JESSIE ADELINE COLE. BORN: SANDWICH, ILL., MARCH 17, 1862. IN 1885 Miss Cole published a volume of poems, an edition which was quickly subscribed for by her many friends and admirers. Miss Cole has traveled extensively, and has visited most

HOW IT WAS.

He won a prize for his good penmanship;
And for his friendship he was prized.
His worship wore a good-sized cap,--
Once in a sail-ship he was a good capsized.
He was once tangled in a courtship,
But the loveship proved a hardship;
And being barred out he seized the pen,
And is now the Cæsar of bardship.

NOT FOR WOMAN.

The pen is not for woman."-HAWTHORNE. I read those six words and then got awful mad. The pen is not for woman? Really, that's too bad!

I deemed the scoundrel meant the pen with which to write

And truly, I was vexed enough then and there to fight. [I did, But, with a second thought I saw, I, of course The meaning true which there lies partly masked or hid: [screens The word "pen," you see, the meaning mostly It is the penitentiary the author really means. Now, should I meet Nathaniel, why, I would greet him thus: [not for us.

You're surely in the right, sir, the

pen" is

JESSIE ADELINE COLE. of the larger cities of the United States. She hopes soon to publish another volume of several hundred pieces under the title of Poems of Sentiment and Humor.

NEVER BE ASHAMED OF HAVING
LOVED.

Never be ashamed of having loved;
Far better to have loved than have hated;
If planted where it fruitless proved,

You can sigh and wish you had waited.

A woman may not ask a man

To give to her his heart and hand; Her acts and eyes do all they can

To help his heart to understand.
But if that heart be not inclined

To be by her love-flame ignited,
She needs must think that fate's unkind
For that her heart with love be lighted.
Still never be ashamed to say:

I loved him and it caused me pain.
You couldn't help that love broke 'way;
Love can't be held by stoutest chain.

IT NEVER HAS BEEN.

Oh, it never has been since Time began, That a woman whose heart is broken in twain,

By the downfallen castle built on a man, Has with Time forgotten and loved again! Her hope does not die tho' she's forsaken; Her heart sinks down as in water a stone. Now she sees that love to the ragman taken; "Tis a garment outgrown-'tis a garment outgrown.

Unbroken soil rich grain cannot produce,

But ground that's broken or plowed in fall. Frozen, then thawed, is of great use,

And thus it is with human hearts all. Heart goes down and brings up the soul To help where it alone once had spoken; It surely seems strange, but it grows more whole,

For having been broken - for having been broken.

Yes, supernal, boundless, undecayed,
A great loving heart though yet unloved
In a thoughtful woman's hand is laid;
Though one fiery love hath vainly proved.
Oh, it never has been since Time began
That a woman whose heart is broken in
twain,

By the down-fallen castle built on a man,
Has truly loved again has truly loved
again.

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SAMUEL GARBORG.

BORN IN NORWAY, MARCH 16, 1857.

IN his youth Mr. Garborg became a sailor, finally coming to America; and later attended the academy of Iowa college. Since that time he has taught school in several states and with

The past to us relates,

The present indicates,

That man, through toil and thought, And many a battle fought,

Will steadily attain

To righteous, rightful reign; To virtue, purity,

And just security.

The future, then, a stream Will be- oh, happy dream! Of sweet tranquility, Whose blessed reality

Will make old earth rejoice,
And all with heart and voice
Will join the sacred song

Of glory, in the throng
Whose lot was e'er replete

With heavenly joys complete

And universal fame

Will glorify God's name.

KISSING THE ROD.

All hail the power of Mighty God!
Who is in thunder and the flood;

Who whirleth past us in a cloud

Of smoke, and fire and rumbling loud; Yet is about and underneath,

In lion's tooth as flowery wreath; Who is in sunshine and the calm,

In tempest as in springtime's balm; Who rideth on the mighty storms,

Yet lingers 'round the weakest forms; He by whose mighty outstretched hand Is held the fate of all the lands: Yet careth for the small and great,

E'en for the worms that on him wait; He in whose ever active brain

Resounds the most majestic strain
Of myriad worlds of thought and song,--
Time and eternity along;

Who gave to all things living, breath,
And taketh what he gave in death;
To him give adoration all!
Remembering soon 'tis ours to fall.

MY FAIRY LAND.
O, that I could but wander,
Released from earthly clay,
To that romantic wonder,-
My fairy land away!

It has such vast extension,-
It is the universe;
There vivid comprehension
Grasps every fairy verse.
From planet and to planet,
Through space that intervenes,
And all the "ties" that span it,
I'd soar to view the scenes.
The universe, my palace,

Transversed by silver streams, With music sweet would solace My soul and swell its dreams.

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MARY.

Long years ago---'tis vain to tell --

We parted by the river;

I whispered then a fond farewell-
Perhaps it was forever.

And though I've wandered far away,
O'er mountain, sea and prairie,
Still I can ne'er forget the day
I bade farewell to Mary.

They tell me she is still the same,
Unchang'd in heart and feeling;
Unchang'd in look, unchang'd in name,
With beauty 'round her stealing.
And as my thoughts now swiftly roam
To her so coy and chary,

I sigh to think long years may come
E'er I can be with Mary.

'Tis said the hearts that deepest love
Must feel the deepest sorrow;
Perhaps 'tis thus in vain I strove
Relief from Time to borrow.
For as the years more swiftly creep,
My heart seems less to vary;

It knows but one love long and deep-
An endless love for Mary.

And now whate'er my hapless fate,
Whate'er my joy or sadness;
May pleasures ever 'round her wait
To crown her life with gladness.
And may sweet echoes from the past,
Like whisperings of some fairy,
Around her lovely form be cast
To bring sweet peace to Mary.

FLORA LEE.

Oh, Flora Lee! Sweet Flora Lee!
Though parted by the boundless plain,
Yet I must still remember thee-
Although remembrance gives me pain.
And silent as I wander long

Beside the blue and moonlit sea,
And listen to the night-bird's song,
I think of naught but Flora Lee.
For she's the fairest of her race,
There's music's sweetness in her voice---
An angel's meaning in her face

Which bids the loneliest heart rejoice. Ah! who could view so fair a breast

And feel his heart from love was free? Where is the maid who is more blest Than pretty, brown-eyed Flora Lee? But we have parted --- still the past Must always fresh and glad ning seem; And may we meet again at last

To live once more our blissful dream. But I must bid her now farewell

And wander o'er the dark blue sea, Yet may some guardian angel dwell Forever near sweet Flora Lee.

THE WITHERED LEAF. Though withered and faded, And now all alone, By silent grief shaded, Its beauty all gone; Yet 'round it is clinging A love which decay, Though still vainly wringing, Can ne'er take away. 'Tis first of the treasures That to me are left, It brings back the pleasures Of which I'm bereft; And though it may wither, Yet while it is near I'll cherish no other

With Love's sacred tear.

IF I HAD KNOWN. If I had known those sunny smiles Could ever prove untrue; If I had known those fragile wiles Were false and borrowed, too;

I would not weep to think that I Had bowed before thy throne, Nor would I draw one parting sigh If I had only known.

If I had

known those soft brown eyes,
That once could smile so sweet-
Like Heaven's lamplights in the skies
Could sparkle with deceit;

I would not flee from those I love,
Nor sigh to be alone;

Nor longer would I vainly rove

If I had only known.

If I had known that siren voice
Was false as that sweet smile:

If I had known thou couldst rejoice
Because thou didst beguile;
I'd spurn the offer of thy heart

And of thy cheek's false glow;
Without one sigh from thee I'd part,
But then I did not know.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
When twilight's dreamy hour has come,
And vesper bells are ringing;
When from his fragrant woodbine home
The nightingale is singing:
When languid nature softly smiles
With sweetest love on me,

My weary heart its grief exiles,
For then I think of thee.
When flowers are blooming by the way
When in their sweetest measure,
The song-birds sing the livelong day,
And all seems peace and pleasure;
When childhood kneels in silent pray'r
'Round some fond mother's knee,
My heart forgets each secret care,
For then I think of thee.

JENIZA MARSHALL.

BORN IN PENNSYLVANIA, MARCH 24, 1864. EMIGRATING to Kansas with her parents in 1877, Miss Marshall taught school at the age of sixteen, which occupation she steadily follow

JENIZA MARSHALL.

ed until 1888. Her poems have appeared extensively in the local press. Miss Marshall is now a resident of Lyndon, Kansas.

THIS IS A BEAUTIFUL WORLD. O, this is a beautiful world!

I was thinking of that this morning,
As I plucked the violets from the hill,
Fair Nature's sweet adorning,
And the transient shadows flitted
Across the meadow land,

And the soft wind kissed my forehead
And the flowers I held in my hand.

O, this is a beautiful world,
A heavenly place to live in;

And if some of us cling to it overmuch,

I hope we may be forgiven,
For when 'tis the pleasant summer,
And the voice of the wind is gay,
And sorrow seems far, far from us,
We would have it so alway.
The voices of happy children,
In the sweet, green fields at play,
Came wandering over the hill to me
As I gathered my flowers to-day,

255

And I wondered if they would know,
When the storms of the years swept down,
The self-same struggles for human rights,
And the battles that I have known.
Ah, well for them this morning
That they do not understand,

It were well they could play forever

In this sunny meadow land.

O, this is a beautiful world,

I thought to myself, to live in;

And if some of us cling to it overmuch,

I hope we may be forgiven.

THE STEP ON THE STAIR. There's a feeble step on the stair, I hear, As it sounds through the silent room, And a shadow falls, a feeling of fear, When I realize that the end draws near, And he's only a step from the tomb. I stood in the chamber of death to-day, Where a mother lay white and still; There was nothing left but a casket of clay, But my heart was full when they bore it

away

To the sepulcher under the hill.

For I thought, were it father or mother of

mine,

What an empty home there would be; One break in the flow of a life's sunshine, A sadder tone to the midnight chime, And a sorrowful day to me.

A quiet room and a vacant chair

In one corner, all alone,

The ghost of a step on the silent stair, One less in the circle at family prayer, One more at the great white throne.

THE PICTURE ON THE WALL. They had told me she was dead,— The little one whose portrait hangs on the wall,

A face to follow one till the shadows of life grow tall

With the lapse of years, and the twilight begins to fall.

A baby, face and a baby's shapely head,
With a sober, searching look in the eyes of

brown:

And glancing at him and her I fancied in their eyes shone

The ghost of a tear, and it brought the mist to my own.

EXTRACT.

No more is heard the sound of booming cannon,

That dreadful din, the bellowing of war.
That shook the union to its deep foundation,
Echoing far and near on sea and shore.