From the dawn of day, to the set of sun, And oft till the noon of night comes onThey will toil, and drudge, and traffic and trade,

Will blast in the mines, or delve with the spade,

Will peril their health and lavish their time, And worry and pinch -- for a dollar, or dime, And deem they have rendered their lives sublime

By hoarding up gold-if- when they are old

And their funeral knell is about being tolled, They have stocks and lands - by heirs to be sold.

953

DR. AMASA S. CONDON.

BORN: PENOBSCOT, ME., DEC. 22, 1846. Dr. CONDON served as a volunteer in the civil war, and is now an active member of the Grand Army of the Republic. In 1875 he was appointed one of the surgeons of the Union

DR. AMASA S. CONDON.

Those days come back, those days when War's red hand

Wove cypress o'er the thresholds of the land For brave, strong men, who nevermore return,

To weeping Rachels whose belov'd and lost
They offered as a people's holocaust
And made of hearths a sacrificial urn.

This sad recurring day serenely warms
The recollection, and familiar forms

Throw offered the grave's dull ceremental rust.

We hear and know their voices as of old
And grasp their hand outstretched, nor feel

Painting the soldier's tent with timorous light,

While silhouette sentries pace the lonely

scene.

I feel the spell of sadness brooding down,
And graveyard gloom pervades my native

town,

O'erspreading all the rural country side, But I only hear through twilight deepening still

The cricket and the plantive whip-poor-will, And murmurs from the Ocean's rising tide. Like some fair morn that wakes in leafy June To Boreal frosts and Winter's sunless noon, And snows that sting, and bitter winds that blow

So woke to wrath the Nation's Summer way,
When men were met in battles fierce array,
And foe crossed swords with hate-inspiring
foe.

Thus fell the day when every heart stood still
Beneath the rod of Fate's imperious will,
As thundering from the Southern clouds afar
We heard the roaring cannon of Bull Run,
Telling the awful wage of strife was on,
Nor knew the end of this remorseless war.

954

We're with them now in the elm-shaded home,

And waiting with dread for the news to come,
Detailing the list of immortal dead. [grief
There's wringing of hands and impatient
And hearts are breaking for tears of relief,
And silent and bow'd is the silvery head.
But Peace has come down and the old home
still

Is charmed by the song of the whip-poor-will,
As he tunes his voice to a happier key.
And we, each year, when the day comes round,
Engarland the graves in the Holy Ground
Where they sleep who died for you and me.

CORA ADELE MATSON.

BORN: IRA, N.Y., JAN. 7, 1859.

THE poems of this lady have appeared in the Chicago Current, and other publications. She has also written a number of songs that have

CORA ADELE MATSON.

been set to music and published by Oliver Ditson and Co. Miss Matson has written a volume of verse entitled As The Cardinal Flower, which will appear in 1890.

TO-DAY, TO-NIGHT, TO-MORROW.

I know that in another room Shut out by folds of curtained gloom Awaits the strange, the ever-sweet to-morrow; [row And that some gleam of brightness I may borTo cheer and lighten my to-day,

I watch and wait the curtain's sway.
But only see its upper darkness lift

By gleaming points, that seem, at first to flit
Then steady glow and charm me into sleep.
And when I waken at the curtain's sweep
Toward the fast fading gleams I see it rolled
To find its darkness lined with rosy gold.
Shut out no longer by the gloom
I cross the threshold of the room
To clasp my glad, my strange, my sweet to-
morrow.

But with my arms around her, find in sorrow,
With curtained night she fled away
And left me but the old to-day.

TIRED.

Alone in the dreariness that lies beyond
The midnight hour;

Vainly I ask of the darkness to send
Down sleep's own flower;
Poppies, white poppies the lids to charm
O'er tear-hot eyes,

And lend to the sadness of yester's fate
A sweet disguise.

MRS. MARTHA P. SMITH. BORN: NORTH CONWAY, N. H., SEPT. 29, 1836. THIS lady is a stanch advocate of temperance, and some of her productions are found in the temperance department of Woman in Sacred Song. She has written extensively for Potter's

MRS. MARTHA P. SMITH.

Monthly, Peterson's Magazine and the periodical press generally. She was married in 1859 to Edson Rollin Smith, and resides with her family in Le Seuer, Minn. Both the prose and verse from the pen of this lady have been well received, and she has already gained a national reputation in the world of literature.

MINNEHAHA.

Cease from laughter, Minnehaha,
Hold in check your gleeful flood,
Hear you not that bitter wailing?
Lo, the land is soaked with blood.
Where is pretty little Jenny?
Laughing-eyed and sweet was she;
Like a robin, she was merry,

As the breeze, from care was free.
Where is little whistling Tommy?
Where is Freddy with his song?
O, they kept the prairies ringing
All the pleasant summer long.
Where is precious baby Lily

With her smiles and dimples sweet? Why so empty stands her cradle

In the cottage once so neat.

Wring your hands, O, Minnehaha!
Weep, and wail their dreadful fate;
The land but yesterday so smiling
Lieth black and desolate.

Stand aghast in speechless sorrow
For your little playmates slain;
Lo, the children's tangled ringlets
Lie neglected on the plain.

STILL THE BIRDS SING.

Stout hearts break, are crushed and die,
Still, the birds sing;

On the sea rocks sad shipwrecks lie,
Still, the birds sing.

Storms roll over the frothing main,
Hope's star fadeth in mist and rain,
Love goes seeking her own in vain;
Still, the birds sing.

Spring's sweet blossoms will fade away,
Still, the birds sing;

Surely night will follow the day,

Still, the birds sing.

Birds have troubles as well as I,

Wind and tempest their small hearts try, Nests are scattered, and birdlings die; Still, the birds sing.

To-morrow will bring both work and care, Still, the birds sing;

To-morrow will bring each bird its share,
Still, the birds sing,

Days once vanished come not again,
Heaven may count my loss as gain,
O, to be cheerful even in pain,
And, as the birds, sing.

A CONVICTION. The blood of kings flows in my veins, I feel it coursing warm;

'Tis pure and blue; Who dares to doubt it-oh blind dolt Shall live to yield it homage due. A throne awaits me-this I know By signs unfailing, sure;

This inward sense

Of power is not a myth to cheat, It is a living truth intense.

A BOUQUET.

Violets blue,-blue as June's soft skies,-
Blue- just the blue of Ethel's eyes.
Roses red, red with summer sunsets' bliss,-
Red as the lips and cheeks I kiss.

Lilies white,-white as an angel's wing,-
White as the soul of Ethel King,

This beauteous trinity I wear

On my heart with this one prayer,-
"Though time will rose and violet blight,
God keep the lily always white.'

MRS. ELLEN JAKEMAN.

BORN: BEAVER, UTAH, MARCH 7, 1859. THE poems of this lady have appeared in the Woman's Journal, Western Galaxy and the periodical press generally, and in 1887 Mrs. Jakeman published The Border Scout, a long

None lovely seemed but the one ungained,
She threw them down with a careless hand.
She bared her feet to the cutting sand,
The water cold that she dreaded more,
And seized the shell with an eager hand,
And brine-bespattered she sought the shore.
Delusive water! delusive light!

For ashen dim in her palm it lay.
The beauty vanished, but now so bright,
She flung it with deep disgust away.
Soft came the chime of the vesper bells,
In minor strains sang the restless sea;
She blithely sought her discarded shells,
And homeward went o'er the grassy lea.
I bitterly said: "Is my life like this?"
I cast all treasures of youth away,
I bartered my soul for a dream of bliss,
Whose roseate hues turned dim and gray.
'Tis thus, yet not like the child at play,
If false, love dooms us to endless pain;
The treasures of youth once thrown away,
We may not gather them up again.

A little maiden with wind-blown hair,
Was straying 'lone on a summer beach,
She saw a shell like a jewel rare,

Slow swept by wavelets out of her reach. The waves swept in, and the waves swept out, Among the rocks where it found a home, And softly floated the shell about;

The margin bordered with pearls of foam. She viewed the treasure with longing eyes; A shell so lovely is seldom seen; It had the tintings of rainbowed skies, In crimson, violet, gold and green. For hours she strayed with joy unfeigned, To gather shells from the shining sand;