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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 Prej
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 re
frain, 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.
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
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 ber nativity. In 1881 she came to America with her
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,
That guided thee to me?
On love's transparent sky, Then, dearest, look not in mine eyes, Nor ask the reason why.
I wish you could bloom forever;
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!
In vestments fair of heaven,
From your beautiful petale riven.
Teach me your pure, frail beauty;
With pleasure and with duty.
Albeit in chords of sorrow;
In God's fadeless, bright to-morrow.
MARY PEARLE. 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 elass at St. Paul's. She is a very pleasapt lady and has a wide circle of friends.
THE LANGUAGE OF THE EYE.
But look into my eyes
That cannot brook disguise.
Deceitful, through and through; The scai'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.
THE CHILD AND THE LILIES. Two lilies my darling brought me,
The last in her garden fair;
The other in my hair;
Threw its shadow o'er her face,
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
On the blue of April sky. .. We recall their sweetness, dear one
And learn from them to grow Each day more meet for heaven
In earth's garden here below; And when we are apt to murmur
Over the clothes we wear; 'Tis well to consider the lilies,
Of which the Lord takes care."
ALL IN FOUR LINES. Love's labor of life Is to live and let live; Life's labor of love To forget and forgive.
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
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 band, 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 thorn
The ill to which the good is turned Men 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 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
breadThe meed of life in mockery,
Heaped on the cold, unheeding dead.
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.
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 bis 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 be resumed the practice of law, and for twelve years prospered; but in 1872 he became hand of hearing, and it was necessary for him to give up his lucrative practice. Having,
And then she stole my house and farm;
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.
HOW ADAM DIVIDED PROPERTY WITH
From Eden's vales and groves elysian,
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 me
The wool is what I've set my heart on; I'll take the hug, 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 fuli 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.
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.
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.
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
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 dwells upon the air.
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!
THE BRIDEG ROOM'S ECSTACY.
Lest he think me raving.
All my soul enslaving.
Beaming from thy beauty.
And incite to duty.
Even when I'm sleeping.
To each other's keeping.
A WIFE'S UNDYING LOVE. The moonlight is soft, and the fields are invit
ing; 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 as an infant tender,-
Our hearts could but surrender.