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BORN: West MILAN, N. H., JAN. 20, 1821. MR. HINDs is a dentist by profession; he has written Poems for over half a century, which have appeared in the leading periodicals of

News of Nature's springing, Into new life again. We love your song out-pouring, While northward you are soaring, And Nature's God adoring, In musical refrain. Welcome, robin red-breast,In pretty crimson vest, And coat of ash, you're dressed, Of all spring birds, loved best. For 'twas dear .. Cock Robin " Set our young heart throbbing, band our bosom sobbing, As on parental knee, We sat, and saw in sorrow, The .. cruel, cruel sparrow, With bow and blood-stained arrow," And him dead, under the tree. Welcome, sweet merry lark, All Nature seems to hark, For thy morning songs, that mark, "Twixt the dawning and the dark. Welcome, Bob o' Lincoln, We hear you now, we think, on Some quiet river's brink, on A water-willow bow. You're a jolly fellow, Dressed in black and yellow, And your voice's so mellow, We seem to hear you now. Yes, you're looking down, With such a comical frown, Now you're bobbing round Just like a feathered clown. Welcome, twittering swallow, Scarce our eyes can follow, As o'er hill and hollow, You're flitting everywhere. You are such happy creatures, You seem like winged preachers, Sent from Heaven, to teach us Of God's loving care. Then welcome, birds of spring, Ye make our hearts to sing, And praise our Heavenly King, “Who giveth each good thing." Ye bring us joy and gladness, And drive away our sadness, Ye free our hearts of badness, With your innocence and song. God bless you happy singers, For while your sweet note lingers, It still shall serve to bring us To Heaven's happy throng.

WILLIAM HENRY H. HINDS. the East. Capt. Hinds passed through the war of the rebellion. He has a family of three, and now resides in Kennebunkport, Maine.


Welcome, sweet birds of spring, -
Again on tireless wing -
Ye came your songs to sing,
And flowers and sunshine bring.
How we love your singing,-
To hear your sweet notes ringing,-
Which abroad you're flinging,
On the morning air.
In the tree-tops clinging,
On the green turf springing,
O'er the blue waves winging,
We hear you everywhere.
Welcome, blithesome, bluebird,
Your twitter first we heard,
And like some magic word,
Our inmost heart is stirred.
Far your lone fligbt winging,
First were you in bringing,

When their neighbors sought the shore,

They saw on the beach

Almost within reach
The wreck of the .. Isadore.”

And along the strand

On every hand
In death's cold and silent sleep,

Those sailors so true,

That Kennebunk crew
Were strewn by the angry deep.

Their spirits now free,

On a stormless sea
Are sailing forevermore;

And cables of love

Fast anchored above,
Still draw their friends to its shore.


People still show,

When the tide is low,
Where that new ship went ashore,

On that fearful night,

Near no beacon light, 'Mid the breakers' crash and roar.

Forty-five years

The Heavenly spheres
Have sped on their shining way,

Since one day at noon,

When there was no moon, She left the Kennebunk bay.

The captain said

As he went ahead,
His ship must sail that day;

Tho' the winds and wave

Might storm and might rave, His ship should be on her way."

The clouds shut down

With a seeming frown, That told of a coming storm;

And the south winds blew

As lost to their view, Were their homes so snug and warm.

The wind shifts east

And the briny yeast
Is blown far on to the shore,

The ship with full sail

Is caught in the gale,
Her shrouds in ribbons it tore.

No one can go

For the blinding snow Up aloft to reet the sail;

And the surging dec p

Seems ever to leap
Into mountains in the gale.

In vain they shout

And try to about
Their ship in its mad career.

It is · pitchy dark"

And there's not a spark
To tell them which way to steer.

With sails all rent

The . Isadore" went Straight on to the rocky reef,

Where no arm can save

From a watery grave, And no life boat give relief.

O the anguish then

Of those fifteen men,
As they saw their horrible fate,

That they there must die

With kind friends so nigh,
All unconscious of their state.

At early dawn
On the coming morn

WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL WORLD. Wonderful, beautiful world is this, Tho' little understood; Yet brimming full of joy and bliss For each one's highest good. 0, wonderful, beautiful world, How happy man will be When all its wonders are unfurled Their beauties he can see. 0, wonderful, beautiful world God speed the glorious day When error from Truth's throne is hurled, And Truth shall hold full sway. When man himself shall understand His body and his mind; .. The proper study of mankind is man," The greatest good to find. He is God's temple, where he dwells, - A house not made with hands," And in his inmost heart there wells A wish God understands. A wish to know whence, what and where," And all about his kind; A wish to search earth, ocean, air, Their unknown source to find. To know the whence, the why and wherefore, Of everything around To know of what had gone before Man here on earth was found. Of wonderful worlds on worlds still sought, Beyond man's utmost ken; Beyond man's utmost reach of thought, His power of speech or pen. Of wonderful worlds, of beings, too, Too small for human sight, Except as they are brought to view By microscopic light. Wonderful, beautiful world is this, Yet chills our blood to tell, Tho' brimming full of joy and bliss, Man makes himself the hell.


JACOB P.PRICKETT. Of Time's relentless sea, to that sweet realm
BORN: BENTON, IND., MAY 10, 1836.

The Fairyland of childhood's happy days. MR. PRICKETT is editor of the Albion New

He, dreaming, sits upon the hilltop's once Era of his native state. He has written for

Familiar brow, where stands the old log home;
To him a palace now, because it holds
Life's sweetest memories; and form so dear
Of a sweet mother, whose unchanging love,
Like golden sunbeam, gilded life's pathway
Through childhood's happy years. Before

him now,
He sees the old, loved scenes of years agone.
At foot of hill, and in its shadow deep,
At sunset's hour, there stands the silent mill,
And from it flows, o'er pebbly bottom bright,
The little streamlet, bearing on its breast,
A flood of old-time memories so dear.
Beyond it lies, like dimpled smile upon
The placid face of guileless innocence,
The little meadow with its nodding plumes
of gold and purple flow'rs, and sweet per-

A gem of Nature's setting in the crown
of the old home! Beyond the meadow's rim,
In shadow of the overhanging trees,
The more majestic river calmly flows-
A silv'ry framework for the picture dear,
In Mem'ry's chamber hanging, and which tide
Of passing years cannot deface nor dim.
And as he dreaming sits, and lives again
Amid the scenes to which the golden chain
Of mem'ry binds his heart and soul, a strange

Poetio fire and ardor sweetly thrill

His being, and the inspiration, felt the press for the past twenty-five years, and By artists who to canvas have transferred his poems have appeared from time to time Their golden glow'd conceptions rare and in the leading periodicals.

Fills mind and soul, and he an artist is. (pure,
With rare conception -- execution true

The inspiration of his magic touch,

To spotless canvas the loved picture gives. An old man dreaming sits. His streaming The rude, log home; the gently sloping hill; locks

The pebble-bottom'd brooklet at its base; Are whiten'd by the flecks of foaming spray, 11. now'r-decked meadow with its gilded rim From off the crested waves of passing years, Of silv'ry waters, and the grand old trees, That ebb and flow on Time's tempest'ous sea, Deep in whose shadow's heard the river's flow. Whose waters separate the Fairy Land Ah, sweet the picture, and so true complete, Of far-off Childhood from life's Sunset Land. 'Twas Art with Nature vieing; but just then The murm'ring breezes softly whisper as The Master Artist of the Universe, They gently blow from off that distant shore With rainbow tints, and sunsets' golden glow Of life's sweet Springtime Land, and, blend- And mellow'd hues, touch'd topmost branches ing with


[hand The sad, sweet music of the murm'ring sea, The grand old forest trees. Then with the The long forgotten songs of childhood sing Of inspiration, quick the golden hues In silv'ry cadence, soft, and sweet and low, To canvas were transferred. And as he gazed And lull, with golden symphonies from chords Admiringly upon his work, a hand Of mem'ries long forgot, the wearied brain, Upon each shoulder then was gently laid; And heart, and soul, to dreamland's sweet re Two soft and dimpled arms stole lovingly pose.

About his neck, and bending o'er him then, And by the rose-wing'd messengers of sleep, with face and form angelic and divine, And through the mystic mazes of dreamland, Was his soul's idol, who, with holy kiss, (true. He back transported was across the gulf Sealed her pure heart's devotion deep and


BORN: CON, ILL., Nov. 30, 1851. HAVING taught school about five years, Clara subsequently edited a woman's department in a number of lowa publications. In 1870 she married George M. Davidson, who is a lawyer by profession. Mrs. Davidson has a

I watch the light-kissed waters move,

I watch the shadows'even slant.
Below, the river seems to end

In a chaotic mass of sand;
Above, the sharp sweep of a bend

Gives us a vision of near land.
And so the river seems a lake

By a deceit of vision. So
Life seems a journey that we take,

Bounded by things we cannot know.


Who dares not follow Truth where'er

Her footsteps lead,
But says, “0, guide not there, nor there,
I have not strength to follow where

My feet would bleed;
But show me worn ways trodden fair

By feet more brave,-"
Who fears to stand in Truth's broad glare,
What others dared not will not dare,

Is but a slave.

Was it the wind that in prophetic mood,
Despite the ice, foretold the coming good,

Or had the timid Spring, so late uncrowned,

Burst from her wintry silence at a bound,
And, free at last and flushed with victory,
Come whispering low her happiness to me?
Or had the birds, far south but northward

Discovered some new subtlety in sound
And sent into my soul the thrill and stir

Harmony wakes in music's worshiper?

For O my heart beat lightly on that day, son who has nearly reached manhood. She

Though shadows gathered close about my wrote and published verses at an early age,

way. which have appeared from time to time in the I said, “Whatever gift fate has denied, Yankee Blade, Waverly Magazine, Cincinnati The trees are tall, the sky is blue and wide. Enquirer, Woman's Journal, and a score of The sunshine glitters on the ice-bound brook other equally prominent journals.

And sparkles on the snow-heights a I look;
And every sunbeam, every ice-hung tree,

And everything for beauty is for me.

For me — for all! O beauteous, bounteous A sweep of woodland on the shore,

earth, A glow of moonshine on the bar;

What new delights do ye each day bring A light-rimmed cloudlet leaning o'er

forth! Waters that mirror every star.

Not thine the blame if in these lives of ours

Our rising tears shut out the bloom of flowers. O brightly, marvelously blue The sky about the low-hung moon,

O weird the woodland ways, that grew

An ever outward-stretching sea,
Dark 'neath the shadows of high moon!

Shoreless and boundless, strong and free, A swish of waves against the boat,

A vast, self-singing hymn;
Oars dipping gently, lifting strong,

Whose rhythm the circling ages keep, An owl's wild, melancholy note,

Whose music, mighty, strong and deep A fisherman's exultant song.

Husheth æons of time to sleep, These are the sounds that rise above

And, laying one away to rest The flowing river's changeless chant. Cradles another on its breast.

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