MRS. LUCIE A. MOORE.

[MRS. A. ELMORE.]

BORN IN W. VA., MARCH 29, 1839. THIS lady has several nom de plumes.

She

has edited various newspapers and magazines and contributed largely from time to time to

MRS. LUCIE A. MOORE.

the leading periodicals. Her husband died in 1868, and she now resides at White Rose Cottage, Nordhoff, N. J. Her poems have attracted much attention, and A Beautiful City Set Down by the Sea is considered a very fine

one.

MY BABY'S LITTLE SATIN SHOES.
There's rain without and rain within.
Without-from host of black-browed
clouds.

That darkens all the mountain's side
And all the river's valley shrouds.
Within-are teardrops flowing swift
From their mysterious fountain-head.
As I sit thinking of the past,
O'er naming graces of my dead.
A heartache first, as hot and keen

As that a drouth must bring to earth,
While this and that" of treasures stored.
I lift, and muse on vanished worth,
And wish for luxury of tears

To come, and cool and ease the pain. "Tis Baby's little satin shoes

That tap the clouds, and bring the rain.

And looking at the dainty things

I wonder if her pretty feet

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Have grown too large for these wee

Or keep they still their wondrous charms
Of rosy hue, and fairy size,
That, as I held them in my palm,

Woke gleams of wonder in her eyes?

I live once more in that far time,
When she in crowing, witching glee,
Looked down upon her untried feet,
These satin shoes, just laced, to see.
And then I prayed, with wisdom's dower
She might the better pathway choose.
For all her steps I longed to keep

The sheen and ease-of satin shoes.

And then-there came dark days in June Of months, till then, the fairest one, And she-her sister angels joined

And ceased the stepping scarce begun. No shadows came to her sweet face,

Nor heart, nor hand, nor foot had bruise When I gave back the treasure loaned And kept her little satin shoes.

A BEAUTIFUL CITY SET DOWN BY THE
SEA.

The waves are laughing in summer-time glee,
Sunbeams are shifting and falling so free;
And pure is the breeze that seeketh the lea,
Where reigneth a city as fair as can be,
A beautiful city, set down by the sea.
With fountains, with flowers, with art and
with song,

And murmur of waters all the day long; Where weary ones come, once more to grow strong,

Where gladness supreme pervadeth the throng,

A beautiful city set down by the sea. From pinnacled roof, to sunbeams a snare, Banners and banners are fanning the air; And flag of the land all people may share, Guardeth this city in summer-time fair;

This beautiful city, set down by the sea. Gay pleasuring groups from every land Are strolling about on the silvery sand, And Babel" of tongues is heard on the strand

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Where reigneth this city in summer-time

grand,

This beautiful city, set down by the sea. The home-coming sailor voiceth a cheer,

As the good ship draws her harbor anear. Outgoing-he left but the winter-time drear; Incoming-behold, a city is here

A beautiful city set down by the sea.

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The mermaids that here once basked in the light,

And monsters that claimed the island so white,

Fled far to the main in ceaseless affright, When the city came down in conquering might;

The beautiful city, set down by the sea. With ambient flame all gilt in the morn,

Where orient splendors at night-time adorn, The shade of the woodlands thou laughest to

scorn;

For pleasure, and sunlight, alone- -thou wert born.

O beautiful city, set down by the sea. No orient scene, fresh-kissed by the sun,

Near foreign-land bay where silver-rifts run, No city by conquering hero begun, Rivals in beauty this magic-made one;

This beautiful city, set down by the sea. Not far, her hovering wings are outspread, No echo is here of bartering tread; Nor ever comes here the pestilence dread. Dethroned is all care, and far from thee fled, O beautiful city, set down by the sea. From far 'neath the sky, blue-vaulted and clear,

The sailor's hearty ..Yo-ho" seemeth near, And throb of work-a-day city we hear, Like far away chimes for eventime cheer,

O beautiful city, set down by the sea. When reigneth the moon in azure array, And purple of twilight is fading away, And lovers enchanted, still lingering stray, Thou makest the scene e'en fairer than day, O beautiful city, set down by the sea. Then Cupid is near with quiver and bow,

Nor misses a chance an arrow to throw, And kindle a flame; forever -- to glow Or die as thou dost, when falleth the snow, O beautiful city, set down by the sea. The hem of the tide, with fringing of spray, Is trailing the shore, in coquettish way, And ever the sands will shift with the sway And creeping of waves, that near to thee play, O beautiful city, set down by the sea. Awe of the sea o'er the spirit holds sway, Through ages so long the whisper doth stray,

..Hither thou comest, and here thou shalt stay,

The mandate --doth guard thee even to-day, O beautiful city, set down by the sea.

Of ships it hath sent to fathomless grave,

Of sailors it conquered though they were brave.

This swell of the sea, this swift-rolling wave,
Speaks not as it comes thy borders to lave,
O beautiful city, set down bythe sea.

A view of a city, set on a hill,"
Awaketh a song in happiest trill,

And the wanderer knoweth a joyous thrill;
But thou, makest joy flow swift as a rill,
O beautiful city, set down by the sea.
Ocean and spirit hold rhythmical rune;

From temple of music floats harmonic tune;
It seemeth a dream, these fair days of June,
That wane, like thy glory, ever too soon,
O beautiful city, set down by the sea.
When out goes the day through golden gilt
bars,

And Venus appears, and flame-tinted Mars, And the blue is gemmed with gold of the stars, Thou seemest at sea with silver-tipped spars, O beautiful city, set down by the sea. When the winter-time storms beat on the shore,

And laugh of the waves is drowned in their roar,

And feet are turned homeward, their wanderings o'er,

We'll mourn the city that bideth no more,
The beautiful city, set down by the sea.
The spring will ever her coming-time keep,
And the true fairy wand of June will sweep
Over the isle, and in answer will leap
The city in beauty, from winter-time sleep;
The beautiful city, set down by the sea.
From groves of the South, and plains of the

West,

O who will return for pleasure, and rest; And who will have found still kindlier breast, And who give greeting to incoming guest? O beautiful city, set down by the sea.

AT THE GATE.

Hard by the gates that bar from sight Of curious mortal eyes

The glories of the land of souls,

A loved one waiting lies.
For what she waits, ah who may tell!
From earth a full release,

Or strength to say with smiles, farewell,
I go in perfect peace?

I see her winsome baby ways,
And hear her ready tongue:
And note the bloom of maiden days,
And list to songs she sung,
And then, I say, we can not part,
Oh death, but go thy way,
Spare us the pang, put up thy dart,
And let her longer stay!

Take me instead, if one thou wilt
From out the sister band,
Spare her, so young, so true, so kind,
Oh death, stay thou thine hand!

WILLIAM TAYLOR.

BORN IN SCOTLAND, FEB. 7, 1850.

IN 1867 Mr. Taylor lost the sight of his left eye through a piece of the gun cap penetrating the pupil. The same year he sailed for America. In 1872 he married; two years later a sliver of steel from the head of a tool he was using pierced the ball of his right eye, ushering him into lifelong darkness. It was a hard trial, but to one of his disposition he soon be

WILLIAM TAYLOR.

came reconciled to his loss. This blind poet is called the Milton of the West, and he gives recitations of his own original poems to churches, Sunday schools, and other organizations, which have met with universal approval. Mr. Taylor has a wide circle of admirers, and we predict that his journey through life will be comparatively a smooth one.

AMI A SCOT, OR AM I NOT? If I should bring a wagon o'er From Scotland to Columbia's shore, And by successive wear and tear, The wagon soon should need repair; Thus, when the tires are worn through, Columbia's iron doth renew; Likewise the fellies, hubs and spokes Should be replaced by western oaks; In course of time down goes the bed, But here's one like it in its stead, So bit by bit, in seven years,

All things are changed in bed and gears,
And still it seems as though it ought
To be the one from Scotland brought;
But when I think the matter o'er,
It ne'er was on a foreign shore,
And all that came across the sea,
Is only its identity.

I came a Scotchman, understand,
To live, by choice in this free land,
Wherein I've dwelt from day to day,
Till sixteen years have passed away.
If physiology be true.

My body has been changing too;
And though at first it did seem strange,
Yet science doth confirm the change;
And since I have the truth been taught

I wonder if I'm now a Scot?

Since all that came across the sea
Is only my identity.

STERLING WORTH.

What is there in the garb of man,
That we should honor or despise?
To judge of grain, are we to scan,
The husks wherein the kernel lies?

A coat, by honest labor torn,

May wrap a heart as true as steel,
And so may husks, all weather worn,
A perfect grain of wheat conceal.
A crown may rest upon a head

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Where seldom dwells a worthy thought, While countless noble thoughts are bred, Neath hats of straw that's roughly

wrought.

What signifies our place of birth,

The length of purse, or place we fill?
The only real test of worth,

Is passing through the fanning mill.
The hand of time, the flail doth ply,
Alike upon the rich and poor.
The great, the small, the low, the high,
Are equal on the threshing floor.
And he who oversees the fan,
That chaff and wheat doth separate,
Will favor not the garb of man,
The grain must be of standard weight.

THE ARTISAN.
Be not by vanity mis-led

To slight the artisan,
For though he toils to earn his bread,
He's nature's nobleman:
Yea, quite as worthy as a king
Is he who makes the anvil ring,
And from whose brow flow streams of
To pay the law of nature's debt.
The monuments of Art go view,

By men of genius wrought,
Nor grudge the workman honor due
Though humble be his lot.

[sweat,

MRS. HELEN A. RAINS.

BORN: ROME, O., DEC. 16, 1838. AMONG the many publications to which this lady has contributed might be mentioned Peterson's Magazine, Cincinnati Weekly, La

MRS. HELEN A. RAINS.

dies' Repository, and the Christian Standard. This lady was married in 1870 to George W. Rains. She follows the profession of a journalist, and now resides in Mt. Ayr, Iowa.

JUNE PICTURES.

Framed in my window? what a bit of sky
Of azure blue-a snowy cloud afloat
With tiny sails, so like a fairy boat,
Suspended in mid-air, as by the eye
Reflected in the mirage we can see
Objects transcribed with perfect symmetry.
Waves upon waves of greenness just below,

(Of that peculiar shade that June full
crowned

And flush with all her rarities has found To beautify the earth, which ebb and flow As with the tide. The country roads' decline

O'er distant hills the eye can scarce define.

MY BABY.

Fold her hands tightly

Over her breast,

Close her lids lightly,

Lay her to rest.

Smooth the dark tresses

Over her brow,

All my caresses Availeth not, now.

APRIL.

And so the spring is here, with memories
That cling to ev'ry thing with loving touch.
The fields afresh with kindling green-the
skies

Blue and empyreal. I wonder much

If in the land where my young days were

spent

These things in old-time loveliness, have

lent

Hue to the streams, and on the dewy air Apple-bloom diffusion. The dell, whose soil

In spring, was rank with yellow cowslips, where

We mired at every step, and hours of toil Rewarded us with prize--the very bestA pail of greens"-do little children test With cheeks abloom, through labyrinthine ways

Its grape-vine swings, the roots and spicy

bark

If sassafras, these lovely April days?

Has modern culture stolen ev'ry spark

Of interest in woodland haunts, from those Whose life's expanding, like the morning

rose,

Promise of vigor in the bud, should hold.

Do blooms, perfumes, and healthful airs

bespeak

To young hearts now, the same delights that told

In days agone, on childhood's lip and cheek? Of what avail the knowledge of to-day, If youth has lost her happy, care-free way? Do books impart, one-half the wisdom caught From running brooks and feathered song

sters' lays?

Have lessons learned (the Harmonies have taught

That Nature blends sublimely in her days,
With unison of chords in sweetness wrought
Not molded characters, where books were
naught.

GOING FOR THE COWS.
Adown the lane a tangle

Of rankest weeds and grasses,
Starred here and there with spangle
Of dogwood bloom in masses
That overhanging dangle
Upon the head that passes.

His way toward the dingle,
The barefoot boy is wending,
Where comes the faint commingle
Of cow-bell rhythm, blending
With melodrama, single

The mocking-bird is rend'ring.

LAURA J. RITTENHOUSE.

BORN: GRAND CHAIN, ILL., 1841.

THIS lady has given a great deal of her time to the temperance cause, being one of its most fervent supporters. She has published two books - Out of the Depths, a poem, and

LAURA J. RITTENHOUSE.

a book of temperance stories for young children. She has also contributed to the leading periodicals of America. Mrs. Rittenhouse has a splendid family of five children, and now resides at Cairo, Ill.

WEIGHING BABY.

Baby's weight! how much it means,
When the children's angel" leans
From God's door through cloud-rift sails,
Holding Love's own shining scales
Weighing baby as she lies,
With her open, deep-blue eyes
Filled with wonder, while she swings,
Like an angel without wings.

How much does the darling weigh?
None but heavenly scales can say;
None but heavenly tongues can tell,
All the precious things that dwell
In this body warm and small,
Making it out-weigh them all-
All the dimpled, crowing throng,
That in other homes belong.

Can one weigh the baby's wiles,
Witching ways and cunning smiles?
Weigh the voice to us so sweet,
Or the warmth of rosy feet?
Weigh her dimples-.. Cupid's nest,"
Where our kisses find sweet rest?
Weigh the blessing that each day
Wrap her 'round in soft array ?
Can you weigh each hope and prayer,
Centered on her everywhere?
Or the love that's woven fast

'Round her while our lives shall last? Can you weigh the fair young soul, Op'ning like a spotless scroll?

Only God's unerring gaze,

Sees how much our darling weighs.

MARGARET.

When you passed me yesterday,
Deigning not to look that way,
Did you know that I was near,
And with all your coldness, fear
Just to meet my earnest gaze,
Lest some thought of other days
Should defy you to forget
What we have been, Margaret?
Did your memory like a dream,
Bring before you then a gleam
Of a farm-house white and small,
Where the brightest sunbeams fall;
Where the woodbine clambers up,
Holding many a dainty cup
Filled with incense sweeter yet,
Than all others, Margaret?

Did you see the roses white,
And the red ones, where one night
'Neath the solemn light of stars,
Shadows held us in their bars,
And the soft wind floating by,
Heard us vowing-you and I,
That our love's sun should not set,
While life lasted, Margaret?

Are your hot-house flowers as sweet
As the ones that kissed your feet?
Do your prisoned birds e'er sing
Like the wild ones on the wing?
Will your wealth and station pay
For the true heart cast away?
Does no wild remorse, regret,
Prey upon you, Margaret?
Turn your head away in scorn,
Rich in gold-in heart forlorn;
Mingle with the heartless, gay;
Laugh and jest and ne'er betray
Through your mask of calm, cold pride,
How your aching heart is tried;
Yet through all life's tangled net,
You shall love me, Margaret.