ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

BORN: JOHNSTOWN, WIS., ABOUT 1850. WHEN thirteen years of age, Ella first began to write poetry, but it was many years before she received any financial return for these early efforts. Poems of Passion at once brought her into prominence, and she is now in receipt of a

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. good income. She is married, and resides in a beautiful home in the City of New York. In speaking of past events, she says: "I had ceased to expect any sudden success in literature when I published Poems of Passion. The intense excitement th book caused, the hue and cry against its alleged immort 'ity, and the corsequently remarkable sales, were all a stunning surprise to me." She has written a novel, and still writes poetry for the leading periodicals.

EXTRACTS.

Love, to endure life's sorrow and earth's woe, Needs friendship's solid masonwork below.

Hearts are much the same;

The loves of men but vary in degreeThey find no new expressions for the flame. But now I know that there is no killing A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. There is no hushing, there is no stilling That which is part of your life and breath. You may bury it deep, and leave behind you The land, the people that knew your slain; It will push the sods from its grave, and find

you

On wastes of water or desert plain.

How poor that love that needeth word or mes

sage,

To banish doubt or nourish tenderness.

Days will grow cold, and moons wax old,
And then a heart that's true

Is better far than grace or gold-
And so my love, adieu!

I cannot wed with you.

Whoever was begotten by pure love,
And came desired and welcome into life,
Is of immaculate conception.

Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.

Rejoice, and men will seek you:

Grieve, and they turn and go.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all.

Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,

Your head like the golden-rod,

And we will go sailing away from here

To the beautiful Land of Nod.

Waste no tears

Upon the blotted record of lost years

But turn the leaf, and smile, oh, smile, to see The fair white pages that remain for thee.

THE LEGEND OF THE STORKS AND
BABIES.

Have you heard of the Valley of Babyland
The realm where the dear little darlings stay
Till the kind storks go, as all men know,
And O so tenderly bring them away?

The paths are winding, and past all finding
By all save the storks, who understand
The gates, and the highways, and the intricate
by-ways

That lead to Babyland.

The path to the Valley of Babyland

Only the kind white storks know.

If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains.

No man sees them come or go.

But an angel, maybe, who guards some baby, Or a fairy, perhaps, with her magic wand, Brings them straightway to the wonderful

gateway

That leads to Babyland.

All over the Valley of Babyland

Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss; And under the ferns fair, and under the leaves

there

Lie little heads like spools of floss.

JOESPH S. GITT.

BORN: ADAMS CO., PA., SEPT. 9, 1815. FOR several years Mr. Gitt taught school and later was editor and proprietor of the Hanover Democrat, Planet and Weekly News. In 1841 he was married to Anna M. Bachman.

JOSEPH S. GITT.

and has two children now living. He has held prominent railroad positions. During his brief busy life Mr. Gitt has been a very successful man, and has now retired.

ODE TO PENNSYLVANIA.
Arouse, and with spirit,

Frail Muse touch the string,
Assist me the grandeur

Of Nature to sing,
Despel all thy sadness,
Awake from thy dream,
Let proud Pennsylvania

Be marked as the theme.
First under the boughs
Of the aged elm tree,
Thy founder in council
Did barter for thee,
In friendship the compact
Was ordered and given,
And sealed with a vow
Recorded in Heaven.

The war-whoop's shrill echo,
No more now is heard,
But sleeps in thy valleys,
Long, long since interred;

The scalp axe reposes

Within the dark tomb
The calumet has given

Its last lingering fume.
The silence that hovered,
In solitude dressed,
And in thy cool arbors
Young fancy caressed;
Unbroken, except by

The Savage's tread,
Before the swift march of
Improvement has fled.
Thy mineral caverns,

Supplied and well stored, Yield columns of riches, E'en faintly explored; Thy mellow-breezed climate, And rich fertile soil, Reward in great plenty,

The husbandman's toil.

A well-defined system

Is strung through the land,

By which education

All dare command;

Thy people have anchored
Within its great sea,

And cherished the motto,-
Let knowledge be free.
Philosophy, also,

Has boldly appeared,
And o'er thy wide vegas
Its canopy reared,

A Franklin has flourished, Whose much-honored name, Has long been thy passport To regions of fame.

He rode on the tempest

Reserved- undismayedWhen thunder and lightning Their terror displayed; And from earth's low bosom, Taught men to converse, In electrical signals

With clouds in their course.

And Poetry's lyre,

With elegance strung, Already its ode of

Ascription has sung; The timbrel has sounded, And who yet can tell, How far o'er thy confines Its echo may swell?

God prosper the Keystone

Of freedom's firm arch, And light her to glory

By liberty's torch;

I envy not scepters,

Nor wealth's hollow fame;

Content but to call thee

HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR.

BORN IN ENGLAND, MAY 5, 1850.

WHEN a boy, Henry wrote a Poetical History of England. He was attached to the London Telegraph and All The Year Round, and at one time was amanuensis to Charles Dickens. He was subsequently employed by several prominent London and provincial papers, and wrote several able pamphlets, socn gaining a reputation as a forcible, witty, elegant and entertaining writer. Mr. RyderTaylor has edited various other publications

HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR.

of note: has filled several public offices; was for a time professor of English literature and elocution, and gave lectures on important subjects. In 1881 he came to the United States, settling in San Antonio, Texas, where he soon became an American citizen. He is now editor of the Texas World, and contributes to several prominent journals. Mr. Ryder-Taylor has a wife and a family of several children, of whom he is very proud.

THE BETTER BY AND BY.

As onward through the world we go,
We many trials see,

And troubles oft oppress us sore,
They seem so hard to be;

But when the heart is lone and sad,
Then hope to us is nigh,

And shows a happy prospect
In the better by and by.

The children think it very hard,

That elders bear the rule;

And harder still the lessons

They learn in life's great school.

Hope gives them courage as they think,It sparkles in the eye

They'll soon grow big and alter things,

In the better by and by.

The lovers often quarrel,

And think each other hard, As often they make up their tiffs, And greater grows regard. They think upon the future,

When bound by dearer tie, And hope for wedded happiness, In the better by and by. When man and wife are parted,

As oft we see in life,

By cruel fate, or worse yet still,
Perhaps by cankerous strife:
If pure love in their hearts has burned,
This solace they apply,-

The hope of blessed reunion,
In the better by and by.

The widow, in her sore distress,
Is turned from her grief,
To her dear, loving little child,

And in it finds relief;

By want and care she is oppressed,
And under ban doth lie,

Yet waits in patience and in hope,
The better by and by.

The rich man's often envied,
By reasons of his wealth;
He trials has, vexations too,

And often bad his health.
Surrounded by his riches,

His heart has still its cry,
And even he looks forward

To the better by and by.
The poor man going forth at dawn
Toils very hard all day,

His wages small, his comforts few,
And very rough his way;
To make the most of humble means,
He and his wife doth try,
Encouraged by the goodly hope,

Of the better by and by.
The prisoner in his lonely cell,
As punished for crime,
Toils sadly on throughout the day,
And wears away his time:

He thinks of wife and loving friends,
And on them doth rely,

And longs for Freedom's happy hour,-
In the better by and by.

The sick man tossing on his bed,
Racked by the body's pain,

For him there seems but little hope
He may be well again;

But when folks come to see him,
How welcome the reply,

But when we mourn our loved, our dead,

How bitter is the heart!

"Tis then we feel the force of love

How hard it is to part!

But hope stands by to cheer us,

While we with fate comply,
And says that we shall meet again
In the better by and by.

Since all of us, both rich and poor,
Of trials have a share,

To each let's give a helping hand,
And have a friendly care;
Let's do our duty in this world,
And when we come to die,
We'll surely be rewarded,

In the better by and by.

THE SONG OF THE WEARY.

I am weary, oh! my darling,
Of this fell earthly strife,
That day by day I'm waging
Just to sustain our life.
But I struggle on still hoping

That Time will right the wrong; And yet my weary heart will sigh, How long, Oh! Lord, how long?"

I am weary, oh! my darling,
of the sights I daily see,
Of vice in glorious splendor,
The poor in misery.

The gilded herd, with iron rule,
Oppress the common throng;
I'm patient, yet the heart will cry:

How long, oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of the friendship that's not true, And sigh that we no Damons find To gild life's dreary hue.

I am weary of the love that comes Just like a Syren's song;

And sadly does my heart repeat,

How long, oh! Lord, how long?"

I am weary, oh! my darling,
Of the fashions of the time,
That only make dressed dummies
Of womanhood sublime,
That make of young men noodles,
Effeminate, not strong;
And, sickened, then I sadly ery,

How long, oh! Lord, how long?"

I am weary, oh! my darling,
Of politic's shrewd game,

Where bosses rule in all things,

Defile the people's name;

Where the sharp" and not the honest,
To power pass along;
And, heart-sick, I cry the louder,

How long, oh! Lord, how long?"
I am weary, oh! my darling,

And I long to be at rest,

In the old home, nestled 'mong forest-crowned hills,

I list to the music of swift dancing rills,
And musical voices far sweeter than these
Are floating to me on the soft evening breeze.
Over my heart, long shaded in sadness,
Softly there falleth a feeling of gladness,
For the dear old days have come back to me,
When I was a child so careless and free.
Here in their prime I find Father and Mother;
Once more I frolic with sister and brother,
Building a playhouse in some pleasant nook,
Or romp in the orchard or down by the brook.
Sweet as the flowers that bloom in the wild-
wood

Are the beautiful days of innocent childhood,
And like the fair flowers how short is their

stay,

The swift passing years soon bear them away. E'en as I gaze, fancy's picture is fading, Realities, stern my pathway are shading, Life's burdens and years have furrowed my brow,

And my loved ones dwell not in the old home

now.

EXTRACT.

Many a time comes sorrow and care,
And trials the heart can scarcely bear.---
But seldom will come a measure of bliss,
In a world as cold and careless as this;
The strangest of things will sometimes befall
Yet the pleasures we know as the sweetest of
all

May come but once in a lifetime.

THOMAS O'HAGAN.

BORN IN CANADA IN 1855.

THIS gentleman has received a thorough education, having become proficient in Latin, French, German, and other languages, and is one of the rising litterateurs of the new world. In 1874 Mr. O'Hagan entered the profession of teaching, and during the succeeding nine years held positions of great prominence. Later on the degrees of B. A. and M. A. were con

The wounds and scars of olden days
Had left her maiden brow,

And manly hearts stood by her side,
And swords spoke of a vow -
That Ireland, dear old Irelaud,
Should forever more be free,
And her patriot sons in union
Drive the Saxon o'er the sea.

I saw the Shannon pour along
In joyous accents clear,

Its tide of music sweet and strong
Each wave was filled with cheer;
And hast'ning on in proud acclaim
Swept Barrow Suir and Lee;
For a nation's heart was throbbing
In each wavelet to the sea.

O land of woe and sorrow,
When shall come this vision bright?
When shall beam a glad to-morrow?
When shall fade thy starless night?
I have watch'd and waited for thee,
I have hoped for thee in fear,
I have caught thy ray of sunshine
Through the ocean of a tear!