WILLIAM GRANT BROOKS.

THIS poet and composer of music has contributed quite a few gems to the periodical

In my dreams I go back to the old-fashioned homestead,

And roam once again o'er the meadows so green,

WILLIAM GRANT BROOKS. Boston, Mass., have published several of his songs in sheet music form. Mr. Brooks resides in the state of Maine at Waco.

MOTHER'S SWEET SMILES ARE HAUNTING ME STILL.

I've been through the palace, I've seen crystal fountains,

I've heard the low music of pleasure's sweet strain;

But it cannot compare with my home in the mountains.

O give me the scene of my childhood again. How often I've sat near the old-fashioned portal,

And watched the bright sun sink away 'neath

the hill,

And often I think of my dear aged mother, Whose smiles all these years have been haunting me still, CHO.-I've followed the plowshare, I've sailed on the river, [the hill; Heard the horn of the hunter resound o'er But brighter by far are the fond recollections,

Of mother's sweet smiles, they are haunting me still.

land,

Or sit by the banks of the clear running

stream.

How pleasant it was when the day's work

was over,

The shadows of evening were fast coming on, To sit 'round the organ, in one family circle, And all of our voices were blended in song. Those old happy moments have passed by forever,

And all of the dear ones have gone on before; But still in my dreams they are hovering

near me,

And beckoning me to that beautiful shore.
I love the old homestead, with all of its mem-

ories,

And never a pleasanter place shall I see, Until I join hands with the dear ones in heaven,

Then that will be sweeter than all else to me.

A MAN CAN BE HONEST IF HE'S EVER SO POOR.

On a cold winter's day, through the deepdrifted snow,

[go,

A beggar was wandering the street,
He was ragged and weary, he'd no place to
He was longing for something to eat. [long
He had tried to get food nearly all the day
But they turned him away from their door,
And he rather would die of starvation than
steal.

He was honest although he was poor.
With his heart nigh discouraged, he wended
his way,

Unheeded by young or the old, [gar's eyes, When a wonderful sight met this poor begOn the snow lay a purse full of gold.

The tempter said keep it, you're hungry you know,

And the rich man has got a lot more; [find, But the beggar said No! the right owner I'll I'll be honest, although I am poor.

The keen pangs of hunger still gnawed at

his breast,

How he longed for one mouthful of bread, But they turned him away, tho' 'twas for the last time,

Ere the morning this beggar was dead.
With naught but the stars to watch o'er him,
He had passed to that beautiful shore,
Where the angels, with hearts full of love,
welcomed home

This beggar, although he was poor.

JOHN W. FITZMAURICE.

BORN: ISLAND OF CAPE BRETON, 1833. COMING to Michigan in 1865, Mr. Fitzmaurice was the same year ordained in the village of Bedford, where he served as pastor of the Congregational Church for three years. Since then he has filled pastorates at Pinckney and Bridgeport, when he left the ministry

JOHN W. FITZMAURICE.

to become a journalist. In 1871 Mr. Fitzmaurice was associate editor of the Saginaw Daily and weekly Courier, and four years later took charge of the city editorship of the Daily Enterprise; he next occupied a position on the Daily Herald. He was very prominent in the red ribbon temperance revival of 1879, and lectured for two years in Michigan, Ontario, Ohio and New York. Mr. Fitzmaurice returned to journalism in 1888 as editor of the Industrial News of Jackson, and is now a writer on the staff of the Daily Evening Courier of the same place. He has published a prose work of four hundred pages and also a series of sketches. He was married in 1855 and has a family grown to maturity.

A MEDITATION.

Hail! to thee, day with precious memories fraught,

With thoughts of home and reunited ties:

Where grateful incense from all altars riseMarking our countless blessings unforgotA people at a common altar bow,

To pay a Nation's God a Nation's heartfelt

VOW.

Fresh from the heat of bloodless strife they

come,

The conqueror with the conquered o'er our land

The day to honor-hand warm clasping hand;
The partisan shout, the noisy clamor dumb,
Or vocal only with Thanksgiving song,
To whom to a Nation's thanks belong.
Around the plenteous board in festive glee,
The loved ones in the home-nest gathered are;
From babe to white-haired sire-from near

and far,

The son or daughter- from vocation freeStand grouped about home's holy hearthstone fires,

Each heart surcharged with joy the day inspires.

Wise was the edict from our fathers sent
To thus perpetuate a day of feast and praise,
Commemorative of the bounteous harvest
days-

In pious hearts conceived, where rigid custom bent,

To make Thanksgiving all the term implies,
And praise a loving Father with united voice.
If thanks could thus be given years ago
By pilgrims isolated far from home or
friends;
[fiends,
Hemmed in by sea and storm and savage
How should our hearts God's lasting kind-

ness show?

Who fills each soul with love, each home with cheer,

And crown'd with mercies are each circling year.

No voice of war's alarm disturbs our joy: No woe-draped nation ours to mourn our loss:

No epidemic's scourge hath o'er our borders crossed,

But ours a lasting peace without alloy; Tuning each voice in one Thanksgiving psalm;

Soothing each storm-toss'd soul to peace and calm.

O brothers of one common mother lovedSweet Liberty-who with us finds her homeOur hands up-arched, forming the mighty dome,

Of liberty's grand temple-never to be moved Shall we not meet to-day in brotherly em

brace,

And from each heart all bitterness efface?

Around each board let cheerful welcome

reign;

Within each heart let kindly wishes rest-
While gifts of good things sent to those less
bless'd,
[acclaim-

Shall fill their saddened souls with glad
Thanking the giver of the timely gifts,
To songless ones whose voice in praises lifts.
America's great day to thee all hail! [brown;
Puddings robust with turkeys crisp and
Mince pies and doughnuts rich thy tables
crown;
[ed ale;
Rosy-cheeked apples flanked by home brew-
While tale and song steal swift the hours
[ing Day.
Spanning the brief allotment of Thanksgiv-
Long may our land thy hallowed presence see
As yearly comes thy advent to our home-
Calling again to roof tree those who roam;
Bright in all coming years thy presence be,
With golden memories, serving still to cheer,
The now unborn hosts who then may sojourn
here.

away,

ANNA C. SCANLON.

1

BORN: MT. HOPE, WIS., OCT. 26, 1864. FOR a while Miss Scanlon taught school. She still resides in her native state at Mt.

ANNA CATHERINE SCANLON. Ida. Her poems have appeared in the Washington Post, Catholic Mirror, Church News and other publications.

LIFE S HOURS.

Infant hours- unconscious hours,
Feeling neither storms nor showers,
Sailing by a sheltered lea

Toward Eternity's vast sea!
All too soon the pebbly shore
Fades to reappear no more!
Soon the unconscious hours are gone,
But the bark glides smoothly on.
Hours of childhood-happy hours,
When our bark bedecked with flowers
Keeps its course beside the land,
Rocking gayly o'er the strand!
Zephyrs gently stir the sails,
Forecast of the fitful gales
That its later course annoy,

And the storms that may destroy!

Hours of youth-more trying hours,
When from out the scented bowers,
First our bark sails through the shades
And life's morning freshness fades!
Then the light more brightly glows,
And life's stream more quickly flows,
Then its storms begin to rise
Darkening up the noon-day skies.
Hours of manhood-working hours,
When no more are scented flowers
For to cast the glittering spray
Lightly o'er the troubled way;
But the wild and savage gale
Fiercely rends the life-boat's sail,
And the roaring waters crave

A new victim for their grave!

Hours of age - triumphant hours,
When we first beheld the towers
Of the world from out whose bourne
Weary pilgrims ne'er return!

On through darkness and through gloom
Glides the bark into the tomb!

And the pilgrim sinks to sleep

On the bosom of the deep!

IN THE CITY.

EXTRACT.

Out of the peace and the quiet
Into the noise and the riot,

Into the great city's glare.

Out of the fields and the clover,

With the blue skies hanging over,

Into the dull leaden air!

This is what men call the city
Where live the learned and witty,
Where dwell the rich and the proud!
Here are the poor and the lowly,
Here are the good and unholy
Passing unknown in the crowd!