MRS. IRENE G. ADAMS.

BORN: ERIE Co., N. Y., APRIL 19, 1841. THE poems of Mrs. Adams have appeared in the leading publication of the country, and have been extensively copied in the local press. Her present husband, Capt. J. C. Adams, to whom she was wedded in 1887, is a popular

MRS. IRENE G. ADAMS. journalist of South Dakota. Mrs. Adams edits a column in her husband's paper, which she devotes to the interests of Woman and Home, This lady is a prominent worker for the cause of the W. C. T. U., and is well known and honored in her adopted state.

THE TYRANNY OF LOVE.
Love makes you mine most blessed thought;
It gleams with joy in darkest night,
And radiates a halo bright

'Round common toil with duty fraught.
My own-Thank God! Such generous gift
Has warmed my deepest depths of soul:
It is my long sought starlit goal
Come unto me from life's broad drift.
I feel my deep unworthiness

To wear the pearl love brings to me;
The blemish of my past I see
Rise like a cloud of selfishness.
The fires of sin swept me away

From virtue's path of purity,
From royal deeds of charity,
And manhood's loftier moral way.

O, I have feared in moody hour,

Lest stains like these upon my past
Might all my future overcast,
Despite God's loving, cleansing power.

As heart of oak must bear the mar
Inflicted on the youthful tree,
Though ages of futurity
Conceal, they cancel not the scar.
But now I know that your sweet soul,
So pure and strong, so brave and true,
Hath power to build my life anew,
The ill subdue, the good extol.

Ah, dear, my future, in your hands,

Must shape itself as you decree:

Your potent will hath set me free
From selfish aims and sin's commands.

There are no heights I may not reach
of fame or fortune, by your side,
My inspiration and my guide,
Accept the task, love, I beseech.

HER ANSWER.

I love you, but I dare not take

The burdens you would have me bear:
Responsible for every share

of gain or loss your years may make.
You tell me that my love's a shield

From sin that snared you in the past,-
That my stanch soul shall speed you fast
Where all choice blessings are revealed.
But what of mine? Pray tell me, dear,

While I give all to help you rise
Neglecting my ambition's prize
That you may win that grander sphere.
What is it you will do for me?

What my advancement while I spend
My energies, that you may mend
A frittered life and destiny?
My life is mine, I cannot give

Its precious hours to your employ,
Unless receiving sure convoy
That I a larger life may live.
My soul is mine, and I must die,

You could not, if you would, decree
Against my immortality,
Nor thwart the grave where I must lie.
God given life and soul are mine,

Two monuments of trust to build,
And I must strive that they be filled
With choicest grain and richest wine;

I soar to heights in fancy's flight;
I search for wisdom's diadem,

I sigh for glimpse of truth's pure gem;
You stifle me with self-love's blight.
I love you, and I hoped, alas!

That you could give me prize for prizeThat, hand in hand, we both might rise; You offer nothing; Let it pass.

292

GEORGE E. MARKHAM.

BORN: BROOME CO., N.Y., 1849. THE poems of Mr. Markham have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press. He was married in 1874 to Miss Marion A. Davis

GEORGE E. MARKHAM.

with whom he now resides in Weeping Water, Neb. He deals in musical merchandise, and is a teacher of music, having now about forty scholars.

THAT DEAR LITTLE HOME. The night is cool, the sky is clear, the stars are bright and all is cheer.

A little group of faces fair, are beamy round their mother's chair.

The work is done and all can rest, or stories tell, which they love best.

Their Papa's step is heard to sound, and faces bright are turned around.

Then comes a rush for the first kiss -
Such greetings are a world of bliss.
They all receive a word of love
'Tis heaven reflected from above.

The stories told, the papers read,
The good-night passed and all to bed.
Now come those pleasant happy dreams
Of angel forms and pearly streams.

.

My friends, how does this picture take, 'Tis heaven asleep, and heaven awake. We all can have those homes so dear, For home is what we make it here.

FROM THE CRADLE TO THE GRAVE. Was it distant music or the rustle of a wing? Only the voice of a little babe an angel came to bring.

We now can see a gentle mother's tender love and care;

We'll watch her as she guides his feet away from every snare.

As years pass by, we look again and see that little boy,

With curly head and rosy lips and eyes so full of joy.

And now a heavy hand is raised to deal the child a blow,

Because some mischief it has done,-stop! brute, don't stoop so low.

We'll rush to stay the angry blow, and treat it with disdain,

You shall not harm a single hair; don't raise that hand again.

The curtain falls and time flies by. Behold in

manhood how

The little boy that was so weak, is strong and noble now.

The mother now, so weak herself, looks on her son with pride,

The noble man now guides her feet, as down life's walk they glide.

We now pass on to other scenes, forgetting as we go, That time goes rushing, whirling by, and brings the winter's snow.

Alas, once more our eyes behold the harvest time of years,

Our babe, our boy, our noble man, once more to us appears.

His curly hair is white as snow, his once straight form is now bowed down, An angel in the clouds appears and holds for him a robe and crown.

Breathe gently now and hear again the rustle of a wing;

The golden harps are touched once more and heavenly voices sing.

"Tis over now and all is still; the earth moves on the same,

And all that's left for friends to love is memory of his name.

294

ABBIE NELSIA PARTRIDGE.

BORN: LEBANON, ME., SEPT. 15, 1857. UNDER the nom de plume of Nelsia Bird this lady has written both prose and poetry for

ABBIE NELSIA PARTRIDGE.

numerous newspapers and magazines. She resides with her parents at Greenfield, N. H., where she has become quite popular.

CLOSED DOORS.

How often we utter a careless remark
When speaking of people we know.

.. They are odd or eccentric," is all that we say,

For the thoughts of their hearts do not show.

Perhaps there are reasons we never would dream,

That have made their lives what they are; Slumbering pity might wake, if to us had

been given,

The door of their hearts to unbar.

We see but the doing, and censure the deed,
Without knowing the motive within.
Could we see the true purpose, and fathom
the why,

We might find in our heart lay the sin. Speak lightly of no one; let God be the judge; Our mission be good will to all;

Whatever we think, keeping guard o'er our

lips,

That no light, careless word from them fall. Though a kind word be lost, or a smile cast

aside,

"Tis but little to lose on our way, And if some heart grows true by our kind,

earnest words,

The one ransomed soul will repay.

WHO KNOWS?

Into grace, the lovely rose
By inherent impulse grows;
So the features are refined

By a pure and noble mind;

Vice and beauty never blend,

Were the thoughts some hand had penned.
Thoughtfully I turned away,

On the ground, beside me, lay
Wreck of once a lovely flower,
Now bereft of beauty's power.
Sheltered by a moss-decked stone,
I had found it blooming lone,

Plucked it for its beauty rare,
Brought it home with tenderest care.
Lovely, in my richest vase

I had given it honor's place,

But a friend, who knew the flowers'

Names, and natures, parts and powers,

Looking on my new-found prize,
Opened wide my blinded eyes:
..Oh, this fearful poison flower,
Blooming in your favorite bower!"
So the harmful beauty lay,
Hated, feared, and thrown away.
And I, musing o'er the rose,
Murmured sadly, Ah, who knows?"
Poison flowers our hands must soil,
Rich bouquets their presence spoil,
Just as beauty in the face,
Hides, of sin, the veriest trace.

THE TRAIN OF YEARS.

EXTRACT.

I think a vision comes to me.
On some lone height I seem to sit
And watch the moving throng. As the
Long train of years glide by, a glimpse
I catch of some familiar face,
That in the pleasant days gone by
Had journeyed with me for awhile,
And then was lost amid the throng
That waited for yet other trains,
To take them on their chosen way;
Those I had known in childhood's days,
And whose bright eyes, beaming with joy,
A moment gazed into my own,
And then was lost to view amid
The mass of human souls, each on
The purpose of his life intent.

MRS. MATTIE W. ANGWIN.

BORN: DARKE CO., O., AUG. 31, 1850. THE poems of this lady have appeared in the Toledo Blade and other journals of repute.

MRS. MATTIE W. ANGWIN. She now resides in Mt. Vernon, Mo., with her husband, R. H. Angwin, to whom she was married in 1872, and her two sons.

TWO GRAVES.

Years agone a maiden wandered
In a churchyard, grave and old,
Coming o'er the marble tablets

Weeping for the tales they told.
And at last her weary footsteps
Paused beside a little mound
Overgrown with weeds and rushes,
Parting them, a name she found.
And below, in words so tender,

Told of broken hearts and drear, These the words the maiden pondered: ..Many hopes lie buried here." Years have passed, and in a city Walks that maiden, but her brow Is not free from care and sorrowFor she is a mother now. Glancing down a look of horror Steals upon that care-worn face, For, beside her feet is lying

Not a child in death's embrace, But a boy in drunken slumber,

One she taught to kneel in prayer.

Night and morn ere sin had blighted
Form and face of beauty rare.
Wild with grief, she kneels beside him
Calling loud his name, so dear.
Oh! my child, she wails in sorrow,
..Many hopes are buried here."
And thus it is, in hearts about us,
Hopes are buried day by day,
By the cup of Demon's brewing,
And Christians sleep upon the way.

'Rouse ye mighty temperance legion,
Battle bravely for the right,
Lest the sun of souls about us
Shall go down in darkest night.

NED WILBUR'S STORY.

"Twas night when in a lighted hall
The flowing bowl was passed around
With bacchanalian songs of mirth,
By men inured to sinful sound.

It came to one whose feet had strayed
In sin's broad highway many years,
Surprise was pictured on each face

To find that rough, strong man, in tears.

At last one spoke: Why, Ned, old boy,
I've stood beside you many a day
When shot and shell around us rained
And many fell amid the fray.

.. And often, too, we've passed thro' scenes
And witnessed sorrows that were deep,
But never yet, my dear old friend,
Have I been one to see you weep."
Then Ned arose and slowly said:

"Your words, my comrade, all are true,
These are the first tears I have shed
Since that dark day we donned the blue.
..But I must tell you of a scene

Enacted many years ago:-
Long ere the time that you and I
Went forth to meet the coming foe.
"A mother lay in Death's embrace,
Unmindful of the gazing crowds,

I was her only child, and she-
Was passing from me to the clouds.
"A very little child I was,

And yet, I knelt beside her bed
And cried in frantic, childish fear
Oh! Mother, speak to little Ned:
.Then scanned her face in mute appeal
And saw her open wide her eyes,
One hand she placed upon my head,
The other pointed to the skies.
..To-night when that vile cup was passed
I saw again that sainted face-
It passed between me and the glass
Just as it looked in death's embrace.