JULIA H. THAYER.

BORN: KEESEVILLE, N. Y.

AT the age of ten Julia H. Thayer removed with her parents to the state of Illinois, where she has since resided as pupil and teacher in her father's school, the Chicago Female College, at Morgan Park. She first published her verses anonymously, but since 1870 until the present time the productions of her pen, chiefly poetical, have appeared in various papers and pericdicals under her own name. She has received flattering inducements to write

She

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

Miss Thayer is somewhat below medium height, has dark curling hair, regular features and gray eyes. Upon the third finger 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.

RESPICE FINEM.

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

47

But raging hurricanes, in tumult hurled,
And blasting winds and tempests are her boast.
With thundering whir of ebon wings, from coast
To coast they fly, by might resistless whirled,
Then in their central calm betimes are furled,
And rest content, for lo! a new-born host
Of stronger life and fresher bloom arise.
Even thus have all the greatest eras wrought
Those changes that have made our earth so
wise.

Weak doubting heart receive the lesson taught,
Beyond each storm of grief a blessing lies,
Becalmed within the center of God's thought.

THE ISLAND SPRING.

Far from shore, 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,
Lo! 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?

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

Meadow-grasses where night-damps cling;
Silvery drapings that frost the clover;

Thin transparencies seeking to screen
Deep, dark hollows, and clefts unsightly,
Where diamonds, thrilling with liquid sheen,
Tremble in nets that hold them lightly.
Lone and deserted each shining abode -
Splendor has driven the tenants away:
Gifts of such beauty seem illy bestowed
On ugly black spiders that live by prey.
Yet, after all, what is man himself
But just such an ogre, who loves to subsist
On his unwary brother, on plunder and pelf,
In this web of a world that hangs in the mist?

64

SUBMISSION.

Not on seas of wild commotion,

When the crazy tempest raves,
And the savage voice of Ocean
Challenges his clamoring caves.
Not on such the mirrored glory

Of the great protecting sky;
Not a billow tells the story
In reflective sympathy.
Even when, in broken spirit,

Waves but sigh along the shore
Still their motion must inherit
Shattered, shifting lights- no more.

But, when every sound is muffled,
And repose, as calm as death,
Rests upon a sea unruffled

By a faint, disturbing breath,

Then the image of its glory

Answers all the watching sky; Humbled waves repeat the story In adoring ecstacy.

AN APOLOGY.

Please send us some Thanksgiving verses," The editor writes in July,

While Sol's very hottest of curses

The mercury's passions defy.

I wipe the warm dews from my forehead,
And tear, like a poet, my hair,

And vow that, at least, it is horrid
To sit in this thrice-heated glare
And write up the pudding and turkey
And hearty cold-weathery things--
Bah! mental dyspepsia makes murky
My brain unprovided with wings.

To the foot of Parnassus I wander
To borrow the famed winged steed
Full conscious that Mother Goose's gander
Is more apropos to my need.

"Come, Pegasus, come," I go calling-
No whinnies send welcome reply;
Instead comes an impish voice bawling:
The help that you'll get's in your eye.
"Peg's put out to pasture- no lying-
He told me to say, if you came,
"Twas rather too warm to be flying
Through regions no cooler than flame."
..I will walk to the top of the mountain,"
I cry, in the heat of despair:
"One draught from the Castalian fountain
Will make fancy light as the air."

I reach, with much toiling, the summit,
And make for the spring that's near by,
When the wretched imp jeers: "You don't
come it,

Late at night I saw the Shepherd
Toiling slow along the hill,
Though the flock below were gathered
In the fold so warm and still.

On His face I saw the anguish,
In His locks the drops of night,
As He searched the misty valleys,
As He climbed the frosty hight.

Just one tender lamb was missing

When He called them all by name; While the others heard and followed, This one only never came.

Oft his voice rang thro' the darkness
Of that long, long night of pain;
Oft He vainly paused to listen
For an answering tone again.

Far away the truant, sleeping
By the chasm of Despair,
Lay, unconscious of its danger,
Shivering in the mountain-air.
But at last the Shepherd found it-
Found it cre in sleep it died--
Took it in His loving bosom,
And His soul was satisfied.

Then I saw the Eastern spaces
Part before a shining throng,
And the golden dome of morning
Seemed to shatter into song.

MRS. C. M. H. WRIGHT.

BORN ABOUT 1836.

MRS. WRIGHT has written for the local press for the past twenty-five years, and her poems have always been readily accepted. She has also furnished locals to the Belvidere Standard for a still longer period, in addition to weekly contributions to numerous other newspapers. Naturally of a conscientious and retiring disposition, Mrs. Wright is averse to having her name placed as prominently before the public as it undoubtedly deserves.

THERE'S REST AT LAST.
Rest for the old and infirm,
Rest for the weary and worn,
Rest for the halt and the lame,
Rest for the worn out frame.
Rest for the weak and oppressed,
Rest for the sick and distressed,
Rest for the sorrowing ones,
Rest when life's work is done.

Rest for the poor tired feet,
Rest that is pure and sweet,
Rest from life's stormy blasts,
Rest in Heaven at last.

Rest on that beautiful shore,
When life's fitful dream is o'er,
Sweet rest, coming sure and fast,
There's rest, there's rest at last.
Rest from all toil and strife,
Rest from the turmoils of life,
Rest when the still hands press
Close o'er the pulseless breast.

A CHRISTMAS RHYME FOR THE LITTLE
ONES.

A poor little girl with a tattered gown
One beautiful Christmas night,
Crept up to a window large and wide
And feasted her eyes on the sight.
A table was spread with Christmas pies,
And all that was good to eat;
While she stood shivering and cold without
No shoes to cover her feet.

A kind old man saw the dear little face
Pressed close to the window pane:
And, snatching her up in his great strong arms
Strode up to the door and walked in.
A bevy of children, gathered around,
To take in the curious sight;
Some gave her candy, and some gave buns,
Till the little girl cried with delight.
That night she slept in a soft warm bed,
And never knew hunger more,

For the man who picked up the starving waif,
Was a friend to the needy and poor.

Now, when we eat our Christmas sweets,
And beautiful presents receive,
Let us not forget that some boys and girls
Are hungry and cold this Christmas Eve.

SORROW IN EVERY HEART.

There is sorrow in every heart on earth
No mortal can hope to be free.
And others have seen their idols laid low
Alike with you and with me.

The cup our neighbor is drinking to-day,
Draining to the dregs of Sorrow,
May come to us as it came to them,
To quaff it off to-morrow.

We lay our choicest treasures down,
The while our hearts are breaking;
And in our woe we'll nigh forget,
What other hearts are aching.

What though our darlings still and cold,
Sleep neath the nodding daises;
When Jesus wakes his jewels up

They'll rise to sing his praises.

And then how sweet 'twill be to feel,
When united round His throne
Through affliction Christ was leading us,
To our bright eternal home.

'Tis the common lot of all mankind
Each in their turn to suffer pain
But he who often sows in tears,
Shall reap in joy again.

49

SHE COULD NOT BE SELFISH. I wouldn't be selfish like some girls I know, And be wishing for everything nice on the tree,

Of course I want something, a dolman perhaps And a few more things, would satisfy me.

I own I've been wanting a book and some lace, O yes! and some mittens, a scarf and a ring, Besides there's that necklace I've doted upon, And a cage with a pert little bird that will

sing.

That isn't much I am sure, but I almost forgot
A set of new furs and a stylish new hat,
That will quite eclipse the Browns and the
Jones,

With a long sweeping feather, and all of that.
Yes! I'd like some slippers and a dainty hood,
Which would be the envy of all the town,
And I am sure to get, I hope so at least,
A pearl card case and blue silk gown.

A box of perfumery and a pair of kid gloves With a nice gold watch would come in very

good,

But I don't want everything as some girls do.

I cannot be selfish-I never, never could.

TEMPERANCE RECITATION.

Red Ribbon, do you ask why I wear it,
Why nothing can be more plain ·
Just simply to say to my neighbor
That I'm not a drinking man.

I've signed the pledge over and over,
And broke it, I blush to confess,
But, with this little pleasant reminder,
I can't drink with this on my breast.
I've tried to look the other way,

And edge my way up to the bar.
But it is sure to flash up in my face,
The bright little guiding star.

To be sure it is but a trifle,

This bit of red ribbon I wear, But our life is made up of trifles, And each trifle some weight that bear.

It is but a trifle this drinking

A little weak ale now and then;
Yet it leads to results most disastrous,
Often ruining the mightiest of men.

These trifles, I happen to notice

Soon alarming proportions assume And in order to steer clear of breakers, We should mind all these trifling things.

Besides the girls look more kindly,

A fact which I'm happy to note,
And if the dear creatures will back us
We'll wipe this vile whisky stain out.

THE DRUNKARD'S BOY.
Why is it my school mates all shun me;
And call me a poor worthless brat.
Do they think I have not enough sorrow,
That they scorn me, and treat me like that.

It is not enough I must go shivering,
And starved aud beaten at home,
That they jostle and push me so rudely,
Must I travel life's journey alone?

Is there not one eye left to pity
One heart in sympathy to beat;
One hand in mercy to lead me,
To guide these poor wandering feet.
Am I to blame that my father

Loves whisky more than the right.
Must I bear his kicks and his crimes,
And the scorn of the world alike?
Is there a being above as they tell me
All powerful in goodness and love;
Who is able to give, or take from us,
O, is there such a being above?
If so, why does he not help me;

Why do I not hear his loved voice?
One look or one word, of kindness,
Would make this poor lone heart rejoice.

M. F. BRADSTREET-HAUSEN. BORN: ULYSSES, N. Y., JULY 27, 1841. FOR Several years this lady followed the profession of a teacher, but in 1866 she resig ned her position in the Polo public school, and was united in marriage with Charles Hausen, Jr., on June 27. Mrs. Hausen (Mary F. Bradstreet began writing at the early age of twelve, when her essays were highly complimented at school. During the war she wrote several fine pieces cherished by friends. In person she is pleasing, with a dignified manner that repels all false curiosity. She is something of an artist, her skill for figures being great. An Asiatic Scene in oil, and Fruit and Flowers in watercolors are her best efforts. She has also a painting in oil of her Alma Mater, which is finely executed. Of late she has written much, from which the following selections are made. Their artistic accuracy and earnestness make them well worth reading.

LIFE.

Ah! me, who has not asked the question why
We live and labor in the vineyard here,
And what awaits and what shall make them
clear;

The mystic shadow that around us lie.
Life came to us - we might have passed it by,
Had we a choice and known the grief of

tear,

The weight of years, the living fraught with fear.

But lo! it came unsought to you and I.
And so the short, brief stretch of fleeting time
Uniting soul and body here between
The birth and death answereth this to me.
Life findeth here beginning, and sublime,
And infinite it reacheth through, unseen,
Within the vale to all eternity.

THE THRASHING HUM.
The dear, old hum! I hear it still
The whir and song the music trill

It comes adown the maze of years
The dead life lives again in tears
And visions wake the olden thrill.
'Mid golden flelds anear the hill
By rippling rivulet and rill,

A child stoops low and listening hears
The dear, old hum.

Her wee hands clasping to the fill
The autumn blooms she lingers till
The echoes die, Ah! fadeless cheers
Within your borderline she peers
And hears again in ev'ning's chill
The dear, old hum.

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

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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.