767

MRS. S. ISADORE MINER. BORN: BATTLE CREEK, MICH., SEPT. 25, 1863. GRADUATING at the age of seventeen, this lady then took up the avocation of school teaching until her marriage in 1884 to J. Weston Miner. Her husband being connected with the Battle Creek Review and Herald publishing house, Mrs. Miner was engaged as

MRS. S. ISADORE MINER.

a proof-reader, and finally as a writer, editing a large share of the work on a series of children's books issued from that office. Her poems have been widely published in St. Nicholas, Wide Awake, and the periodical press gener ally. She still follows the profession of editor and writer at Battle Creek, Mich., and is connected with the Good Health Publishing Company of that city.

OLD SCORES REPAID, OR TRAGEDY
REVERSED.

I met a tearful little lass;

She sobbed so hard I could not pass;

I wondered so thereat;

Oh, dry your tears, my pretty child,
Pray tell me why you grieve so wild?"
"A-mouse-ate-up-my-cat!"
"A mouse ate up your cat!" I cried,
To think she'd fib quite horrified:
..Why, how can you say that?"
Her tears afresh began to run,

She sobbed the words out, one by one:
It-was-a-candy-cat!"

THE LITTLE YOUNG MEN IN GOLD. Outside the nursery window,

Before the spring was old,

I found one morn, as I chanced to pass, Standing straight and tall in the tender grass, A little young man in gold.

He was a saucy urchin,

His look was bright and bold;

Yet he nodded so blithe when he caught my

eye,

That I kissed my hand as I bade good bye

To the little young man in gold.

Next time I crossed the terrace,

I turned me from my way

To visit the sprite, but a marvelous change Some fairy had wrought, and there stood, oh strange!

A little old man in gray!

Inside the nursery window

Is the dearest thing I hold,

With brightest of eyes, and a saucy air,

And a wonderful wealth of golden hair,

My little young man in gold.

Next time he begged a story,

A wonderful tale I told,

How out in the sunshine and fragrant dew, A dear flower-brother there one time grew

To my little young man in gold.

And then I wondered sadly

If ever I'd see the day

When my little young man with golden hair Would be like the dandelion standing there,A little old man with gray!

I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED!

I don't want to go to bed;

I aint sleepy, not one bit;

I don't want to go till dark,
And the lamps are lit!
Chickens go to bed 'fore dark?
I don't care if chickens do;
I aint one, and taint the same,
'Cause the hens go, too.

I aint sleepy, not one bit;
If I was, I wouldn't care;
But I see queer things awake,
Sometimes looks most like a bear.
I aint noddin', Johnnie Gray;
You stop saying that I do;
Guess if you worked hard all day,
Your head would get wiggley, too.
Oh! there's prickers in my feet,
Why, the chair keeps going 'round
Mamma, take your little girl,—
And the pet was sleeping sound.
So we tucked her in her crib,
There to dream 'till broad daylight;
Then up to play around all day,

And sing the same old song at night.

REV. HENRY PETTY.

writer. He resides in his native state at Chatham, where he is very popular as a minister of the gospel.

ROBERT ELSMERE.

Pity a woman's heart,

Should go so far astray,

From all that's truly wise and good, That blessed good, old way.

Pity a woman's head,

With fantasies so full,

Should ever such a multitude
So egregiously gull.

Pity a woman's hands,

Should pen such caustic lore, And strive to undermine the faith Of loved ones gone before. Pity a woman's tongue,

Ungraciously should say,

That Christ as God is but a myth, And miracles away."

Pity a woman's eyes,

Should so distorted be,

As not in Christ the Holy One,
The blessed Savior see.

MY MOTHER.

She was my dearest earthly joy,
So gentle, kind and good,

To serve her was my sweet employ,

In whatever way I could.

But since her voice in death is hushed,

My heart in sadness pines,

My spirit bruised, and almost crushed, Toward heaven now inclines.

For well I know my mother dwells

Within a mansion fair,

At thought of which my bosom swells, With longings to be there.

"Tis sweet to know that toil and pain,

Will one day have an end,

And there if I should Heaven gain,
Eternity I'll spend.

In company with loved ones dear,
And with the angels bright,
Free from all want, and slavish fear,
Free too from sin's dark blight.

With sainted ones I'll gladly tread,
The streets all paved with gold,
No foe can make us then afraid,
Within God's heavenly fold.

We'll strike our harps in sweet accord,
Together round the throne,

And glorify our blessed Lord,
For what His grace has done.

Oh! mother dear, though far away,
Methinks I see thee now,
Treading along the shining way,

A crown upon thy brow.

While I beset by sin must tread, Life's ragged pathway o'er, Trembling with doubt, and oft afraid, I'll miss the shining shore.

Oh! Father, as Thou seest best,

Do Thou my footsteps guide, That I at last may sweetly rest, Beyond Time's swelling tide.

JOHN JAMES PIATT.

769

BORN: MILTON, IND., MARCH 1, 1835.

AT fourteen he was placed at the printing

business, and subsequently took a course of study in two colleges. In 1859 he was a contributor to the Louisville Journal. He served as clerk in the U. S. treasury department for six years, when he became connected successively with the Chronicle and Commercial of Cincinnati. In 1871 he became librarian of the house of representatives at Washington, and in 1882 was appointed cousul at Cork, Ireland. His poems are numerous, Poems in Sunshine and Firelight, Idyls and Lyrics, and Poems of House and Home being most widely read.

THE GRAVE OF ROSE.

I came to find her blithe and bright,
Breathing the household full of bloom,
Wreathing the fireside with delight; —
I found her in her tomb!

I came to find her gathering flowers,

Their fragrant souls, so pure and dear, Haunting her face in lonely hours; — Her single flower is here!

For, look: the gentle name that shows
Her love, her loveliness, and bloom,
Her only epitaph a rose,

Is growing on her tomb!

TWO WATCHERS.

Two ships sail on the ocean;

Two watchers walk the shore: One wrings wild hands and cries "Farewell for evermore."

One sees, with face uplifted,

Soft homes of dream her eyes, Her sail, beyond the horizon, Reflected in the skies!

SARAH MORGAN B. PIATT.

BORN: LEXINGTON, KY., AUG. 11, 1836. This noted lady graduated at Henry female college in Newcastle, Ky., in 1854, and married John James Piatt, the great American poet, in 1861. Her early poems appeared in the Louisville Journal and the New York Ledger. Her most known volumes of verse are A Woman's Poems, An Irish Garland, Selected Poems, and Child's-World Ballads.

AFTER WINGS.

This was your butterfly, you see. His fine wings made him vain?The caterpillars crawl, but he Pass'd them in rich disdain?My pretty boy says, "Let him be Only a worm again?"

A PRETTIER BOOK.

He has a prettier book than this,"
With many a sob between, he said;
Then left untouched the night's last kiss,
And, sweet with sorrow, went to bed.
A prettier book his brother had?—

Yet wonder-pictures were in each.
The different colors made him sad;
The equal value- could I teach?
Ah, who is wiser? . . . Here we sit,
Around the world's great hearth,and look,
While Life's fire-shadows flash and flint,
Each wistful in another's book.

I see, through fierce and feverish tears,
Only a darkened hut in mine:
Yet in my brother's book appears
A palace where the torches shine.
A peasant, seeking bitter bread
From the unwilling earth to wring,
Is in my book; the wine is red,

There in my brother's, for the king.
A wedding, where each wedding-guest
Has wedding garments on, in his,-
In mine one face in awful rest,

One coffin never shut, there is! In his, on many a bridge of beams

Between the faint moon and the grass,
Dressed daintily in dews and dreams,

The fleet midsummer fairies pass;
In mine unearthly mountains rise,
Unearthly waters foam and roll,
And stared at by its deathless eyes-
The master sells the flend a soul!
Put out the lights. We will not look
At pictures any more.
We weep,
"My brother has a prettier book,"
And, after tears, we go to sleep.

770

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

BORN: STRONG, ME., OCT. 9, 1832. THIS lady was first married to Paul Akers, the sculptor, who died in 1861, and four years later she was married to E. M. Allen, of New York. In 1855 she published a volume of verse, entitled Forest Buds, and three years later became a contributor to the Atlantic Monthly. In 1866 a collection of her poems was published in Boston. It was in this volume the poem, Rock Me to Sleep Mother, first appeared, which has since been set to music as a popular song by several composers. Mrs. Allen is a constant contributor to periodical literature.

GOING TO SLEEP.

The light is fading down the sky,
The shadows grow and multiply;

I hear the thrushes' evening song:
But I have borne with toil and wrong
So long, so long!

Dim dreams my drowsy senses drown,So, darling, kiss my eyelids down!

My life's brief spring went wasted by, My summer ended fruitlessly;

I learned to hunger, strive and wait:
I found you, love,-O happy fate! -
So late, so late!

Now all my fields are turning brown,-
So, darling, kiss my eyelids down!
O blessed sleep! O perfect rest!
Thus pillowed on your faithful breast.
Nor life nor death is wholly drear,
O tender heart, since you are here,-
So dear, so dear!
Sweet love! my soul's sufficient crown?
Now, darling, kiss my eyelids down!

FORGOTTEN.

In this dim shadow, where

She found the quiet which all tired hearts crave Now, without grief or care,

The wild bees murmur, and the blossoms wave, And the forgetful air

Blows heedlessly across the grassy grave.

Yet, when she lived on earth,

She loved this leafy dell, and knew by name All things of sylvan birth;

Squirrel and bird chirped welcome, when she

came;

Yet now, in careless mirth,

They frisk, and build, and warble all the same. From the great city near,

Wherein she toiled through life's incessant quest

For weary year on year,

Come the fair voices of its deep unrest

To touch her dead, deaf car,

And surge unechoed o'er her pulseless breast. The hearts which clung to her Have sought out other shrines, as all hearts must,

When Time, the comforter, Has worn their grief out, and replaced their trust:

Not even neglect can stir This little handful of forgotten dust.

Grass waves, and insects hum,
And then the snow blows bitterly across;
Strange foorsteps go and come,
Breaking the dew-drops on the starry moss;
She lieth, still and dumb,
Counting no longer either gain or loss.
Ah, well,-'tis better so;

Let the dust deepen as the years increase;
Of her who sleeps below

Let the name perish, and the memory cease,
Since she has come to know
That which through life she vainly prayed for,
- Peace!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER. BORN: PHILADELPHIA, PA., OCT. 6, 1823. GEORGE is the son of a wealthy banker in Philadelphia, was graduated at Princeton în 1842, and studied law, but did not practice. In 1847, after his return from a tour in Europe, he published The Lesson of Life and Other Poems, and the following year he wrote a tragedy, which was brought out on the English stage. He next produced in succession Anne Boleyn, Leonor de Guzman, and Francesca da Rimini. Among his other plays are The Betrothal, and The Widow's Marriage. Two volumes of Plays and Poems appeared in 1856; Poems of the War in 1864, and several other volumes in quick succession. He has been United States minister to Turkey, and also to Russia. Mr. Boker's latest work is a volume of sonnets which appeared in 1886.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER
Close his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars?
What but death bemocking folly?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!

MRS. M. P. A. CROZIER.

BORN: RICHMOND CENTRE, N. Y, FEB. 23, 1834. THIS lady was educated at Bloomfield academy and at New York Central college. At the age of 19 she became the wife of Rev. Owen R. L. Crozier, and they removed to Grand

THE POET IN JUNE.

771

'Tis bliss to have the poet's heart
That loves the quietude of things,
Where nature smiles her bidden rocks,
And brings out sweet and cooling springs.
The June-green grass beneath my feet,
The dandelion's disk of gold,
The corn's slim spire just pushing out
From clean brown beds of kindly mold.

Bid welcome as I pass along

The harvest way across the lea;
While songs of birds are in my soul,
And eyes of flowers make love to me.
Down in the meadow's gliding stream
The children splash their snowy feet,
And all their laughter comes to me
Across the fields of growing wheat.

THE HOMESTEAD.

The years, like humming birds,
Just poised a moment on the wing,
To sip the nectar from the cup

Of life's sweet offering;

The homestead's old familiar halls,

The grassy meadow where I played, The orchard with its melting fruit, And soft refreshing shade;

The blacksmith-shop where, all day long, My noble father toiled and sang, Where in the morning and at eve,

The music of the anvil rang;

The garden with its spreading vines,
Its roses and its daffodils;
The dark old forest in the east;
Beyond the heaven-aspiring hills.

LITTLE ILLS.

I question, if to bear the greater ills
God sends, we need the greater grace.
The ceaseless coming of those little cares,
The ceaseless toiling through the weary days,
Tire out the soul and make us half forget
That it is sin to worry so and fret.

We brace ourselves against a gathering storm,

Lie prone when desert blasts sweep o'er the

land;

We meet great flames with fires we light ourselves,

And on the brown, burnt sward securely stand:

But thorns that pierce us as we gather flowers Teach us we lack the grace we thought was

ours.

GIFTS.

I stand in the orchard's deepest shade,
The blackberry fields before me,
And smell the sweet of the apple fruit
That hangs in the branches o'er me.
But it hangs so high- I can not reach
The golden fruit above me;

I can only go to the berry-fields
To pick for those who love me.
Blackberries ripe, blackberries sweet-
But oh, for the golden apples!

I covet for you the high-hung fruit
Which the yellow sunshine dapples.

But take the berries, my friend, with love,
For love is the sweet of living.

And it may be the fruit from the loftiest boughs

Would not be worth the giving.