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THE ROSE.
I, the rose, am glad to-day,

Slumbering in the summer heat.
I heard my lady, joyous say,
“I'll wear this rose of fragrance sweet,
When I, my guests invited meet."
Ah, kindest fate, that I should grace
Such beauty as my Lady's face;
And she will place me, soft caressed,
With lingering touch upon her breast
Strange fingers plucked me yester night,
Mid swiftly falling drops, dew-bright.
They said an uninvited guest,
Greeting my Lady, bade her rest.
She lay in fair and fleecy white,
With smiling lips. Thro' pale moonlight,
They measured steps, with sound supprest,
And laid me softly on her breast,
And kissed her cheek so ivory white,
I, the rose, am sad to-night.

EVENING SONG. Farewell, sweet day,

Thy thoughts and mine in perfect tune; And rhyme have blent this day of June,

And ere the rapture of thy spell Dissolves, I turn to thee and say,

Sweet day, farewell. Farewell, sweet day,

For I would rather part from thee With every chord in harmony

Than meet thee in the cold, gray light
Of morrow's morn. Thus, glad I say,
Sweet day, goodnight.

A MEMORY.
The rose's heart is red, so red;

The thrush's song is sweet, so sweet; The river lies, a flame of blue,

The morn is golden and complete.
I hear her voice amid the reeds,

Alike no other melody;
My name, across the echoing wold.

A HARMONY. The dawn's unfolding wings the breeze fret, Kissing the gentian's slumbrous eyelids

swift: Her silk-fringed lashes with the dewdrops wet, Quivering 'neath the sun's bright glance,

uplift. The bee, hid in the trumpet-blossom's spire,

Reels to the chimes within its nodding cells. The trembling hollyhock's red chalices of fire

Rock with the unseen ringer of their bells. O'er purple clematis the butterfly

Hovers to taste the sweetness from its lips: And all the opal tints of sun and sky

Are drank in rainbow colors that he sips. The reeds that grow down by the crystal

spring, Meeting the morning breezes from the sea, Their matutinal lays are offering

In notes that might awake sad Niobe. The ripples from the brook, where bluedragons

Upon its bosom clear reflected float, Are like the soft-voiced ring-dove's carillons, Or silvery laughter from a young girl's

throat. And every swaying stem keeps time complete,

To fill its part in nature's melody Of rhythmic cadence to the low wind's beat

Song without words-a voiceless symphony.

LEANDER S. KEYSER. BORN: TUSCARAWAS CO., O., MARCH 13, 1857. Ar the age of sixteen Mr. Keyser first taught school; and later combined teaching and educating himself with the money he thus earned. Having taken a theological course, he took charge of the English Lutheran church at Elkhart, Ind., where he remained for nearly six years. Rev. Keyser has always had an intense love for literature, and many poetic

And you, dear Judith, shall be my own.
I'd like to hear the jingle of atoms in a wave

of light,
Or the sonnet of roses as they throw their

colors upon the sight, The melody of the frost as it forms upon

the window-pane,
And the song of the sap as it courses the veins

of the grass and the growing grain,
The little child with wistful eye
Stretches his hand out toward the sky;
He sees and wants the distant moon,
And weeps that he cannot have the boon.
We larger children from day to day
Are wanting objects too far away.
Once I held to my ear a beautiful shell,
And I heard the song of the far-off sea,
So I list to my soul, and I hear full well
The song of its native eternity.
And I think: as the shell belongs to the sea,
And cannot forget its home in the wave,
So my yearning soul—this immortal Me-
Belongs to the home yon-side of the grave.

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THE AESTHETIC SEARCH.
Somewhere I knew she was, for I had caught
Quick glimpses of the damsel whom I sought.
Her figure was divinely fair of mould,
Wer tresses flashed in purple and in gold;
Her eyes had stolen of the vaulted blue,
Her cheeks the crimson of the rose's hue.
But when I sought her with a rapture rare,
My Virgin Buautiful was otherwhere.
I wandered into groves of living green, (seen.
Where traces of her marvelous touch were
A moment she appeared, and then she fled,
Like some poor startled nymph, with noise-

less tread.
Amid ambrosial gardens then I sought

With hope and strong desire; for I thought:
LEANDER S. KEYSER.

. Surely among the flowers she will be!" effusions emanated from his pen from time I saw her form and ran to bend the knee, to time. He has also written many stories,

To worship at her shrine; but quick the maid and in 1886 his first serial, The Only Way Out, Fled wildly from my clasp as if afraid was published, which was followed two years My touch were vile; and then I turned away, later by another one entitled Epochs of a Life. And fairest flowers were nauseous that day. Mr. Keyser now resides at Springfield, Ohio, And then I scanned the heavens; but every where he is well known as a clergyman of

star good standing.

Shimmered at once: Thy quest is much too

far!” BRIC-A-BRAC.

And all the constellations chorused thus: Judith, that glove is much too tight;

Thou wilt not find the Virgin here with us!" It presses your hand so pure and white. And then among the master men of song If I should press your band for you

I made my search and tarried with them long, As that kid glove, what would you do?

And thought the damsel was in my embrace, Dear Judith, let us go to the woodland to-day, Feeling her luscious breath upon my face And sit on the bank of the lonesome rill; As o'er the rythmic page we bent and read. And Pan, the god of those shadows gay, Alas! e'en as the minstrels sang she fled, Shall rule our hearts at his own sweet will. And from the verse that erst had thrilled me so We will need no book of jingles and rhymes, I turned with loathing and with hopeless woe. For love will sing in her sweetest tone,

I ne'er shall find my sweet ideal bride, And the birds will warble their liquid chimes | My Mistress of the Beautiful!" I cried.

Upon my knees I plead until the dawn: . ( heaven! whither hath the Virgin gone? "Where shall I find, how may I ever win The counterpart of longings here within?" Long while I knelt and waited for reply, Until at last a voice broke from the sky: .. First cleanse thy soul, thy thought, oh man

from sin, Then seek the object of thy quest witi in. ..Ne'er in external things is found the goal Till moral beauty reigns within the soul.

And if thou keep her there, she e'er will be A holy, sweet companion unto thee. "And then in song,and flower,and leaf, and sky Her image fair thy vision shall descry," And thus I sought-I need no more repine, I found her, wooed her, won her, she is mine.

The picture is a woodland With large and sprcading oaks, Just like the trees I loved so well When we were little folks. A little creek comes out to view Beneath an old gray rock; It winds along and curves about A green and grassy plot. My picture done I love to gaze On what to me seems real, Although it's but a fancy sketch To me it is ideal.

ADELAIDE A. RANDALL.

BORN: MERRIMACK, WIS., AUG. 6, 1853. Miss RANDALL is desirous of becoming anartist, and with that end in view, occasionally takes lessons in painting as her slender means

JUST WHY!
You ask me why I hate her,

That lady dressed so fine ?
She never did me any harm,

Nor wronged a kin of mine;
But she slander'd a fair young girl

That was struggling her way thro' life,
She dealt her a cruel blow,

And filled her life with strife.
And now she is going to church,

With her lofty head on high,
Regardless of those cruel wrongs
That she did in days gone by.

THE CHOICE OF FLOWERS.
The spring has come, the spring has come,

Cried the children all in glee; And now we'll gather flowers

From off the grassy lee.
My choice of all the flowers,

Cried little Anna Dade,
Is the cowslip that we gather

From off the mossy glade.
My favorite one I cannot tell,

'Cause I forgot it's name, But it is very beautiful,

And grows down in our lane.
Yes; butter-cup I believe it is,

Its face is shining gold;
I think it's very beautiful,

And shall, when I am old.
Oh give to me the wild rose,

Cried little Rosa Chalk,
You know it is my name-sake,

And we have them by our walk.
The daisy is my name-sake,

Cried little Daisy Due,
And I get them from the meadow,

And I know they're pretty too.
The daisy and the wild rose

Are very handsome flowers;
But the violet is the one I choose
From out the wooded bowers.
The flowers all are very nice,

Cried little Alice Roe;
But the pinks would be my choice
Of all the flowers that grow.

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ADELAIDE A. RANDALL, will allow. She has written numerous poems from time to time for the local press. She is the daughter of a farmer and is residing in her native town.

MY PICTURE. As I sit before my easel, My picture in full view, I wander back in fancy To the oaks of long ago.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES | lege periodical. Dr. Holmes was one of the

founders of the Atlantic Monthly magazine, to BORN: CAMBRIDGE, Mass., AUG. 29, 1809.

which he contributed from time to time; and This great scholar is equally noted as a poet, in the pages of this periodical first appeared novelist, essayist, and physician. He is con- The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. His sidered one of the most witty, originai and bril- lyrics, such as Old Ironsides, Union and Liberliant writers of the present day. Educated ty, Welcome to the Nations, and others, are partly at Phillips academy, he graduated at not only spirited, but also the most beautiful Harvard when twenty years of age. Young in our language, and his humorous poems, inOliver then spent a vear in studying law: but, cluding The One-Hoss Shay, Lending an Old

Punch-Bowl, My Aunt, The Boys, and many others, are characterized by a vivacious and sparkling wit which makes their drollery irresistible. His prose works are greatly admired, the best of which are The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, The Professor at the Breakfast Table, The Poet of the Breakfast Table, and the novels Elsie Venner, and the Guardian Angel.

Dr. Holmes," says John G. Whittier, - has been likened to Thomas Hood; but there is little in common between them, save the power of combining fancy and sentiment with grotesque drollery and humor. Hood, under all his whims and oddities, conceals the vehement intensity of a reformer. The iron of the world's wrongs has entered into his soul. There is an undertone of sorrow in his lyrics. His Sarcasm, directed against oppression and bigotry, at times betrays the earnestness of one whose own withers have been wrung. Holmes writes simply for the amusement of himself and his readers. He deals only with the vanities, the foibles, and the minor faults of mankind, goodnaturedly and almost sympathizingly suggesting excuses for folly, which he tosses about on the horns of his ridicule. Long may he live to

make broader the face of our care-ridden genOLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

eration, and to realize for himself the truth of his father being a physician, he soon abandon- the wise man's declaration, that · A merry ed the law in order to enter upon the study of heart is a continual feast!'' medicine, which course he pursued in Europe, chiefly in Paris.

THE LAST LEAF. In 1838 Mr. Holmes returned to America, took the degree of M. D., and two years later he

I saw him once before became professor of anatomy and physiology

As he passed by the door; in Dartinouth college, which position he held

And again until the time of his marriage, in 1840, when he

The pavement-stones resound removed to Boston, and there won much suc

As he totters o'er the ground Cess as a practicing physician. In 1847 he was

With his cane. appointed to the chair of anatomy and physio

They say, that in his prime, logy in Harvard - the seat of the medical de

Ere the pruning-knife of Time partment of this university being in Boston-a

Cut him down, post which he has filled with honor ever since.

Not a better man was found While Dr. Holmes has won distinction not

By the crier on his round only as a professional man and a writer on sub

Through the town. jects related to his profession, he is best known to the public by his purely literary produc

But now he walks the streets, tions.

And he looks at all he meets, During the year 1830, while studying law, he

Sad and wan; contributed a number of witty poems to a col

And he shakes his feeble head,

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That it seems as if he said,

- They are gone!"

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest

In their bloom;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said-

Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway

through, Built us its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the

old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by

thee,
Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn?

While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a

voice that sings: Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unrest

ing sea!

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin

At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,

Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

EXTRACTS. The simple lessons which the nursery taught Fell soft and stainless on the buds of thought, And the full blossom owes its fairest hue To those sweet tear-drops of affection's dew.

Where go the poet's lines?

Answer, ye evening tapers! Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,

Speak from your folded papers!

We count the broken lyres that rest

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast

The wild flowers, who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy Fame is proud to win them; Alas for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. NOTE.--Dr. Holmes has said of this poem, . If you will remember me by the Chambered Nautilus. your memory will be a monument u shall think more of than any bronze or marble." | This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main.

The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their

streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl,

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt un

sealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Old Time, in whose bank we deposit our notes, Is a miser who always wants guineas for

groats; He keeps all his customers still in arrears By lending them minutes and charging them

years.

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's

all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has

done; The children laugh loud as they troop at his

call, And the poor man that knows him laughs

loudest of all.

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