WILLIAM HENRY H. HINDS.

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

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.
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 flight winging,
First were you in bringing,

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,

And 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.

THE WRECK OF THE ISADORE.

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.

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.

WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL WORLD. Wonderful, beautiful world is this,

Tho' little understood;

Yet brimming full of joy and bliss
For each one's highest good.

O, wonderful, beautiful world,
How happy man will be

When all its wonders are unfurled
Their beauties he can see.

O, 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.

BORN: BENTON, IND., MAY 10, 1836. MR. PRICKETT is editor of the Albion New Era of his native state. He has written for

JACOB P. PRICKETT.

the press for the past twenty-five years, and his poems have appeared from time to time in the leading periodicals.

THE PICTURE FANCY PAINTED. An old man dreaming sits. His streaming locks

Are whiten'd by the flecks of foaming spray,
From off the crested waves of passing years,
That ebb and flow on Time's tempest'ous sea,
Whose waters separate the Fairy Land
Of far-off Childhood from life's Sunset Land.
The murm'ring breezes softly whisper as
They gently blow from off that distant shore
Of life's sweet Springtime Land, and, blend-
ing with

The sad, sweet music of the murm'ring sea,
The long forgotten songs of childhood sing
In silv'ry cadence, soft, and sweet and low,
And lull, with golden symphonies from chords
Of mem'ries long forgot, the wearied brain,
And heart, and soul, to dreamland's sweet re-

pose.

And by the rose-wing'd messengers of sleep, And through the mystic mazes of dreamland, He back transported was across the gulf

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Of Time's relentless sea, to that sweet realmThe Fairyland of childhood's happy days.

He, dreaming, sits upon the hilltop's once
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-

fume

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 flowsA 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 Poetic fire and ardor sweetly thrill His being, and the inspiration, felt By artists who to canvas have transferred Their golden glow'd conceptions rare and 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. The rude, log home; the gently sloping hill; The pebble-bottom'd brooklet at its base; 1..e flow'r-decked meadow with its gilded rim Of silv'ry waters, and the grand old trees, Deep in whose shadow's heard the river's flow. Ah, sweet the picture, and so true complete, "Twas Art with Nature vieing; but just then The Master Artist of the Universe, With rainbow tints, and sunsets' golden glow And mellow'd hues, touch'd topmost branches of [hand The grand old forest trees. Then with the Of inspiration, quick the golden hues To canvas were transferred. And as he gazed Admiringly upon his work, a hand Upon each shoulder then was gently laid; Two soft and dimpled arms stole lovingly About his neck, and bending o'er him then, With face and form angelic and divine, Was his soul's idol, who, with holy kiss, [true. Sealed her pure heart's devotion deep and

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MRS. CLARA D. DAVIDSON.

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

MRS. CLARA D. DAVIDSON.

son who has nearly reached manhood. She wrote and published verses at an early age, which have appeared from time to time in the Yankee Blade, Waverly Magazine, Cincinnati Enquirer, Woman's Journal, and a score of other equally prominent journals.

ON THE DES MOINES.

A sweep of woodland on the shore,
A glow of moonshine on the bar;
A light-rimmed cloudlet leaning o'er
Waters that mirror every star.
O brightly, marvelously blue

The sky about the low-hung moon,
O weird the woodland ways, that grew
Dark 'neath the shadows of high moon!

A swish of waves against the boat,
Oars dipping gently, lifting strong,
An owl's wild, melancholy note,
A fisherman's exultant song.
These are the sounds that rise above
The flowing river's changeless chant.

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.

THE TEST.

Who dares not follow Truth where'er

Her footsteps lead,

But says, O, 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.

FOR ME.

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
bound,

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,
Though shadows gathered close about my

way.

I said,-. Whatever gift fate has denied,
The trees are tall, the sky is blue and wide.
The sunshine glitters on the ice-bound brook
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 earth,

What new delights do ye each day bring

forth!

Not thine the blame if in these lives of ours Our rising tears shut out the bloom of flowers.

WHAT IS ETERNITY?

An ever outward-stretching sea,
Shoreless and boundless, strong and free,
A vast, self-singing hymn;

Whose rhythm the circling ages keep,
Whose music, mighty, strong and deep
Husheth æons of time to sleep,

And, laying one away to rest
Cradles another on its breast.

EDNA JANE CAMPBELL.

BORN: ALAMO, IND., MARCH 17, 1855. EDNA began teaching at the age of fifteen years, and the money she thus earned was applied to better her own education, until she

EDNA JANE CAMPBELL. graduated in 1881. Miss Campbell's productions have chiefly appeared without her signature. She still resides in her native town.

THE OLD CHURCH.

Stands this old church from the town apart;
Old fashioned porch and half decayed,
Where the ivy new in early spring
Its leaves of green so kindly bring,
The faulty spots and chinks to hide,
Like charity pure for sins essayed.

A withered tree a century old,

That's bending 'neath the blade of time,
Spreads wide its boughs in christian grace,
Affords the weary a resting place.
The good, the bad, alike to shield,
From storm, and heat and lurid clime.

In this church 'neath the word of God,
Have met together the grave and gay,
The thoughtless too with hearts of joy,
By care unknown or times annoy,

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Half hides her shrinking form from sight
As from youth's mooring toward womanhood,
She launched her craft on an unknown tide.
The dead here too in frigid state
Lay waiting silent by friends bewept,
While the pastor old spoke words of peace
And comfort in the souls release,
Ere gentle hands had borne to rest
This clay, where many kindred slept.
Stands this old church almost forgot;
A monitor old of times defect.
No more the aisles resound with tread,
No more the grave nor honored dead,
No more the gay with buoyant step,
In prescribed shapes sit circumspect.
The change of time as earthly law,
Progression's stride, advancement's sway,
New thoughts, new hopes, and new designs,
Do now possess the present minds,
But like that church each one may tell
Of sunshine, storms, and wintry fray.

GLENDORA.

Glendora, the mist and the shadow

Fall damp on the bare of my brow. [meadow, The sunbeams of hope and the sweet of the That have tucked their shy heads 'neath the thick of the fallow, [vision now. Bursts bright from the wold on my soul's Glendora, mortality shrinks,

Because of my love which is true.

With heaven to lure me, on eternity's brinks,
From its beauty and rest and sunshine, me
I may turn in my love back to you. [thinks
Glendora, the hour draws near,
When Time relaxes his hold,

As the waters break chill, there slumbers no [near,

fear

Of Death, for he brought you in tenderness To cheer my lone bark on the waters so cold.

Death has been holy, forsooth,

He brought me best joy of time,

You, the life, the soul of my youth,

And fastened the cord of faith and of truth

And tinged his pathway with treasures sublime.

My spirit may burst from on high,

The soul's sanhedrim of tenderness trueYour spirit awaken as the hour draws nigh, As in earnestness great I pass through the sky

And linger awhile in communion with you.

The clouds weep in tears to-night,
The wail of the wind whispers low,

[light

In this church so anxious stood,

With quivering breath the girlish bride; A clinging mantle of snowy white

Eternity's vision will burst on my sight, And he'll snatch my lone spirit from you.

Glendora, my darling in death,

Torn apart in the wayfare of life,