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MRS. JEANIE OLIVER SMITH.

BORN: TROY, N. Y.

THE girlhood of the subject of this sketch was passed in Scotland, and on her return to this country she was married to Horace E. Smith, LL.D., of Johnstown, N. Y., who for ten years was dean of the Albany law school. Mrs. Smith has two beautiful daughters. Her writ

MRS. JEANIE OLIVER SMITH.

ings have appeared in nearly all of the firstclass magazines and journals of the country, and in 1889 appeared Day Lilies, a magnificent volume of poems from the pen of this writer. Her versification is smooth, the rhymes good and strong, and the work has been favorably commented upon by competent critics

A MINOR SYMPHONY.

The winds have cadences at eventide,
That pulseless lie

Beneath the morning sky;

From realms of deepest mystery they glide.

Grave autumn hath a grand deep undertone In anthem tunes,

Which laughing, leaf-crowned Junes

In all their choral wealth have never known. When harps that we have loved through all these years

In rhythmic flow

Sound oft the tremolo,

How broken our antiphony by tears!

THE SECRET OF POWER.

Ruler of men!" Whatever greatness lies Wrapped in those three short words, 'tis born

of Mind.

No prowess stands for this. The brawny god
Of muscle and of limb may sometime sway
The gaping multitudes who court meanwhile
The bustle and the tumult and the fray,
The rushing, foaming, angry surface whirl
Of that great cauldron called Society;
But far below the troubled surface dwells,
Among space-deeps that only Mind can reach,
A pulsing heart that dominates the world!

SUNRISE FROM THE TOWER.
We breathe at times a purer air,
And taste the joys of nobler birth;
As if 'twere given again to earth
Its pristine, Eden charm to wear.
And such an hour is this. The morn,
In white robes o'er the Orient hills,
Hies blushing, while the welkin fills
With song, from myriad sources born.
The winds of night are hushed to rest,
The clouds have vanished, fold on fold.
This isle, "An emerald chased in gold,"
Lies fair and bright on ocean's breast.
Far out to sea white sails are seen,

Where sky with ocean seems to meet,
Ah, yonder weird and mystic fleet
From out the heaven has sailed, I ween.
They float far off through ether seas,

Like thoughts of peace, on wings of prayer; Like doves that love's fond missives bear,Sail on, rich freighted argosies!

MY LASSIE.

Bonnie Blue een,
Like stars their sheen;

Stars in the heaven o' a lovely face,

That flash soul-licht from their secret place,
From the fountain o' heavenly ruth, I ween;
None but a fiend could such licht efface,
Or bring ae cloud to that brow serene.

STEDMAN A. CHAPLIN.

BORN: BALTIMORE, VT., JUNE 2, 1809. IN 1842 this gentleman was ordained a Baptist minister; and later joined the Church of God. All his life Mr. Chaplin has been a close student, and has attained a fair knowledge of languages, mathematics, the sciences and

STEADMAN A. CHAPLIN. biblical lore. He has been a teacher, farmer, minister, and editor occupying the editorial chair for thirteen years with marked ability; and as a pastor was greatly beloved. The poems of Mr. Chaplin have appeared quite extensively in the religious and secular press. He is now a resident of Plymouth, Ind.

FADING LEAVES.

Cold Boreas breathes and the shroud of white rime

Wraps the death-stricken bloom at morn's dawning prime,

From petals of bloom has faded the hue That yesterday smiled to the sun in the blue.

The ice bands with crystal the hem of the reef,

The crimson and yellow, deep color the leaf; Sad wailings of autumn, deep requiem's sound

O'er the rose and the lily that mix with the ground.

Like the leaf we all fade - we blast like the

bloom,

The form that is human, the chill from the tomb

Blights as frost blights the verdure; the tem

pest that wings

Its flight o'er our graves, our final dirge sings.

How short is the summer for leaf on the

spray;

How short like the leaf-life, humanity's day; Of the leaf of the man- how soon it is told That the frost-breath has come and both are but mold.

PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE.

Sweet childhood hours-life's opening scenes
How fondly memory backward leans,
Toward its first dreams, and ardent prays,

Let me re-live those blissful days.

How gay was spring enrobed in bloom
And dewy pearls, when morn's perfume,
And bright aurora's crimson flush,
Were sweet as bridal beauty's blush.
'Neath summer's sun in sportive race,

I watched the light the shadows chase;-
Looked up to heaven's majestic blue,

That worlds of light were moving through,-
Then, in the streamlet's mirror glow,
Looked down on heavens that shone below,
How oft, before sins shadow black,

Had yet eclipsed life's shining track.

On mountain heights, I wondering stood,
In nature's awful solitude,
Before the painted foliage fell,
O'er rising peak, or sinking dell;-
E'er withering flowers were laid in death,
Cut down by winter's killing breath,--
And heard prophetic whispers say,
Youth's transient vis ions fleet away!

Those years are passed,- upon my brow,
The snows of time are falling now,
The school-house troops, with whom I played,
Are slumbering 'neath the yew-tree's shade;
Parents, that saw my life-dawn day,
Are coffined yonder in the clay;
Green mounds are heaved above the breast
Of sisters in their dreamless rest.

And graven marbles, give the date

When children passed the stream of fate;

And she I name my youthful bride

Is sleeping by these children's side.
And brothers, once beloved, are bound
In prison-house beneath the ground;
The grass has often grown above,
The saints, who taught me God to love.
And, while I wait the grave for me,
Is ready as once Job for thee,
For as I list with bated breath,

I hear thy steps, O coming death!

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But Judah's seers foretell an hour,
When death shall lose his cruel power;
That one shall come with might to save
And break the bolts that bar the grave.
When that dear dust on which we tread,
In deathless shape shall leave that bed;
They say upon fate's farther shore
No tempests beat, no billows roar,
That fadeless Paradise s bloom
Beyond the deserts and the tomb;
That on those shores, Jerusalem
Has golden streets and walls of gem.
No sorrows there, no grief, no sigh,
For tears are wiped from every eye;
That the eternal raptures there,
The pure, the good, the holy share;
That sin shall ne'er invade our home
In the delightful world to come!
Then Heavenly Father, me I pray
Give youth eternal in that day.

MRS. AMANDA J. SMART.

BORN: THORNTON, N. H., 1830.

AT the age of twenty-one this lady was married to Lewis B. Smart. For nearly a year she lived in Kansas, but not liking the west,

MRS. AMANDA J. SMART.

she soon returned to her native state, where she has lived the greater part of her life. Mrs. Smart is now a resident of Danvers, Mass., where she expects to remain.

ODE TO BLACK MOUNTAIN.
O, wondrous Black Mountain,
Why such a dark name?
Why were you not christened
The Mountain of Fame?
Methinks this more fitting
A visage like thine,
Beneath which is hidden,
Perchance, a rich mine;
Though ruthlessly clambered
By lady and brave,
Than dark appellation

Your god-father gave.
Your colors, moreover,
Presented to view,
When kissed by the sunlight
Are red, white and blue.

OUR HERO.

U. S. and G.- initials three,-
Familiar over land and sea,
With U. S. A. will live for aye,
Though nations rise and melt away.
For royal sons- the martyred ones,
Our country sombre garment dons;
Then lo! apace, with rev'rent grace,
For dauntless hero veils her face.
From favored mount could he recount
The glories of the Living Fount;
Like Moses, too, his eye could view
The nearing heights of pastures new.

Brave conq'ror he, amazed we see!
Henceforth his ruled spirit free;

No monarch's throne hath ever known,-
More overwhelming vict'ry shown.

Then U. S. A. forever may,

With loving pride her tribute pay;
And early plant, in world-wide haunt,
A laurel wreath for U. S. Grant.

TO MAD RIVER.

Who calls thee Mad, dear River,
Sees not thy smiling face
When summer sunbeams quiver,
Thy bosom to embrace:
Nor as gray twilight neareth,
Athwart thy waters glad,
Yon shad'wy arch appeareth,
Shall blindly call thee mad!
'Tis when dark summer showers
Down terraced hill-sides pour,
Or cloud of autumn lowers,
Till by the deaf'ning roar,
Of mad'ning waters swelling
Thy banks to overflow,
Thou teachest field and dwelling
Thy frantic name to know.

JACOB HUFF.

BORN: CHATHAM RUN, PA., JAN. 31, 1853. JACOB HUFF'S writings generally appear under the nom de plume of Faraway Moses. At an early age he was employed in the lumber woods of Pennsylvania. Mr. Huff has written numerous humorous sketches and serial

JACOB HUFF.

stories, in which he is at present engaged. Both his verse and prose have appeared from time to time in the Detroit Free Press, Pittsburgh Post, Henry George's Standard, and other equally prominent journals.

IF WE KNEW.

No one knows the secret sighing,-
Sobbing in a neighbor's heart;
No one knows the fond hopes dying-
No one knows the cruel smart.
No one knows the hungry yearning
Of a neighbor's cheerless soul;
No one knows how grief is burning
In the heart where love grows cold.
None but God knows each desire;
He alone knows griefs untold:
Ah, He sees the heart's slow fire
Dying out as love grows cold.
Ah, I see your neighbor sitting,
Often with a low bowed head;
And I know how grief is flitting
Through his heart, where hope is dead.

BALM OF LIFE.

The greatest thing in life

A balm for its sorrows and strife-
And this one thing will prove
Better than all else to me:
'Tis merely to live and to be
With the people I love.

I love these bare, bald hills,
Where the song of the spring bird trills,
And I hear the coo of the dove;

But better than all to me,

Is to always live and be

Among the people I love.

Oh, what is wealth and fame?
Or, what is an honored name,

If from my friends I'm removed?

Give me my cot on the hill,

And the song of the whip-poor-will,
And the friends I have always loved.

THE WARNING.

Before the glass I stood this morning
Combing the hair of my frivolous head;
Then I beheld, oh, solemn warning!

A silvered strand of hirsute thread.
Firmly I grasp'd it with my fingers,
Pluck'd it out, but oh! the cold
Realization behind it lingers-

God in Heaven! I'm growing old!

Then I noticed the crow-foot wrinkles

Deeply indented around each eye, [twinkles And tears of regret down my sad face While thinking how soon I must surely die. I smooth out the wrinkles with careful fingers, [grows cold;

And pluck out gray hair while my heart For, oh! that terrible thought still lingersGod in Heaven! I'm growing old!

Oh, this stern flat of nature

Under which all mortals lie! Suspended over every creature

Hangs this sentence - all must die!

Execution day draws nearer,

And each gray hair I behold

Speaks of death and graveyards dreary

Oh! my God, I'm growing old!

Soon these hands will cease their labor,
And upon this bosom lay,
Down beside a silent neighbor,

Flesh and bone and heart decay.
What comes after? Ah, the mystery,

Half of which has ne'er been told;
For the dead send back no history
To poor mortals growing old.

EXTRACT.
Take away those little dresses,
Gently lay them out of sight;
I am sad, and it distresses
Me to look at them to-night.

JOHN J. MCGIRR.

BORN: YOUNGSTOWN, PA., MARCH 13, 1855. THE principal work of Mr. McGirr is the Destruction of the World, a poem which was published in 1886. Although comparatively unknown as yet, he is a poet of no mean ability. His conceptions are lofty - his language

JOHN J. M'GIRR.

clear and musical. This work also contains various other shorter poems that have been well received. Mr. McGirr is a newspaper editor by profession, and now resides in McKeesport, Pa.

AVE MARIA.

Ave Maria! the evening shadows fall:
Ave Maria! We pray thee guard us all.
Over the land and the sea the night is coming

on;

Ave Sanctissima! guard us till the dawn.

Star of life's stormy sea, hear our humble prayer.

And when the tempests rise, save us from despair.

Guide our wand'ring footsteps through this world aright;

Safely through the darkness upward to the

light.

Ave Sanctissima! hear our earnest cry! Ave Maria! draw near us when we die.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.
Sadly dies the autumn day,

In moaning winds and sunset gray;
The forest trees, with branches bare,
Upraise their arms as though in prayer,
While at their feet the dead leaves lie
Hushed and sad and silently.

The gray squirrel from his dizzy height
Perceives the fast approaching night,
And with quick and startled leap,
Scrambles to his nest and sleep,
While deep within the wood is heard
The plaintive cry of the midnight bird.

Now just above the western hills,

The gray clouds part, and sunlight fills The forest, and the saddened scene

Is glorified in the golden sheen

Of the setting sun.

So, sweetly on my saddened life,
Dark with sickness and with strife,
There falls the sunlight of God's love,
With hope that in His home above,
When life and sorrow both be past,
My weary feet shall rest at last.

DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD.
EXTRACT.

And now the lightning, as a storm of rain
Pours from the heavens, making all things

plain:

The cowering millions kneeling on the ground,
The beasts and reptiles gathered close around;
The awful secrets of the mighty sea,
Which now are shown so plain and vividly;
The falling houses and the bursting rocks;
The trees uprooted, as by tempest shocks,-
All, all the horrors of this awful night
Stand out distinct before poor mankind's

sight.

Oh, God of mercy! listen to that cry,-
That cry of anguish unto Thee on high!
That thou would'st end the lives of those be-

low,

And thus cut short their agonies and woe.
As if in answer to that fearful cry,

The lightning streams the faster from the sky,

The earth in places ope's in fissures deep, Where man and beast sink in a writhing heap. Then from th' abyss there come despairing cries:

Then a faint moaning, which in silence dies.

WOMAN'S TEARS. More powerful than the sword or pen, More potent than the frowns of men, More touching than a lover's sighs, Are the tears that flow from woman's eyes.