MRS. S. L. B. MCFARLAND.

BORN: HALIFAX, PA., APRIL 12, 1839. THE poems of Mrs. Mc Farland have appeared in the Harrisburg Patriot and Telegraph, and the periodical press generally. She was married in 1860 to C. E. McFarland, secretary of the 46th Pa. V. V. Infantry at Halifax, where

MRS. SARAH L. B. M'FARLAND. she still resides. Personally Mrs. McFarland is rather small in stature, but a little robust, with black hair and brown eyes. She is well known and greatly admired for her many accomplishments among her many friends and acquaintances.

SONG OF THE SPARROW.
The sparrow sang as fleeing night.
Gave place to morning's dawning light-
Heralding gleams of sunshine bright,
Sweet! sweet!

Unmindful all of ice or snow,

From bough to bough they fluttering go,
Ever one song still twittering low:

Sweet! sweet!

Oh! winds of March, your biting blasts,
The sparrows tell of winter past;
They sing to us of spring at last:
Sweet! sweet!

Brown earth so cold and snow-clad hill,
Ice-bound river and rippling rill,
The tuneful sparrow singing still:
Sweet! sweet!

Oh! souls bowed down with earthly care, New buds spring forth fresh fruit to bear, New burdens take, new dangers dare. Sweet! sweet!

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Each sorrow brings its strengthening grace,
That earth may seem a fairer place,
To those who do life's burdens face,
Sweet! sweet!

Oh! tiny bird with dark brown-wing,
Teach ever thus my lips to sing,
And nearer to my God to cling.

Sweet! sweet!

WHEN THE EVENING SHADOWS

LENGTHEN.

When the evening shadows lengthen,

And th' weary day is almost done; Then on the fainting soul to strengthen, So sweetly gleams the setting sun. Lights all the hills with gorgeous splendor, Aud makes earth-life like dreamland seem, While brilliant clouds reflect the grandeur That on the glowing waters beam.

The gay world seems fading from our view All its cares and tempting pleasures; Eagerly we grasp with faith anew,

The Master's heavenly treasures. Whilst heaven's portals widely open, As we thus stand in glad amaze; Behold of love divine the token

Greets again our wandering gaze.
And the heart doth thrill to hopes new-born,
At glimpses fair of better life,

No more by dread fear the spirits torn,
Stern witness of an inward strife.
To the wounded soul it bringeth balm,
And this life's terrors vanish all,
For the weavers of the victors palm,
Who calmly wait the Master's call.

MRS. S. J. STEVENS.

BORN: BELFAST, ME., JULY 17, 1839. MRS. STEVENS has written quite a few poems for the Boston Morning Star. This lady resides in Troy, Me., where she is very popular.

A REVERIE.

She prayed for death's long dreamless sleep,
Beneath the green turf, cold and deep,
To rest from grief and ceaseless pain,
Her aching heart and weary brain.
The voice of song that hearts had thrilled,
In cruel sorrow now was stilled.
Her cheeks, once bright with beauty's glow,
Were white and cold as winter's snow.
Her pale, sweet lips, so pure and fair,
Are breathing now their evening prayer,
The moonbeams bathe her pillowed brow,
Her heart in dreamland wanders now.

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FAY HEMPSTEAD.

BORN: LITTLE ROCK, ARK., Nov. 24, 1847. FOR Some years this gentleman has been a constant contributor to numerous papers and Magazines, among which might be mentioned the Boston Transcript, New York Mail and Express, Richmond Dispatch, and the St. Louis Republican. The productions of Mr.

FAY HEMPSTEAD. Hempstead have received special recognition from both press and public, and his poems have elicited a complimentary letter from the poet John G. Whittier. He is frequently called upon to read original poems on public occasions. In 1878 he published his first volume of poems which met with fair success, and now has a second volume which will be brought out in due season. Mr. Hempstead has become quite prominent as a public speaker, and is widely known as a prose writer. In 1889 he published Hempsteads School History of Arkansas, which has met with an enthusiastic reception. Mr. Hempstead was married in 1871 to Miss Gertrude B. O'Neal, by whom he has a family of four sons and three daughters. This lawyer, author and lecturer is grand secretary of the Free Masons for the state of Arkansas, in which state he is very popular.

THE DEPARTED YEAR. Old year! old year! that liest here So cold and stark upon thy bier,

I fold thy hands upon thy breast,
And pray for thee unbroken rest!
Gone, gone!-yea, gone! Thy breath with-
drawn!

Yet ere the rising of the dawn,
Like fickle courtiers, do we sing,

.. The king is dead! Long live the king!"
Away, away! In coffined clay
Such feeble source of strength doth lay,
We turn from those whose lips are dumb
To worship who succeeding come.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. I stand where the maid with the pale cold face And her palms together pressed,

Lies robed for her last abiding place,

For her sleep of endless rest.

And her marble cheek is as fair as the rose,

That at her throat there lies;

And death's unlovely presence shows
Nowhere but in her eyes.

Not the placid face, nor the shining hair,

But the vacant gaze alone;

And naught is left of the life that was there. Save the place where the brightness shown. For the light has gone from her bright blue

eye,

Where the soul was shining through; As a star fades out of a summer sky,

And only leaves the blue.

O earth in time bring forth the rose,
Bring bird and blossom rare,

To where she lies in soft repose
For she was passing fair.
Bring daisies and the violet's eyes,
Where swells the grassy sod,
As calm in settled peace she lies,
While her soul has gone to God.

HENRY TARRING ECKERT. BORN: NORTHUMBERLAND, PA., AUG. 20, 1842. THE poems of Mr. Eckert have appeared in the Detroit Free Press and other publications. He follows the occupation of a salesman.

DAWN.

Fly fair Aurora o'er the eastern hills,
Distill thy dews, flash in the silver rills,
Bid night and darkness flee before thy face,
And beauty dazzle at thy touch of grace.
Call forth again the orient god of day,
And bid him search with brightest fervid ray,
The darkest morass, glade, or noxious fen,
And gild with silver light the gloomiest glen.
Blot out the planets, veil the moon once more,
And touch with pearl the waves on many a

shore,

Gild with thy wand eternal peaks of snow, And flood with light the grateful world below.

JACOB W. GREENE.

BORN: HARRISON CO., IND., JAN. 18, 1839. SINCE 1861 Mr. Greene has been following the profession of a dental surgeon, and is now located at Chillicothe, Mo. He was married in 1863 to Miss Annie Eliza Pitt, of New Al

bany, Ind. Mr. Greene has written quite extensively for the periodical press; and in addition to his poems he has furnished prose writings on dental and other subjects. He has a work, Philosophies of Betsy Spoon, which he hopes to publish at an early date.

IN MEMORIAM.

What e'er be our portion in life, or its where,
We realize ever the golden bright truth,
That the points of the compass all radiate

there,

And center again at the home of our youth. And whether in mansion or hovel we dwelt, Companions' sweet faces and voices we found, Whose presence, like sunshine of summer, we

felt,

That star of the evening, still twinkling, reminds

Of the hills and the valleys and playmates so fair;

But one, of all others, like Venus, outshines In memory's sweetness, the rest that were there.

Dear Orree La Faivrie, were yet he on earth, Would prize much this story (excuse and defend

Its weakness of genius and beauty and worth)

Because it was written by the hand of His Friend.

HOPE TO THE RESCUE.

Oh! tell me not this flitting life is all

Is all there is in store for me;

"Twere better, indeed, I'd never lived at all

Than now that I should cease to be.

Away down deep beyond the ken of man,
In Nature's bosom hidden lies a plan
That finite minds can never scan;
Yet a kindly whisper of a low, sweet voice
Bids my consciousness within rejoice,
That nevertheless there is the decree
That I shall never cease to be.

The troubling where, the how, and the why Are details the Goddess of Hope passes by, As Supreme over reason she takes control, And proclaims the immortality of the soul. Yea: when the absurd creeds of men are

rotten,

And materialistic philosophies forgotten; When agnosticism is a hoary sage

And rules over a knowledge-lacking age: Still, then will Hope to the rescue arise And claim the part that never dies.

THE INDIAN FAIR. The scene: In early Southern Hoosierdom, Where 'possums, 'coons and hoop-poles grow, Amongst the clear Ohio's bluffs and glades, Where poets never were known to go. But why these musers always kept away Is difficult to understand;

For, ever, witches, fairies, ghosts-and spooks

Stood waiting 'round on every hand.

"Twixt knobs and hills and mossy, rocky cliffs,

Where panthers howled and hoo-owls hoo-ed,

around.

"Twas these gorgeous sunsets, with glamour afar.

Lit up the round heavens to the zenith above, And through the soft azure one bright evening star [love. Beamed first in its beauty and twinkles of

Where fairy lads and lasses wooed;

Where numerous Indian graves and dead

men's bones,

And arrow-flints, and quaint old mounds, Were proof that there where fairies often danced

Had once been known as battle grounds.

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ABBIE NELSIA PARTRIDGE.

BORN: LEBANON, ME., SEPT. 15, 1857. UNDER the nom de plume of Nelsia Bird this lady has written both prose and poetry for

ABBIE NELSIA PARTRIDGE.

numerous newspapers and magazines. She resides with her parents at Greenfield, N. H., where she has become quite popular.

CLOSED DOORS.

How often we utter a careless remark
When speaking of people we know.

.. They are odd or eccentric," is all that we say,

For the thoughts of their hearts do not show.

Perhaps there are reasons we never would dream,

That have made their lives what they are; Slumbering pity might wake, if to us had been given,

The door of their hearts to unbar. We see but the doing, and censure the deed, Without knowing the motive within. Could we see the true purpose, and fathom the why,

We might find in our heart lay the sin. Speak lightly of no one; let God be the judge; Our mission be good will to all;

Whatever we think, keeping guard o'er our

lips,

That no light, careless word from them fall. Though a kind word be lost, or a smile cast aside,

"Tis but little to lose on our way, And if some heart grows true by our kind, earnest words,

The one ransomed soul will repay.

WHO KNOWS?

Into grace, the lovely rose
By inherent impulse grows;
So the features are refined

By a pure and noble mind;

Vice and beauty never blend,

Were the thoughts some hand had penned.

Thoughtfully I turned away,
On the ground, beside me, lay
Wreck of once a lovely flower,
Now bereft of beauty's power.
Sheltered by a moss-decked stone,
I had found it blooming lone,

Plucked it for its beauty rare,
Brought it home with tenderest care.
Lovely, in my richest vase

I had given it honor's place,

But a friend, who knew the flowers'
Names, and natures, parts and powers,

Looking on my new-found prize,
Opened wide my blinded eyes:
..Oh, this fearful poison flower,
Blooming in your favorite bower!"
So the harmful beauty lay,
Hated, feared, and thrown away.
And I, musing o'er the rose,
Murmured sadly, .. Ah, who knows?"
Poison flowers our hands must soil,
Rich bouquets their presence spoil,
Just as beauty in the face,
Hides, of sin, the veriest trace.

THE TRAIN OF YEARS.
EXTRACT.

I think a vision comes to me.
On some lone height I seem to sit
And watch the moving throng. As the
Long train of years glide by, a glimpse
I catch of some familiar face,
That in the pleasant days gone by
Had journeyed with me for awhile,
And then was lost amid the throng
That waited for yet other trains,
To take them on their chosen way:
Those I had known in childhood's days,
And whose bright eyes, beaming with joy,
A moment gazed into my own,
And then was lost to view amid
The mass of human souls, each on
The purpose of his life intent.

MARY ELLEN BLANCHARD.

BORN: PEMBROKE, ME., MARCH 27, 1851. MISS Blanchard learned the trade of a typesetter in the office of Portland Advertiser, and has since worked in a number of Portland and

MARY ELLEN BLANCHARD.

Boston offices. Failing health obliged her to return to her father's home in Milltown, where she now resides. This writer is well known by her contributions to literary papers and magazines, and by A Story of Psyche and Other Poems, which appeared from her pen in 1885.

SEA CHARMED.

Sing thy song, O happy sea,

Lift to light thy mighty waves,
And keep ward incessantly
O'er thy dusky caves.

One there is, both deep and wide,
One there is, both wide and deep,
Where, alone yet satisfied

My beloved doth sleep; -
Sleep and smile in pallid calm
With the seaweed o'er her dress,
And one soft and veined arm
Swept by richest tress.

On her lily lids the light

Never falis with pressure rude, Nor do restless winds at night Vex her solitude;

Though with wizard charm they whirl Swiftly round her coral bed,

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MY HEART GOES ROUND THE WORLD SAILING.

My heart goes round the world sailing,

However the winds may blow,

And searches with tears from clime to clime

For the love of long ago;

Goes round the world, round the world sail

ing,

With passion its pulse to thrill,

All round the world, round the world sailing,

In quest of the old love still.

My heart goes round the world sailing,

As ever in days gone by

Did Fancy sail in her airy ship

To the realms where treasures lie: Goes searching the cold world o'er and o'er, Wherever fond wish may go,

And calls through the length of desert years-
For what years cannot bestow.

Calls to the sea that's swept by storm,
Till its billows roar with pain;
And call to the wind-vexed mountain height
Tha frowns on the tranquil plain;
But never the sea gives back response
To the words that burn as fire,
And the mount uprears in silent scorn
Of the dole of vain desire.

Yet a-sailing and a-sailing,

Through storm and through suramer shine, Shall go my heart with a fearless trust Till that joy again is mine;

All round the world, round the world sailing,
Till it faint at last with years,

And learn how idle are human hopes,
And how unavailing, tears.

My heart, around the world sailing,
Hoping and worshiping still,

Will seek that love of the olden time

Till death shall the dream fulfill; All round the world, round the world sailing, With patience that mocks at woe,

All round the world, round the world sailing, However the winds may blow!