JEAN KATE LUDLUM.

BORN: NEW YORK CITY, FEB. 20, 1862. MISS LUDLUM has written for the leading periodicals of America, including Demorest's, Godey's Lady's Book, Ladies' Home Journal,

JENNIE KATE LUDLUM. and other equally prominent journals. Her poems have received favorable notice from critics and the press generally, and have been widely copied. During 1890 three novels from the pen of this lady were given to the public.

HOW MY SHIP CAME IN.

I stood on the shore at sunset
And watched the tide flow by,
Mirroring clear on its restless breast
The crimson and gold of the sky.
The boats that had entered the harbor
Were anchored safe in the bay
Lazily rocking, with white wings set
At rest till another day.

Faint on the far horizon
Glimmered a lonely sail,

And I watched with eager, anxious eyes
To see if 'twould win or fail.

The wind was dead against it,

The tide flowed strong and still;

But steady and sure as the wind and tide, And just as certain a will.

The sail grew large and larger,

Wavered and faded away,

Yet still I watched with anxious eyes
To see it re-enter the bay.
In the west the colors deepened,
And a golden sunset ray
Fell aslant the ocean and rested on
The ship that had entered the bay!
.. My ship!" I cried out gladly,
Watching the shining sail

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That was touched to a delicate, roseate hue By that ray from the sunset pale.

44 But how did it enter the harbor?"

I asked of a sailor hale.

..Why, child, it tacked 'gainst wind and tide, And came in with glowing sail!"

But the wind and tide o'ercame it,"

I said, as 'twas entering the bay." ["yes, "Yes," answered this gray-haired sailor, But, child, it tacked, I say!"

..Tacked?" I repeated vaguely,

"Tis coming in 'gainst the breeze!"

..But how is it done?" I queried,
Watching the stately ship;

.."Tis sailing hither and fro, my child,"
Said the sailor, with smiling lip,

..Till at last, with stern endeavor

Gaining against the tide

Tho' that and the wind may both be strongInto port 'twill certainly ride;

.. For, child, a patient waiting
O'ercomes the strongest ill!"

As the sailor paused, the ship hove to,
At rest beneath the hill.

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GEORGE WALDO BROWNE.

BORN: DEERFIELD, N. H., OCT. 8, 1851. AT the age of twenty Mr. Browne commenced writing prose, of which he has written over one hundred serials and three hundred short stories that have received publication. In addition to these stories he has written numer

GEORGE WALDO BROWNE.

ous poetical productions, and has in preparation a book entitled Lyrics and Legends. In 1883 Mr. Browne assumed editorial charge of the American Young Folks, a position that he still retains.

THE KING OF KINGS.
The master sits behind his desk,
With a solemn mien and stern,
Declaring, I'm the king of minds,
For the sons of men must learn."
The statesman sends abroad his word,
And the author plies his pen,
Each saying, "I'm the king of power,
For I shape the fates of men."
His bounteous store the husbandman
Gathers with pride, and then
He answers, I'm the king of life,
For I feed the sons of men."

The pastor meek instructs his flock
To obey the commandments, ten,
While thinking, .. I'm the king of light,
For I save the souls of men."

THE WHITE STEED.
Like a meteor bright he flashed in sight
On the distant line of blue;

O'er the trackless green a rushing sheen,
Till in size and form he grew.

Swift as arrow sent from bow strong bent,
As the wild bird's airy flight,

As the ocean breeze from o'er the seas,
Came the matchless steed of white.

Then with nostrils glowing, mane outflowing,
And a restless, fearless eye,

With a proud-stepping grace, and tireless

pace,

Sped the white steed rushing by.

Let the bounding deer glance back with fear, And the eagle gaze from yonder;

Never bird of wing nor fleeing thing

Can outmatch this prairie wonder!

From his unshod heel no ringing steel
Breaks the freedom of his glee;
While his footsteps airy, light as a fairy,
Leave no imprint on the lea.

Till a speck of white he fades from sight,
Where as one the bending blue
And the level green are dimly seen
On the far-sought western view.
Boast not of your steed with railroad speed,
Or your ships that plow the main;
Even swifter far than sail or car
Is the white steed of the plain!

Let the swift-footed deer live his career
And the eagle reach the sun;

While the earth we've span'd with an iron

band,

And the steam-king's reign is won.

Long my gallant steed with wondrous speed

May you roam your native plain;

And your arching neck ne'er feel the check Of a master's cruel rein.

LOVE.

Distill the dew from roses,

Steal the starlight from above, Bind with the breath of morning, And you've imprisoned Love!

As fades the dew at daylight,
Flee the stars before the sun,
As yonder wings the zephyr,
So is Love's illusion done.

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MRS. E. O. DANNELLY.

BORN: MONTICELLO, GA., JUNE 13, 1838. THIS lady graduated from the Madison female college in 1855, afterward spending a year in New York City receiving instructions in oil painting. In 1862 she was married to Dr. F. Olin Dannelly, at that time a surgeon in the army. After the war she removed to Balti

MRS. ELIZABETH OTIS DANNELLY. more, and in 1870 to Waxahatchi, and is now left a widow. Mrs. Dannelly published in 1879 a volume of poems entitled Cactus, and in 1891 Wayside Flowers, from the press of the American Publishers' Association. The poems of Mrs. Dannelly have been well received, and have been favorably noticed in Hart's American Literature and the Living Writers of the South.

FIRST LOVE.

Love is not a fleeting passion,

Born to cheer us but a day,

"Tis not love that comes to vanish,
Like the transient dews of May.
Strange and mystic is this feeling,
Noblest that survives the fall;
Like the soul, it is immortal,

Something we can ne'er recall.
Think not then thy hopes are vanished,
Though long years have passed away,

Though the blooming cheeks have faded,

And the raven locks are gray;

Though another fondly loved her,

Though she knelt at Hymen's shrine. If her heart was truly given,

Falter not, it still is thine.

Tell the same sweet story over,

Though together you've grown old, And her heart 'twill touch and lighten, E'en as when at first 'twas told. Though the voice with age may tremble, And the ear has duller grown.

If she loved thee when a maiden,
She will hear thy faintest tone.

For 'tis true that love's immortal,
And its essence is divine,

Though she may have drifted from thee,

Doubt no more her heart is thine.

Time, with all its cruel changes,

May have brought her care and grief,
Yet age yearns for love and pity,
In its sere and yellow leaf.

Widow's weeds her form may cover,
And her face, the mourner's vail,
Yet she'll listen, if thou'it tell it,
To the same old lover's tale;

And methinks her eyes will brighten,

With the love-light as of old,
If, with half the zeal of boyhood,
It should be as sweetly told.

IF IN THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. If, in the voyage of life, dear Lord, I've drifted far at sea, Send gentle breezes, fraught with love, To waft me back to Thee; Let not my fragile bark go down 'Mid waters dark, and deep. But gently turn the wayward sails From where the dangers sleep. If storms it takes to rescue me, Then, Savior, let them come; I'll soon forget the billows' roar When anchored safe at home; The blood-dyed streamers on my bark Will float as glad and free,

As though in calmness they had waved
Above a placid sea.

If in the voyage of life, dear Lord,
Weights have beset my bark,
To sink her down with burdens great,
Beneath the ocean dark,

Cast over-board the gathered freight,
Reject the worthless lore;

But let her, though in emptiness,

Land on the other shore.

WEDDED TO ART.

Tell me true, O son of Genius,

Devotee to ancient art,
Hath it satisfied thy longings,

Hath its pleasures filled thy heart?
As you've looked with admiration
On the sky's ethereal blue,
Hath it e'er suggested to thee
Love-lit eyes of brighter hue?
Does the face of radiant beauty,
Fair creation of thy brush,
Bring to mind some fadeless vision
Of a cheek with roseate blush?
Does the life-like form before thee,
Lacking but the human heart,
In its silent, pulseless beauty,
'Wake no yearnings, child of art?
Hast thou met no kindred spirit,
With its influence sweet, divine;
Hath no heart, with fond emotions
Beat in unison with thine?

Tell me true, O son of Genius,
Favored by the gods above,

Hast thou ne'er, with such endowments,
Felt the passion known as love?
Does not something, all unbidden,
Not the growth of human will,
Though thou hush the whispered breath-
Linger on and haunt thee still.

Are there not some tones or glances

That thy heart can ne'er forget;

Do they not like distant music,
Linger in thy memory yet?

[ings,

Tell me true, O son of Genius,
Wedded, as you say, to art,
Does this fair, long-worshiped goddess
Always cheer and fill thy heart?
Does she smile serenely on thee

Through the long, long weary day?
Does she drive away thy sadness?
Art thou always bright and gay?
Hath no fairer living mortal

Rivaled yet this ideal queen? Does she reign, the only sovereign, Strange and mystic, all unseen? Far o'er distant seas you've wandered, Where are daughters wondrous fair; Hath thy heart been proof against them? Have they made no impress there? Tell me true, O gifted Genius,

With such wealth of mind and heart, Can no human charms enchain thee? Wilt thou cleave alone to art?

ALL THINGS.

O can it be that all these things,

So fraught with mystery and woe,

These evils that beset my life,

These seeming ills that grieve me so
Must work for good to me!

That all these strange, these wondrous things,
Wherein we can discern no good,
Must one day wear another phase,
Must one day all be understood,
And deemed the best for me!

Yes, as the varied, scattered threads
Within the weaver's hands, combine
To form the fabric, slowly wrought,
Into the beauteous, chaste design,
From tangled, knotted floss.

So must these things together work,
To form a grand, harmonious whole,
Perfect our Maker's great design,

And fit on earth the immortal soul
For happiness and Heaven.

Beneath the chemist's skillful hand,

"Tis known that bitters sometimes meet, And, in a combination strange,

Unite to form a substance sweet, And pleasant to the taste.

Then let me not refuse to drink

The bitter wormwood and the gall,
For e'en the dregs, were I compelled,
In tears and grief, to drain them all,
Must yet to sweetness turn.

For all things work for good to me,
Not separate, they together meet,
And strangely too, they each combine
To make my life in Christ complete,
And consummate His will.

Then let me never more repine,
Or e'er indulge a vain regret,
While God's eternal Word proclaims
That all things whatsoever, yet,
Must work for good to me.

A CURIOUS FACT.

When old and young, the rich and poor, In finery come out,

It is a fact significant,

They seem to grow devout;

When all have spent their ready casn
To purchase something new,
You'll scarcely find in any church
A single vacant pew.

But when the outfit's been displayed,
The bonnet's wearing old,
How strange it is as ribbons fade,
Devotion, too, grows cold:

How very strange when pretty clothes

Appear no longer new,

That those who still frequent the church

Find worshipers so few.

MRS. CELESTE MAY.

BORN: LEE Co., Iowa, OCT. 20, 1850. MRS. MAY has written and published a work entitled Sounds of the Prairie, which has received favorable notice from press and public. She occasionally lectures in the cause of tem

Others pleasing and light as air,
Crowd, unfinished, plucking Time's hair;
Till we, in utter and blank despair,
Wonder if ever, or anywhere,
Before was seen such a tailless mare
As the flying steed, so bald and bare,
which the penniless writer rides with care.
So accuse me not of giving to you

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The narrative to which I've lost all clue; I've plucked from Time's forelock some moments new

In which I could write some sentiments true; Though poorly expressed, I hope that a few May revive my true image, in your heart,

anew.

That blessings on earth and in heaven accrue To your share, is the wish of - adieu.

NOTHING

WORTH WHILE."

There is nothing worth while Unless shared by another; What is fortune's sweet smile If it glads not our brother?It is nothing worth while.

The sweetest of song

The sirens can sing Allures us not long,

Unless we can bring Our best friend along. The joy of beholding

A beauteous picture, Loses half the unfolding

Of its soft-tinted feature, To a lonely heart viewing. And wisest tales known,

If they do not beguile Other hearts than our own, Are hardly worth while, Though in bard's sweetest tone. The choicest of food,

To the one who prepares it, Is not half so good

If nobody shares it,
And in silence he brood.
What a bauble is fame,
If there is none

To speak our own name
As the dearest one!
Ah! life is tame.

So there's nothing worth while,
If enkindles no eye
With a thought or a smile
At the same glad sky --

O there's nothing worth while.

"Tis companionship sweet
The heart most craves;
Love's glances meet,
And the spirit laves
In a honeyed retreat.