
Glittering patches of veiling drawn over

RESPICE FINEM.
Oh not her gentle, silent agents most
Doth Nature use to purify the world,

Meadow-grasses where pight-damps cling; . Come, Pegasus, come," I go calling -
Silvery drapings that frost the clover;

No whinnies send welcome reply;

Instead comes an impish voice bawling: Thin transparencies seeking to screen

The help that you'll get's in your eye. Deep, dark hollows, and clefts unsightly, Where diamonds, thrilling with liquid sheen, Peg's put out to pasture – no lying Tremble in nets that hold them lightly.

He told me to say, if you came,

'Twas rather too warm to be flying Lone and deserted each shining abode

Through regions no cooler than flame." Splendor bas driven the tenants away: Gifts of such beauty seem illy bestowed

"I will walk to the top of the mountain," On ugly black spiders that live by prey.

I cry, in the heat of despair:

One draught from the Castalian fountain Yet, after all, what is man himself

Will make fancy light as the air.” But just such an ogre, who loves to subsist On his unwary brother, on plunder and pelf, I reach, with much toiling, the summit, In this web of a world that hangs in the mist? | And make for the spring that's near by,

When the wretched imp jeers: You don't

come it,
SUBMISSION.

The well of the Muses is dry.
Not on seas of wild commotion,
When the crazy tempest raves,

They, skylarking Nine, with Apollo,
And the savage voice of Ocean

Are off to their summer resort,
Challenges his clamoring caves.

Nice, breezy Olympus, where follow

No mortals, whatever their sort."
Not on such the mirrored glory
Of the great protecting sky;

Indignant, abashed and scarce seeing,
Not a billow tells the story

I grope down the mountain again,
In reflective sympathy.

My only consoling thought being

The gods are as idle as men.
Even when, in broken spirit,
Waves but sigh along the shore

MISSING.
Still their motion must inherit
Shattered, shifting lights --- no more.

Late at night I saw the Shepherd

Toiling slow along the hill, But, when every sound is muffled,

Though the flock below were gathered And repose, as calm as death,

In the fold so warm and still.
Rests upon a sea unruffled

On His face I saw the anguish,
By a faint, disturbing breath,

In His locks the drops of night,
Then the image of its glory

As He searched the misty valleys,
Answers all the watching sky;

As He climbed the frosty hight.
Humbled waves repeat the story

Just one tender lamb was missing
In adoring ecstacy.

When He called them all by name;

While the others heard and followed, AN APOLOGY.

This one only never came. * Please send us some Thanksgiving verses,"

Oft his voice rang thro' the darkness The editor writes in July,

Of that long, long night of pain; While Sol's very hottest of curses

Oft He vainly paused to listen The mercury's passions defy.

For an answering tone again. I wipe the warm dews from my forehead,

Far away the truant, sleeping And tear, like a poet, my hair,

By the chasm of Despair, And vow that, at least, it is horrid

Lay, unconscious of its danger, To sit in this thrice-heated glare

Shivering in the mountain-air. And write up the pudding and turkey

But at last the Shepherd found itAnd hearty cold-weathery things-

Found it ere in sleep it diedBah! mental dyspepsia makes murky

Took it in His loving bosom, My brain unprovided with wings.

And His soul was satisfied. To the foot of Parnassus I wander

Then I saw the Eastern spaces To borrow the famed winged steed

Part before a shining throng, Full conscious that Mother Goose's gander

And the golden dome of morning Is more apropos to my need.

Seemed to shatter into song.

MRS. C. M. H. WRIGHT. Now, when we cat our Christmas sweets,

And beautiful presents receive,
BORN ABOUT 1836.

Let us not forget that some boys and girls Mrs. WRIGHT has written for the local press

Are hungry and cold this Christmas Eve.

Are hungr for the past twenty-five years, and her poems have always been readily accepted. She bas

SORROW IN EVERY HEART. also furnished locals to the Belvidere Standard for a still longer period, in addition to weekly

There is sorrow in every heart on earth contributions to numerous other newspapers.

No mortal can hope to be free. Naturally of a conscientious and retiring dis

And others have seen their idols laid low position, Mrs. Wright is averse to having her

Alike with you and with me. name placed as prominently before the public

The cup our neighbor is drinking to-day, as it undoubtedly deserves.

Draining to the dregs of Sorrow,

May come to us as it came to them,
THERE'S REST AT LAST.

To quaff it off to-morrow.
Rest for the old and infirm,

We lay our choicest treasures down,
Rest for the weary and worn,

The while our hearts are breaking :
Rest for the halt and the lame,

And in our woe we'll nigh forget,
Rest for the worn out frame.

What other hearts are aching.
Rest for the weak and oppressed,
Rest for the sick and distressed,

What though our darlings still and cold,
Rest for the sorrowing ones,

Sleep neath the nodding daises ;

When Jesus wakes his jewels up
Rest when life's work is done.

They'll rise to sing his praises.
Rest for the poor tired feet,
Rest that is pure and sweet,

And then how sweet 'twill be to feel,
Rest from life's stormy blasts,

When .united round His throne
Rest in Heaven at last.

Through affliction Christ was leading us,
Rest on that beautiful shore,

To our bright eternal home.
When life's fitful dream is o'er,

'Tis the common lot of all mankind
Sweet rest, coming sure and fast,

Each in their turn to suffer pain
There's rest, there's rest at last.

But he who often sows in tears,
Rest from all toil and strife,

Shall reap in joy again.
Rest from the turmoils of life,
Rest when the still hands press

SHE COULD NOT BE SELFISH.
Close o'er the pulseless breast.

I wouldn't be selfish like some girls I know,

And be wishing for everything nice on the A CHRISTMAS RHYME FOR THE LITTLE

tree, ONES.

Of course I want something, a dolman perhaps

And a few more things, would satisfy me. A poor little girl with a tattered gown One beautiful Christmas night,

I own I've been wanting a book and some lace, Crept up to a window large and wide

O yes! and some mittens, a scarf and a ring, And feasted her eyes on the sight.

Besides there's that necklace I've doted upon, A table was spread with Christmas pies,

And a cage with a pert little bird that will And all that was good to eat;

sing. While she stood shivering and cold without That isn't much I am sure, but I almost forgot No shoes to cover her feet.

A set of new furs and a stylish new hat, A kind old man saw the dear little face

That will quite eclipse the Browns and the Pressel elose to the window pane:

Jones, And, snatching her up in his great strong arms

With a long sweeping feather, and all of that. Strode up to the door and walked in.

Yes! I'd like some slippers and a dainty hood, A bevy of children, gathered around,

Which would be the envy of all the town, To take in the curious sight;

And I am sure to get, I hope so at least, Some gave her candy, and some gave buns,

A pearl card case and blue silk gown. Till the little girl cried with deligbt.

A box of perfumery and a pair of kid gloves That night she slept in a soft warm bed,

With a nice gold watch would come in very And never knew hunger more,

good, For the man who picked up the starving waif, But I don't want everything as some girls do. Was a friend to the needy and poor.

l I cannot be selfish-I never, never could.

TEMPERANCE RECITATION. M. F. BRADSTREET-HAUSEN Red Ribbon, do you ask why I wear it,

BORN: ULYSSES, N. Y., JULY 27, 1841. Why nothing can be more plain

For several years this lady followed the pre Just simply to say to my neighbor

fession of a teacher, but in 1866 she resigne That I'm not a drinking man.

her position in the Polo public school, an I've signed the pledge over and over,

was united in marriage with Charles Hauser And broke it, I blush to coniess,

Jr., on June 27. Mrs. Hausen (Mary F. Brad But, with this little pleasant reminder, street hegan writing at the early age of twelve

I can't drink with this on my breast. when her essays were highly complimented a I've tried to look the other way,

school. During the war she wrote several fin

pieces cherished by friends. In person she i And edge my way up to the bar.

pleasing, with a dignified manner that repel But it is sure to flash up in my face,

all false curiosity. She is something of ar The bright little guiding star.

artist, her skill for figures being great. A To be sure it is but a trifle,

Asiatic Scene in oil, and Fruit and Flower This bit of red ribbon I wear,

in watercolors are her best efforts. She has But our life is made up of trifles,

also a painting in oil of her Alma Mater And each trifle some weight that bear. which is finely executed. Of late she has writ It is but a trifle this drinking

ten much, from which the following selection:

are made. Their artistic accuracy and ear A little weak ale now and then;

nestness make them well worth reading. Yet it leads to results most disastrous,

Often ruining the mightiest of men.
These trifles, I happen to notice

LIFE.
Soon alarming proportions assume
And in order to steer clear of breakers,

Ah! me, who has not asked the question why

We live and labor in the vineyard here, We should mind all these trifling things.

And what awaits and what shall make them Besides the girls look more kindly,

clear; A fact which I'm happy to note,

The mystic shadow that around us lie. And if the dear creatures will back us Life came to us – we might have passed it by, We'll wipe this vile whisky stain out. Had we a choice and known the grief of

tear, THE DRUNKARD'S BOY.

The weight of years, the living fraught with Why is it my school mates all shun me;

fear. And call me a poor worthless brat.

But lo! it came unsought to you and I. Do they think I have not enough sorrow, And so the short, brief stretch of fleeting time

That they scorn me, and treat me like that. | Uniting soul and body here between It is not enough I must go shivering,

The birth and death answereth this to me. And starved aud beaten at home,

Life findeth here beginning, and sublime, That they jostle and push me so rudely,

And infinite it reacheth through, unseen, Must I travel life's journey alone?

Within the vale to all eternity.
Is there not one eye left to pity
One heart in sympathy to beat;

THE THRASHING HUM.
One hand in mercy to lead me,

The dear, old hum! I hear it still To guide these poor wandering feet.

The whir and song the music trill Am I to blame that my father

It comes adown the maze of years Loves whisky more than the right.

The dead life lives again in tears Must I bear his kicks and his crimes,

And visions wake the olden thrill. And the scorn of the world alike?

'Mid golden fields anear the hill

By rippling rivulet and rill, Is there a being above as they tell me

A child stoops low and listening hears All powerful in goodness and love;

The dear, old hum. Who is able to give, or take from us,

Her wee hands clasping to the fill 0, is there such a being above?

The autumn blooms she lingers till If so, why does he not help me;

The echoes die, Ah! fadeless cheers Why do I not hear his loved voice?

Within your borderline she peers One look or one word, of kindness,

And hears again in ev'ning's chill Would make this poor lone heart rejoice.

The dear, old hum.

MINNIE ADELLA HAUSEN. BORN: FRANKLIN GROVE, ILL., APRIL 24 1867 MISSIE HAUSEN has written poetry from an early age, and the press has extended to her many marks of appreciation. Her poems are sympathetic, true and earnest. She has issued her longest poem in pamphlet form, and

From childhood's rosied,vanished bounds

Robed in their vesture fair:
White, shining gems and cypress mounds

Whispers of love and prayer.
The long, dead years, the silent years,

White with the buds of May.
Empearled in silv'ry floods of tears,
Enshrined in love that long endears

Seem in their old array,
And voices that once scarcely hears

Speak in the fading day.
The twilight comes with silence sweet,

Gray are the hills and cold;
My dreamy thoughts in concord meet
And tender tales of love repeat,

Tales that are never old.
And candle-light with elfin feet

Flits from the clouds of gold.

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THE ISLES OF SHOALS.

TO CELIA THAXTER. A grey-tinged sky above the mist and sea; Bare, shoreward rocks and tangled weeds in

drifts; Lone, sea-lost shells repeating on the clifts The ceaseless sound of ocean's euphony: A fresh sea-breeze; low voices calling me;

The long, dim light, in strange and shifts 'Twixt dark and light, which altern pales

and lifts And shades the sea in half-felt mystery; So close thy songs to chords of sea and sky I can not part the wild, sweet place from

thee Nor tear the tendrils from thy casement

panes. The loons send forth their almost human cry, The lamps shine out on waters far from me, The winds are low-I hear them in thy

strains.

MINNIE ADELLA HAUSEN. | hopes to have a volume of poems ready for

publication in 1890. In person she is tall and interesting, with brown hair and eyes. Through the kindness of friends she has laid a foundation of a geological collection.

AT CANDLE-LIGHT.
A mellow glint of golden light

Pales in the western sky;
The banners of the gentle night
O'erwave each distant, purple height

Lone where the wild winds sigh
As sweeping o'er the winter white

Echoing long they die.
Within the depths of ambered blue

Bright is the ev'ning star;
A ladder lit with love's sweet hue
To tender thoughts of myrtled rue

Dear from the years afar;
And, Jacob-like, I looking, too,

Fathom the mortal bar.
And on the distant, reaching rounds

Angels of light and fair
Are bringing back old sights and sounds

MUNICH.
Afar through airy vails of amethyst

The Alps of Tyrol wear their hoods of snow, Above the plain where Isar's waters flow And vanished in the cloud-white waves of

mist. There where the rays of sunlight gleam and

glist The German music wakes its weal and woe

In chords of grandeur that so thrill and glow Methinks the mountains almost stoop to list. From out the west where golden sunsets

burn Their lighted candles at the death of day The breaths of forest scent the breeze

and gale. And far away the eye can clear discern The towers and spires of Frauen Kirche gray

Aloft o'er Munich, Munich of the vale.

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