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I should forget, just as I do to-day,
And walk along the same old stumbling way,
If I could know. AFTER graduating at Mt. Holyoke seminary,
I would not know Miss Julia H. May then spent several years
Which of us, darling, will be first to go.
Between the parting and the greeting song, -
I would not know.
ARE THEY GLAD? If she were here To take my hand, and ask, .. What is it dear?" She would not see the furrows on my face, Nor note the silver where the gold bad place; Upon my faded lip she'd leave a kiss, And whisper: - Darling," and she would not
miss The vanished rose; or, if she did, would say, - How you have ripened since I went away!" The blemishes that others might despise Would still be beautiful in mother's eyes.
If she were here
JULIA HARRIS MAY.
has been at the head of a private school in Strong. The poems of this lady have appeared extensively in the leading religious and literary journals.
IF WE COULD KNOW! If we could know Which of us, darling, would be first to go, Which would be first to breast the swelling
tide, And step alone upon the other side,
If we could know! If it were you, Should I walk softly, keeping death in view? Should I my love to you most oft express? Or, should I grieve you, darling, any less
If it were you?
If it were 1,
If it were I?
THE AWAKING. As a sweet baby, from his morning dream Awakes, sometimes, and lies without a
sound, And all his rose-bud fingers twirl around, The while his violet-eyes, half open, seem Their petals to unfold, and pink cheeks beam As if glad thoughts the little brain had
found: But, when the mother's step upon the
ground He hears, his red lips speak the word supreme In mother's hearts, · agoo,"
So, we shall rise Perchance, when we awake from life's brier
sleep, Not all at once, but lie in rapt surprise, And eye and lip all motionless shall keep Until we speak, as new-born powers expand, Some glad strange word, that God shall un
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
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
And tho' blessed with rare beauty of form
and of face, She must e'er in humility keep her own place. A child of the people, to work and to bear, Her lot is to libor, her dower is care. What tho' her fair face is a heritage grand, Her form full of grace as the best of our land? Her hands small and slender, tho' fated to
work, With a heart strong, tho' tender, no duty to
sbirk. 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-liearted
he died, And left there behind bim 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, And sought for employment to purchase the
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, With her struggle with Fate, with the wolf at
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,
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 Rural 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 calicodressed, while your gowns are of silk,
EXTRACT. I gaze upon this clover,
And thro' the past I roam, Thro' long, lone years of changes,
Back to my childhood's home.
THE LAND OF .. MAY BE SO." Oh! the beautiful land of .. May be so," Where flowers of sweetest perfume grow, Beneath the bluest of summer skies A country rare, to glad our eyes, We roam the realms of ethery air Beyond the bounds of earthly care, Where Fate her smiles on us bestow In the beautiful land of .. May be so." We wander thro' that lovely land, With .. 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."
There father, mother, husband, wife,
The heart opprest.
In home of rest,
E'en for a time.
In sleep sublime.
And vanished friends -
That slumber lends.
That make our lot.
As our allot.
So happy we.
Doth spirit grieve.
And joy receive.
With outstretched hand.
On shining strand.
KISMET-- FATE. E'en at our birth exists a mighty power, That rules our life as with a sceptre grand. No will of ours can stay his stern command, Nor change one jot decrees of day or hour, That mark for us the limit of our breath, And tells the time thy summons comes, 0
death. We may forget his eye is ever stern; Unyielding, firm, his mandates e'er remain; No softening pity harbor can obtain, [burn, While life and all its pleasures through us We may forget, but ever close and near That power exists, so cold, so dark and drear. At times the sun may shine upon his face, And wake a light of splendor and of joy, While happiness a time our hours employ, That darker days and sorrows may efface. But ah! as stern as e'er he was before, That power remains till life for us is o'er. What though we kneel, and lifting hands to
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, As firm and cold, unpitying all our pain. O Power greai! unbeeding all our will, Who rules the world with cold, unfeeling rod, Thou cold vicegerent of a pardoning God, Our hearts with calm submission wilt thou fill, Till at the last life's wearied race is run, The heart exclaims in peace, Thy will be done.
MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. MRS. LOU BEDFORD's first work, A Vision 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
But surely morning, with its rosy light
light, To Youth and joyous Childhood is the best. But 0! to me the evening time is best!
For I am tired and I sigh for Home-
MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. Gathered Leaves, a very fine collection of her later poems. This lady has had six children three 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.
NOTHING BUT LEAVES. How sad, how very sad it would be,
When the toils of life shall be done, And we shall ascend above the sky
To meet the Eternal One,
Green, crimson, and golden, too,-
And glistening with morning dew;
Tho' I've labored and sorrowed here;
In a brighter, happier sphere; But 0, 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
And remembereth we are dust;
In His Righteousness to trust;
And long for the hour of rest;
On my loving Savior's breast;
And trust in Thy grace alone;
All my duties, one by one,
EVENING TIME BEST. There are who say that evening time is best When ev'rything in Nature sinks to rest;
Altho' the morning hour is passing fair, With warmth and beauty springing every
where, And Hope a-brooding in the balmy air, And drowning with glad music anxious
Pass outward, one by one;
Until, percbance, 'tis gone;
Pass outward, one by one;
Until they, too, are flown;
EXTRACTS FROM GATHERED LEAVES.
THE POET'S SONGS. Immortal and pure, methinks that Song
Is an angel that walks the world of men; And every emotion, deep and strong,
Tells of her presence, herself unseen; And the Poet, chosen and set a part
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.
That trembles to the Poet's lyre,
Is caught up by the leavenly choir;
NEW YEAR'S THOUGHTS.
Whence we gaze far out to sea,
Then dance back laughingly;
A grain of the gleaming sand,
And narrower grows the strand.
EXTRACTS FROM A VISION.
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
THE POET'S HOME.
trees, Vales, mountains cataracts, its glorious
views; Its streams, lakes, bays, straits, oceans, gulfs
Is coming now -
Fanning my brow:
No one can tell;
Through shady dell;
'Mid waving corn: Or where Aurora fair
Awakes the morn
Among the pines :
And flow'rs, and vines;
Its bound'ry trace!
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 The full-orbed day; the darkness backward
swept, And Morning flashed her beams upon the