MRS. MYRA DOUGLAS. BORN: ADRIAN, MICH., 1844. HER father was a physician, of English and Scotch parentage; her mother of French extraction. Mrs. Douglas married early in life to soon wear the weeds of widowhood. She has one child, a daughter, who inherits her mother's talents. Mrs. Douglas has been a writer since childhood, but only of late years MRS. MYRA DOUGLAS. have her stories and verses been before the public. She has contributed to many of our best periodicals, among them Waverly and Ballou, of Boston, Baltimorean, Colman's Ru ral World, etc., and has been a contributor for years to the St. Louis Critic, a weekly paper of her own city. She has received letters of congratulation from some of our most eminent people. Mrs. ex-President Cleveland, Mrs. John A. Logan, Mrs. Hendricks; also Gen. G. I. Beauregard has written her words of praise and thanks for some of her Poems of the South. She has every reason to be proud of her success in her chosen career, and bids fair to win a place among the few immortal names that were not born to die." Mrs. Douglas prefers to use her maiden name in her work, and all her contributions bear the same signature. SHE WORKS FOR A LIVING. She works for a living, is none of your ilk, In calico dressed, while your gowns are of silk, And tho' blessed with rare beauty of form and of face, She must e'er in humility keep her own place. With a heart strong, tho' tender, no duty to shirk. Her dower is poverty, one of the poor, Her aim is to keep the grim wolf from the door. A mother, with sisters so small and so dear, Have lived thro' her earnings for more than a year; Her father, who, once their protector and pride, Thro' fortune's cold frowns, broken-hearted he died, And left there behind him so helpless and lone, The ones he so loved in adversity thrown. "Twas then that the daughter, the eldest in years, So bravely put by all the bitterest tears, bread To keep from starvation the loved of the dead, To be to her family ever a staff, And the bitter of life all so willingly quaff. She goes to her labors with love in her heart, Her work has been blest, and they ne'er had to part; In a dear cosy home, tho' both humble and small, Where they all live together, no evils befall, Where the wings of fond mother-love ever abide, And the hand of a sister doth kindly provide. And she in her calico, humble and poor, her door, Is fairer to me, with her pale, thoughtful face, Than the maidens of wealth with their fash ionable grace, For a beauty of soul more than mortal doth shine On her face from high Heaven, so soulful, divine. EXTRACT. I gaze upon this clover, And thro' the past I roam, Thro' long, lone years of changes, Back to my childhood's home. 38 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. Oh! the beautiful land of May be so," best beloved "-aye- -hand in hand, We find a little cottage home, Beneath the shade of Heaven's dome, We fold our wings and build a nest, Where mutual love shall ever rest, Ah! what delight the heart may know In blissful realms of May be so." All sorrows there have passed away. The sun shines out with gladdening ray, The air is balmy odorous-sweet, Our hearts so full of joy complete, We raise our eyes in prayer to Heav'n, For restful peace to bosom given, While soothing zephyrs softly blow The Lotus gales of May be so." 44 DUAL LIFE. "Tis said we live a double life, That waking hours we know are one, The other is the land of dreams, Where every cloud has passed away, Sometimes we know deep sorrow there, But then comes to us, it doth seem, There father, mother, husband, wife, But all together, there we meet So if our waking hours are sad, Awhile forgot our woeful loss, Oh, slumber, sweet to weary soul, And vanished friends We thank thee for thy soothing power, KISMET-FATE. E'en at our birth exists a mighty power, We may forget his eye is ever stern; Heaven, Do plead in prayer for mercies for our soul, And helping hands to lead us to the goal, Where peace awaits the hearts by sorrow riven, Yet adamantine doth that power remain, LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. MRS. LOU BEDFORD's first work, AVision and Other Poems, was published in 1881, and by permission was re-produced in London. This volume elicited many fine enconiums from such men as Oliver Wendell Holmes, Longfellow, and Paul Hayne. In 1888 appeared MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. Gathered Leaves, a very fine collection of her later poems. This lady has had six childrenthree sons grown to manhood reside in Dallas, Texas; the youngest child and only living daughter is attending college. The other two children, a grown daughter and son, with their father, are resting under the shadow of the trees." Personally Mrs. Bedford is of medium height and size, with black hair slightly threaded with gray, and dark-brown eyes. This lady is still a resident of Dallas. EVENING TIME BEST. There are who say that evening time is best And Hope a-brooding in the balmy air, Still, many hold that evening time is best. 39 But surely morning, with its rosy light light, To Youth and joyous Childhood is the best. For I am tired and I sigh for Home- I watch the sun declining to the west, NOTHING BUT LEAVES. How sad, how very sad it would be, To meet the Eternal One, If in our arms, instead of sheaves, We should bear a bundle of worthless leaves. 'Tis true, they might very beaut'ful be Green, crimson, and golden, too,And gathered fresh from the parent stem, And glistening with morning dew: But they'd not suffice for want of sheaves, Those beautiful, graceful, dewy leaves. Yet such, I fear, my portion 't will be, Tho' I've labored and sorrowed here; And have hoped to reap a rich reward In a brighter, happier sphere; But O, I feel that I have no sheaves Have naught but a bundle of fading leaves. Methinks, perchance, the Savior will look At my wayworn, bleeding feet, And a gentle smile of pity and love My averted eyes will meet; That he'll not condemn tho' I bear no sheaves Have simply a bundle of worthless leaves. I grow so weary, instead of sheaves, That I may bring Thee, instead of leaves, 40 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. SILENT STEPS. Unheeded all, the silent Hours So much amid the Past we love, Pass outward, one by one; We almost deem Time's silver sands Though blotted here and there with tears Until they, too, are flown; Or, furrowed brow and frosted hair EXTRACTS FROM A VISION. NIGHT. From o'er the hills That lie so dark against the southern sky, Float gentle zephyrs that through all the day Have wandered 'mid the orange groves, o'er beds Of violets, and by the cool, clear streams; And now they come, bearing upon their wings The low, sad music of the distant pines, THE POET'S HOME. And this we find, the world's his home; its trees, Vales, mountains cataracts, its glorious views; Its streams, lakes, bays, straits, oceans, gulfs and seas All pay a grateful tribute to his muse; And yet, not of the world, he treads alone A temple consecrated all his own -- A VISION. With slippered feet, but ling'ring step, gray Dawn, Parting the sable curtains Night had draped About the gorgeous couch where Nature slept, Came up the eastern stair. Awhile she paused Upon the threshold; but the star, that gleam'd So brightly on her forehead, heralded swept, And Morning flashed her beams upon the world! EXTRACTS FROM GATHERED LEAVES. Immortal and pure, methinks that Song To give true voice to this sacred Guest, Must feel, if he'd stir the great world's heart, The sting of the thorn in his own breast. NOT DEAD. Not dead! The strain can never die Is caught up by the heavenly choir; NEW YEAR'S THOUGHTS. But each rippling wave bears from the shore |