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MRS. JULIA M. KAUTZ. BORN: BETHANY, N. Y., Nov. 16. 1825. GRADUATING at Le Roy, N. Y., in 1849, she took charge of the young ladies department in Logansport seminary. In 1850 she was married to the Rev. W. P. Kautz of the Pre

MRS. JULIA M. KAUTZ. byterian church, by whom she has two daughters. Mrs. Kautz has written more or less for a number of years. She also read the C. L. S. C. course and graduated with the class of 1887.

THE WEST WIND.

From golden orange groves, on fluttering wings,

Magnolia-scented, laden rich with balms, When ev'ning whispers soft to waving palms,

Thy spirit comes and thro' the forest rings;
The rev'rend oak his branches gaily flings,
Forgetful of the dreamy ocean calms,
Which Florida's soft air at eve embalms,
Or gulf-stream's measur'd flow, the oreole
sings.

Away upon the eastern shore in glee
Thou riseth; thy gay spirits at sunrise play
With other sprites; and haste to meet the sea,
"Till rush, and roar, and cold, from far away
In icy fetters binds each swaying tree,
The rippling stream, the lake where elfins
play.

With wondrous skill upon my window pane Frost, all thy gambols and wild flights, has

traced;

The sea, the shore, the ship by whirlwinds chas'd;

The glint and glow that follow after rain, Deep night, proclaim'd thy song and wild refrain,

While drifting snows our cosy homes embrac'd. [chaste,

Thou whisper'st in the pines in accents Of gentle sleep, and dreams of swelling

main.

O, west wind! Tell to me of mountains old Whose brows are hid in clouds; whose sides

are bare,

Why in their hearts are hid the shining gold, And sparkling gems, and mines of silver fair? Why should we care for fame and wealth un

told?

Do whistling winds to us a message bear?

HARMONIES.

The queen has left the rustling corn,

And dying leaves on winds are borne;

Sweet songsters trill 'mid southern bowers

Sad echoes of their songs are ours.

The blue has faded from the skies;
The rosy dawn with springtime dies,

Soft spicy breezes no more cheer:
How like my life, the passing year.

The lily's form, beneath the mould

Creeps slowly down, transfixt and cold.

Stern winter's blast her heart sweeps o'er

With sullen plunge and ruthless roar.

My grave shall be 'neath grassy sod,
At rest my hands, my soul with God.
Ah, me! at rest from carking cares,
My peaceful bed the lily shares.

LAWS.

Distilling the attar destroys the rose,
Deal gently with others, for Jesus knows,
By crushing the vintage we spoil the grapes.
Tread softly the paths our Father shapes.
Hearts cease their wild beating, and where is
man?
[can.
Then wound not, and crush not because you
The perfume of roses, in their own sphere
Leaves blackened rose-petals damp mould-
'ring here,

The red wine, which sparkles in limpid light,
Leaves clusters of beauty no longer bright,
The spirits of martyrs will soar on high,
While their bruised bodies sore broken lie.
Be kind to thy brother! God only knows
The making and scenting the queenly rose,
The growing and loading the fruitful vine,
The tinting and blessing the ruby wine,
The trials his children are wont to heed,
His hand is beneath them in sorest need.

MARY PEARLE.

BORN: IRELAND, NOV. 23, 1849. EDUCATED in Dublin, Mrs. Mary Pearle has filled many important positions in different schools and missions, and was held in high regard in the best society in the land of her nativity. In 1881 she came to America with her

husband and a beautiful baby girl. She has written many poems for different papers. In 1888 she lectured in Ohio on temperance and social purity, which the press speaks of as very able and interesting lectures. She is corresponding secretary for the W. C. T. U. and The Peace by Arbitration society. She is a member of the Episcopal church, and teaches a Bible class at St. Paul's. She is a very pleasant lady and has a wide circle of friends.

THE LANGUAGE OF THE EYE. Do not ask me if I love thee,

But look into my eyes

And read my soul in language plain

That cannot brook disguise.

The tongue may frame a flippant speech,
Deceitful, through and through;

The scal's deep fount it cannot reach
To tell my love for you.

Look at me with those pure, clear eyes,
Like stars look on the night
Out of the depths of azure skies,
Making the darkness bright.

So shine on me, thou guiding star,
The first in love's fair sky,
That sealed two soul's affinity
Through language of the eye.
Since first my lonely heart sent out
Its yearning sigh for thee,
Hast thou not read it by the light
That guided thee to me?
And should one doubting cloud arise
On love's transparent sky,
Then, dearest, look not in mine eyes,
Nor ask the reason why.

JUNE ROSES.

Red roses of June, in your beauty sweet, I wish you could bloom forever;

In shady arbors, where lovers meet,

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When moonbeams o'er dead leaves quiver. White roses of June, that smile upon all With that far-off look of wonder, Some fairer clime you fain would recall From depths of azure yonder!

Say.. farewell" to the earth, arrayed anew
In vestments fair of heaven,

As you shed sweet balm around like dew
From your beautiful petals riven.
Pale roses and red, ere you pass away,
Teach me your pure, frail beauty;

How best to fill life's transient day
With pleasure and with duty.

Give me the key-note of heavenly love.
Albeit in chords of sorrow;

Then up and away, we may meet above,
In God's fadeless, bright to-morrow.

THE CHILD AND THE LILIES.
Two lilies my darling brought me,
The last in her garden fair;
One she placed upon my bosom,
The other in my hair;
And then an unvoiced question

Threw its shadow o'er her face,
As she gazed on her pure white lilies
Drooping with patient grace.
Then with a skeptic's logic

She questioned soft and low: ..How can we consider the lilies, Now they no longer grow?" And I saw a teardrop glisten

O'er the sunshine of her eye,

Like the rainbow's transient glory

WILLIAM A. TAYLOR.

BORN: PERRY CO., O., APRIL 25, 1837. COMMENCING to write prose and verse at the age of fifteen, Mr. Taylor taught school at intervals for the following six years, at the same time being editor and part proprietor of Perry County Democrat. At the age of twenty-one he was admitted to the bar, practiced law for four years in connection with editorial work, and was also state's attorney a part of the same time. He then became one of the editorial writers of the Cincinnati Enquirer. Mr. Taylor served in the army of the Potomac during the war, after the close of which he resumed editorial work on the Enquirer. He was chief editorial writer of the

WILLIAM A. TAYLOR.

Pittsburg Post for eight years subsequent to 1868. He next was employed successively on | the New York Sun for two years; then on the New York World for a period; next was managing editor of the Pittsburg Telegraph for nearly two years; and then became editorial manager of Columbus Democrat and Times for several years. He is now again with the Cincinnati Enquirer as staff correspondent and general political writer. Mr. Taylor has declined a number of tempting positions, including a secretaryship of legation under President Cleveland, preferring journalism and literary work to political promotion.

ALL IN FOUR LINES. Love's labor of life Is to live and let live: Life's labor of love

To forget and forgive.

THE CURSE OF GENIUS.

ON A PORTRAIT OF T. D. JONES, SCULPTOR.
The curse of Genius, Art and Worth-
The crime of man against mankind
Is the fierce struggle that besets

The friendless pioneers of Mind.
Grim hunger turns the tempered steel
To lead, in many a brawny hand,
That else had shorn away the wrong,

And purified the waiting land. Old Homer begging in the streets Of seven cities, sang in vain; Each thrust him out of gilded gates Ahunger forth the arid plain.

Old Homer lying in his grave

A god was worshipped-turned to dust, And madly fought for, where his songs Gained not the vagrant's dole of crust. This is life's curse-its crowning thornThe ill to which the good is turnedMen gild the lamp when life is gone,

Who never trimmed it while it burned;

Pile granite over pulseless dust,

That died upon the cruel stones

Of hunger's threshold, while the trump
Of fame blared down his parting groans.

Fame may be sweet, but bread-God's name!

Is sweeter than Parnassian rills,

Where hungering genius droops and dies,

Amid the plenty of the hills.

What though God paints the bended skies, And clothes the earth with song and sheen,

If he who copies dies athirst

Amid the glory of the scene!

This is the curse of life - to live

At the sharp point of mortal strife, To find neglect more keen than scorn, And death a bald burlesque of life. To fill a maus'leum's stately crypt, Blazoned with that which gave not bread

The meed of life in mockery,

Heaped on the cold, unheeding dead.

Before her lay the unconquered waste.
Behind her, smiling by the sea,
Her virgin mother, proud and chaste,
Chanted the hymn of Liberty.

WILLIAM M. PAXTON.

BORN: WASHINGTON, KY., MARCH 2, 1819. EDUCATED for the law in his native town, he removed to Platte Co., Mo., where he still resides. In 1850 he removed to Platte City and spent twelve years in mercantile pursuits. Later he resumed the practice of law, and for twelve years prospered; but in 1872 he became hard of hearing, and it was necessary for him to give up his lucrative practice. Having,

WILLIAM M. PAXTON. however, a complete abstract of titles of real estate of Platte Co., he still, at the age of seventy-one, is industriously employed in the business of abstracting and examining titles. In 1881 he published a small volume of poems of 135 pages, In 1884 he compiled a genealogy of his mother's family, a work of 425 pages. In 1888 Mr. Paxton published a book of poems containing 452 pages, which has attracted universal admiration.

THE ROGUISH GIRLS. The girls are dainty rogues, 'tis true, And full of fun and art, sir; For when I first met cunning Sue

She sweetly stole my heart, sir; And when the parson came and tied

The pleasant nuptial band, sir, The crafty Sue stood by my side And slyly stole my hand, sir.

And then she stole my house and farm;

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It was, indeed, a shame, sir; She made them charming, bright and warm, And even stole my name, sir. Upon the street I used to roam,

And nightly drink and play, sir; But now she's fixed so nice a home

That there I'm bound to stay, sir. She keeps the house too nice and neat, And everything too clean, sir; And when she makes me wipe my feet I think it very mean, sir.

On rocking chairs I have to sit,

And back and forth I sway, sir; And when I'm forced to cough and spit, A vase is in my way, sir.

I am a prisoner every day,

With cords of love I'm tied, sir;
In Susie's bonds I want to stay,
And with her I'll abide, sir;

For Sue has pilfered everything.

And now she's stolen me, sir,

But makes me happy as a king,

And wealthy, proud and free, sir.

But you shall have a fair division.

So, as your half, I'll give the calf,

And keep the cow, whose milk I'm needing;

The colt is thine,-the mare is mine; -

The calf and colt are broke to leading.

"The lambs for thee,- the ewe's for meThe wool is what I've set my heart on; I'll take the hog, and you the dog,

And these are all we've got to start on. With sweat of brow you'll have to plow,

And earn the bread that's so much needed; Now do not stay, but haste away,

For tears are vain and won't be heeded." The calf was brought,- the colt was caught, And in Eve's arms the lamb was taken; With failing heart she made the start,

And seemed by God and man forsaken. She stopped to tell her last farewell,

In voice subdued and full of feeling,When Tray, the dog, attacked the hog,Who rushed to Eve, in terror squeeling. The cow and mare and ewe were there,

And heard while feeding at their manger; Of course they flew as mothers do,

To save their offspring when in danger. To Eve they clung, who held their young, And as she went they followed after. Her tears were gone,- she hurried on,

And nearly split her sides with laughter.

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Without a word she led the herd,

And kept it at her home securely;

But Adam stood in angry mood,

And scowled and knit his brows demurely. Though whipped, he tried with manly pride, To get and cook his daily victuals; — Made soup of cheese,-made pies of peas,

And burnt his hands on pots and kettles.

But life like this, was not the bliss,

That Adam, at the first expected; So off he went to Eve's nice tent,

And reconcilement was effected. And to this day, the wife has sway,

And husbands know 'tis best to let her; I've known no strife,-'twixt man and wife, But what the woman got the better.

THE LOVER'S SOLILOQUY. A brilliant rose, in blushing grace, Too modest to expose its face, May make the bower its hiding place,

And bloom in covert there; And though we do not see the rose, Yet every one its presence knows, For far and wide, its fragrance flows, And dwells upon the air.

'Tis thus her spirit, every hour, Where'er I am, with mystic power, Regales me as the hidden flower,

And makes my heart rejoice. And something whispers in my ear, That her pervading spirit's near; And I imagine that I hear,

The music of her voice.

I meet her in my raptured dreams; We rove by sylvan vales and streams, And talk of love and kindred themes,

And promise not to sever.

Can she, though absent, cheer me so? Has perfect bliss been found below? Can dreams of her, such joy bestow? Then let me dream forever!

A WIFE'S UNDYING LOVE.

The moonlight is soft, and the fields are inviting;

Come, husband, let's walk in the meadow

apart;

For I am enraptured, when you are reciting, The story of love, in sweet words from the

heart:

That story, they tell us, is old and fictitious,— And soon we'll grow weary and careless, they think;

But love is like wine, that, from age is delici

ous,

And time gives it body, and flavors the drink. The brook, from the mountain, comes dancing and leaping

And merrily sings as it troops through the lea;

But when its a river, it seems to be sleeping, And silently wends its deep course to the

sea;

So love, at the first, was a shallow emotion, And made a great noise, like the brook as it goes;

But now it's a river, profound in devotion, And deeper the stream the more softly it flows.

Come, tell me you love me, I never grow weary:

As well might the songs of my mother grow old,

Or even the home of my childhood grow dreary,

As words of affection seem lifeless and cold. Come tell me, again, the delightful old story, You told me before your betrothal to me:The love that you show is my lifeguard and glory,

And death be my portion, if parted from thee.

THE BRIDEGROOM'S ECSTACY. Mary, darling - Mary, dear, Let me whisper in your ear Words of love no friend should hear,Lest he think me raving. Mary, I am all your own; In my heart I've set your throne, Where, as queen, you rule alone,-

All my soul enslaving.

Soon, the holy marriage rite
Shall our souls as one unite,
And I'll bask in genial light

Beaming from thy beauty.
And when I, in joy and pride.
Clasp thee as my charming bride
Thou Shalt be the star to guide,
And incite to duty.

Trees, since I became thy choice,
Clap their hands, and hills rejoice,
And I seem to hear thy voice,

Even when I'm sleeping.

On life's journey we will start,
Bidding every care depart,
And we'll give both hand and heart
To each other's keeping.

EXTRACT.

A mother true and pure as dew,
And as an infant tender,-
With blushing cheek and manners meek,—
Our hearts could but surrender.