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still resides in Michigan at Weston. Mrs. Wyman has written more than one thousand poems, many of which have appeared in tim Detroit Free Press and other prominent journals.

In bitterness we murmured, ..Life is hard And death is better," was our anguished cry, But 'twas not, for God knoweth best; [see 'Twas his will that we should live to feel and The workings of his All-wise Providence. And we have seen it, yes; the great New

South,” Like Phenix hath from ashes had her birth And sitteth now in beauty, calm, serene, Of all earth's lands the fairest and the best. She loves the busy North, and he to her The kiss of peace hath given; forevermore One interest shall they have, one nation be. And I, with all the veterans that remain Of those who followed the grand hero, Lee, No longer cherish enmity 'gainst those Who with victorious Grant our flag received. And called us conquered. Now, instead, Our hands extended they have warmly

clasped And all, as brethren fond, one country love, One flag – the stars and stripes - all proudly wave,

[sung One God we serve - to him high praise be For all the wonders of His love and power.

THOUGHTS.
I sat me down this evening

A little while to rest;
The golden sun was setting

Slowly in the west. Methought my sun is sinking

For I am growing old, And every night I'm nearer

The city paved with gold. The days to me grow shorter

As time flies swiftly on;
The weeks and monthis seem moments.

So fast they pass along.
Sweet childhood hours so pleasant,

Bright school days all are gone;
Many dear loved schoolmates

Have to their graves been borne.

MRS. SARAH E. WYMAN.

BORN: SHELBY, N. Y., Nov. 19, 1837. IN 1852 this lady removed to Michigan, where

BABY'S GONE TO SCHOOL.
Baby's gone to school to-day,
How I miss her in her play;
Out upon the noisy street
Sister guides her tiny feet.

My baby's gone to school.
I am lonely, this is why
I cannot work, tho' oft I try,
For I miss the little face
And I look for her embrace.

My baby's gone to school.
Kitty is very quiet here,
No one here to pull her ear;
Balls and strings, she cares for none,
Till our darling, home will come.

To-day she went to school.
Tell me mothers, tell me true,
Do you miss your darling so;
Do you list for pattering feet,
Out upon the noisy street?
When baby's gone to school.

ACROSTIC.
Truth its motto, now and over,
Heeding nothing but the right.
Earnest ever too, and fearless,
Only striving with its might
Both to please and to instruct us;
Scorning every base design,
Ever searching for improvement,
Ready, never to malign.
Vaunting, not eschewing eril,
Eager to become a friend,
Ready all the news to lend.

[graphic]

MRS. SARAH ELIZABETH WYMAN. she taught school for many years. She was married in 1859 to James M. Wyman, and

REV. MILO HOBART. BORN: OSWEGO Co., N.Y., DEC. 22, 1831. For thirty-five years Rev, Milo Hobart bos been a minister of the gospel, and has preached in ten states of the union, He was three years in the federal army in the 124th Regt.

For what she thinks, says or does, Is for happiness of those In the dear happy Home. Father goes to his daily toil, Nor from tasks does he recoil, Yields not though work is burdensome; In weather fair or in storm, Until night, from early morn, Toils to make a happy Home. Does joy, peace and health abound, And no bitter feelings found, As the years go and come: When parents with children vie, And children with parents try To keep pure the happy Home. When comes afriction's hour, And Sorrow's cup running o'er, Puts its touch upon some one; When each with the others vie, And all with their utmost try To show love in that Home.

[graphic]

What meaneth that bitter cry?
What meaneth that leaving sigli?
Of orphan in his room.
We're sad indeed say they.
And thus it must truly be,
For they are without Home.
We all should be good and kind
To the needy ones we find,
And help them every one;
They will love us the more
When we show the open door
To a kind and happy Home.

REV. MILO HOBART.

III. Vol. Inf., part of which time he was in the hospital department. Mr. Hobart was married in 1865 to Miss Mary Johnston, who died in 1889, and he now resides with his family in Rogers, Arkansas.

THE MOTHER.

EXTRACT.

THE HOME. Live we in house of splendor, Or in the hut so slender, So to it, by right, we come; We haste to it when glad, We flee to it when sad, Because it is our Home.

Hark to the joyous cbatter
And to the merry clatter,
Of children so frolicsome;
They are gay from morn till night
As they play with will and might,
In their own precious Home.

A creature of utter helplessness
Cast into the lap of Time:
In this world as if sent from some other;
In darkest hours of midnight,
In brightest day of sunshine, -
Cared for by a tender Mother.
In tenderest years of childhood,
When greatest watchfulness needed;
When joys and sorrows blend together,
When many little heartaches do come;
When a stranger's care goes unheeded
Then none can take the place of Mother.
In the slippery paths of youth,
Bent on the gaieties of the world,
When wrong all right feelings would smother,
When the tempter's snare is laid
To entrap and beguile to evil ways,
Then a safe defender is Mother.

The mother toils, plans, contrives, And with constant labor strives, Nor thinks her work burdensome:

DR. CYRUS A. BARTOL.

BORN: FREEPORT, ME., APRIL 30, 1813. At the expiration of his theological studies Mr. Bartol at once entered the ministry. In 1836 he was minister at large in Boston, and the following year settled at West Church,

Better than Cain or Abel brought

My firstlings from the ledgy field, I miss the punctual shrine I sought;

The altar sinks, the tomb is sealed. O faithless heart, the roses say,

As to his band the Master said, The soul in dust will never stay!

Have we not risen from the dead? Are there no pastures o'er my fence,

Clearings and groves I cannot spy? Far as may go this glassy sense,

Untraveled windeth still the sky. Each plant's ascension here below

Foreshows full paradise above: An upper spring for truth we sow,

A blossom from each grain of love.

[graphic][merged small]

HORTENSE CORA JACKSON. AT THE age of twenty Miss Jackson commenced to write for the press, since which time she has contributed extensively both prose and verse to current literature. Her father was a man of great literary ability, and for years was an editor and publisher.

BITTER-SWEET.
O! dreams of the beautiful Past,
Why haunt ye my memory still?
Bright visions that never could last
Why come ye my lone heart to thrill?
Ah! if I might always forget -
Or forever thy memory retain.
'Tis sad to forget thee, and yet
Remembrance but bringeth new pain.
Bright dreams of the sunny Gone By,"
Fond hopes I have cherished so long,
Why fade ye as flow'rets die,
Crushed by the world's busy throng.
'Tis only the hearts that have bled,
The pity we ask can bestow,
For out of Hope's ashes though dead
The fairest of flowers oft grow.
Sometime in the future I know
This tempest of sorrow will cease;
The turbulent waters of woe
Give place to the rivers of Peace.
Sometime to my heart I shall clasp
My childhood's, my womanhood's prize,
No more to be torn from my grasp,
No more to be veiled from mine eyes.
By faith in the distance I see
This storm-cloud of grief roll away,
Revealing in beauty to me
The glorious light of new day.
No more for the Past will I wecp,
No fears can the Future annoy,
From tears I have sown I shall reap
A bountiful harvest of joy.

WILD ROSES.
On nature's clock that runs a year,

Whose hands steal on to strike no bell, Wild roses once again appear,

Winsome as poets cannot tell. But where is she that loved these flowers,

For whom I plucked them every day? The dial numbers all her hours;

What is their charm, her bloom away? Do they not miss their steadfast friend?

Without her, on each lonely stem, Their fragrance to the breeze they lend,

Which with them sings her requiem. In vain does every leafy fold

My once fond sacrifice - put on Tints ruddier than virgin gold,

The sanctifying temple gone!

NARCISSA HARRISON. BORN: SHELBYVILLE, TENN., JULY 22, 1862. AFTER graduating at the Shelbyville Female Institute, Miss Narcissa Harrison entered the profession of teaching, and is now en

I fear me that dear human face

Shuts out the sight of one divine. When children play about my knees

Or lean their bright heads on my breast, Tell me, my heart, do I love these,

Or silent God, or Christ the best?

[graphic]

TWO MOTHERS. A wee bird cried within its nest, And lo, its mother heard;

[breast, With outstretched wings, and throbbing

Flew to her baby-bird.
A child wailed in the winter night,

And through a revel wild,
With fair, round arms, and bosom white,

A woman danced, and smiled.

NARCISSA HARRISON. gaged in educational work at the Female College of Waco, Texas. The poenis of this lady have appeared in many of the best college papers, and the press of Texas and the South.

HER ANCESTRY. A slender figure, draped in white, Within an old-time garden stood; Among the other flowers bright She smiled — this flower of maidenlood. Her lissome figure bent and swayed, Like wind-blown lilies growing there. As much a lily as a maid She seemed; as sweet, as frail, as fair. Her eyes, that knew no tearful mist, Held just a lily's share of dew. Her fragrant lips, by zephyrs kissed, Had all a lily's breath I knew. And like the flowers, drooping down, That each the sunlight's touch might share, Her shy, bent head wore, too, its crown The golden glory of her hair. And had I not been half afraid – Afraid of sacred faiths undone, I might have thought that this white maid Was once a lily in the sun. And then the light thought fluttered on In spite of creed, that fancy biurs: How many lilies dead and gone Had made that flower face of hers? How many stamens' dusty gold Had helped to gild each waving tress? How many trembling buds of old Had shaped her breathing loveliness? And in her eyes — could I not find Their dew-draughts, saved for such as she? Had not their slender stems entwined To make her figure's symmetry? And Mother Eve, forgive, I pray; This sight all former lore belied; The maiden, I saw yesterday, Was but a lily glorified. And, Darwin, you are hardly fair, And just, to such an one as she Or will you, sir, with me declare The lilies are her ancestry.

EARTH-LOVE.
God says to all: Love me the best."

Christ says to each: Give me thy heart;" I cannot lean upon God's breast,

The Christ and I are far apart. If I could only touch His hand,

Or in the night-time hear a tone, If it were given me to stand

And see my God upon His throne. Ah then, indeed, there might be born

Love large enough to meet His will; Yet though I watch until the morn,

The night is empty and is still. But human hands are very near,

And living human lips and eyes, The tender earth-tones, that I hear,

Make me forget the silent skies. When I am clasped in close embrace,

When loving eyes look into mine,

MAGGIE D. WILLIAMS,

BORN: ABBIEVILLE, Ky., OCT. 8, 1863. FOR many years Miss Williams has contributed tine prose articles to the local press, and also many gems of poetry. She follows the profession of teaching, and resides in her

Tho' I stand 'neath the shadows of grief

Or drink deep of pleasures wine. I want somebody dear to love me,

Somebody noble and kind,
Who has found the beautiful treasures

I am seeking yet to find.
I want always to remember

The dearest hope that has fled,
That is pointing now with its memory

To the brightness overhead; That's leading me upward and onward

Through the dark mists of despair To that place of the good and beautiful,

Where the hidden treasures are.

[graphic]

MY ISLAND GRAVES.
Alone on a shadowy isle, in a mystic sea,

I watch, and weep, and dream;
No other boat the white waves float,

Save the one that silently bears me,
To weep where the silver waves gleam.
Alone on a shadowy isle I dug a grave,

On a fair, still autumn day,
And I buried there, with a whisper'd prayer,

The love of my heart, true and brave-
Now cold in death's array.
Alone on the isle, I knelt by its side,

In the anguish of a boundless woe,
For the poisoned dart - it pierced my heart,

When its truest, best love died,
In that vanished long ago.
Again I come with hope and pride,

To lay in a new-made grave,
Ambition sweet I now lay at their feet,

For they drooped when dear love died,
For the light of life it gave.
And now, aimless my silent sail

Plows the mystic, billowy waves;
I heed not the light, the gloom of the night,

Pleasure's song nur duty's wail,
But guard alone my island graves.
What matter the wrecks that sadly float-

The fragments of wasted years? -
I brush them aside, on the rolling tide,

From the keel of my phantom boat,
And heed them not through blinding tears.

MAGGIE D. WILLIAMS. native state at Livermore. Her poems have appeared in the Hartford Herald, Kentucky Register, Constitution, Southerner, News World, and various other publications.

WHAT I WANT.
I'm looking for something beautiful,

Something in nature to cheer
My heart, when it is sad and lonely,

And dreariness is everywhere.
I want sunbeams instead of shadows

To hang ever on my way;
I want bright flowers to bud and blossom

Midst dull November's gray.
I want glad, beautiful realities,

Instead of vanished dreams,
To bubble on the dancing eddies

Of life's meandering streams.
I want bright faces always near me,

And kind, loving hands to take
The weariness out of the burdens

That life's grivmest duties make. I want to find some true, steadfast hearts

To beat in concert with mine,

EXTRACT. Never again will my heart find rest From the vain longings, long suppressed; Oh, never again can my life unfold Richer treasures by far than gold, And never again can I bear to hear The pleasant fancies once so dear, And never again at the sun's decline Will I dream of pleasures to be mineWhen the king of day again shall rise And glorify both earth and skies.

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