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BORN: STOWE, VT., FEB. 1, 1819. SINCE 1839 Mr. Luce has contributed both prose and verse to the periodical press generally, and published in 1876 a volume of poems in conjunction with his wife, wbo is also represented on this page. In 1881 Mr. Luce published a volume of poems entitled Echoes of the Past, and six years later appear. ed The Woodman. Since 1857 he has resided in Wisconsin at Gales olle, where he established a newspaper in 1860. Five years later be sold out the publication and was elected county superintendent of schools, serving two terms of two years each. Mr. Luco next edited the Galesville Independent, which publication he bought two years later, editing the same until 1889, when it was sold.

. I hope," our tender mother said,

No one's abroad this dreadful night." Our mother's voice had hardly ceased,

When sudden through the opening door, O'er drifts, the quaint old doctor sprung,

And forward fell upon the floor. His brow was crusted o'er with ice,

And crisp and frozen was his cheek; His limbs were paralyzed with cold;

For once, the doctor could not speak. With genial warmth, and tender care,

He soon revived, and said: Come Bill, Be kind enough to get my mare,

I must reach Martin's, on the hill." Then on again, o'er trackless snow,

Against the biting winter blast, Without the hope of worldly gain,

Through mountain drifts, the doctor passed. Far up the winding mountain road,

Through forest dark and blinding snow, He reached the desolate abode

of sickness, poverty and woe. Long years have passed; yet oft I ask,

As howls the tempest in its might, While sitting by the evening fire,

• What faithful doctor rides to-night?" Yes, faithful; though full well I know

The world is sparing of its praise; And these self-sacrificing men

But seldom tempt the poet's lays. And yet, I trust, when at the last,

They leave the world of human strife, Like him who loved his fellow men,"

Their names shall grace the Book of Life.

THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. I see him still, as erst of yore,

With furrowed cheek and whitened brow; Though he's been dead of years a score,

I see him stand before me now. I seem to see his withered form

Beside his faithful white-faced mare, With old brown saddle-bags behind,

Whose odor 'twas a grief to bear. With chronic cough I hear him pass

He digs bis steed with vigorous heel, Whose callous sides, from daily thumps,

Had long since lost the power to feel.
The constant grin upon his face-

His light .. te-be!" at human pain,
As oft he wrenched the offending tooth,

Our memory ever will retain.
But deeply down within his breast,

Beneath a mail-like Milan steel,
'Twas said by those who knew him best,

The doctor has a heart to feel." 'Twas in the old Green Mountain State,

Mid deep, dread winter's drifting snow, The evening hour was waxing late,

Some forty years or more ago. We sat around the ample bearth,

Where maple logs were blazing bright; Glad songs arose, and social mirth

Upon that dismal winter night. The storm-cloud hung on Mansfield's brow

The wind blew piercingly and chill; Fierce through the leafless branches shrieked,

And roared along the fir-clad hill. The deep'ning snow that all day long

Had fallen silently and fast, Now densely filled the frosty air,

And piled in drifts before the blast. And still we sat - the hours sped

The storm increased with fearful might;


BORN: WATERBURY, VT., DEC. 28, 1824. PRIOR to her marriage this lady taught school. Her poems have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press, and in 1876 she published, in conjunction with her husband, a beautiful volume of Poems, which has received favorable comment from press and public. She was married to Samuel Slayton Luce in 1847, and now resides in Galesville, Wis.

From the grand majestic mountains,

Where the storm-cloud loves to rest From the deep, delightful valleys,

They are coming, coming West. From those eastern towns and cities,

Come forth earnest, noble men Men of labor - men of learning,

That can guide the plow or pen. Not alone from dear New England,

But from other lands they come,




Born: LIMINGTON, ME., 1819. QUITE a number of the productions of this lady, both prose and poetry, have been pub.

O'er the broad Atlantic's billows,

Here to find a peaceful home. From green Erin, and brave Scotland

From old England's pleasant shore, And from Germany and Norway,

There are thousands coming o'er. They are leaving home and country,

And the friends they love the best – They are seeking wealth and freedom,

And shall find them in the West. We extend a hearty welcome

To each brave, industrious band; He, whose heart is true and honest,

Is right worthy of our land. With united, true devotion,

Let us work with earnest wills; All along our own broad prairies

And among our vales and hills; We will build fair towns and cities.

Halis of wisdom - works of artColleges, and schools and churches,

That shall honor mind and heart. Here shall dwell a mighty people,

Poets, scholars, world-renowned: Building up a vast Republic,

With a God-like glory crowned.



BORN: CANADA, 1831. THE poems of Mrs. Mudgett have appeared in the religious press and the local papers. She is now a resident of Elmore, Vt.

lished in the Maine newspapers. She has a pleasant home in South Limington, where she is surrounded by numerous friends.

We're passing through a vale of tears;
We leave our sorrows, hopes and fears,

And go to wear a crown;.
In that bright world our sinless feet
Shall walk the everlasting street

And by his side sit down.
The cadence sweet we list to hear,
A note or two strike on the ear

From that celestial plain,
Then Satan comes to make us doubt,
All pandemonium gives a shout;

We lose the magic strain. The dark and chilling stream I fear, And Jesus prayed when he was here

The cup might be removed;
But came to do his Father's will,
A heavenly mission to fulfill

Of never-dying love.
O Jesus, take my every care,
And all my sorrows help me bear,

And let me lean on thee;
The heavenly hosts thy praises sing,
Give glory to their God and king

Through all eternity.

In an attic stands a cradle brown;

No longer swaying to and fro-
She who rocked it has long been gone -

Sleeping quietly under the snow! As I pause, and sadly on it gaze,

In fancy I see my dear mother's form As when she smiled on each baby face,

Quietly nestled in pillows warm. Each child, in turn, found here a rest,

Each shared alike her loving care; Now, all have left the parent nest,

While all have silver in their hair. Darling Father! Precious Mother!

We never shall forget your love. God grant we may again together

Dwell in his glorious home above. Farewell little cradle!-ancient thing,

Gladly I gaze again on thee; Sacred thou art, for thou dost bring

Holy, sweet memories unto me!


From out my life's deep chalice-cup,
As rich soul-nectar bubbles up
For thee to quaff, my love! my own!
Whose presence far too dear hath grown
For peace of mind, I love thee so,
The half, alas! thou'lt never know.

PAPA'S LITTLE GIRL. Sweeter than spring violets,

Asleep 'mong mosses rare, Is one wee, budding blossom,

The darling of my care. None fairer hath the summer,

When softest zephyrs curl; My fragrant opening rose-bud;

My own dear little girl. Love's sweet dream of beauty wrought

Her life's bright natal hour, And Love hath tinted richly,

The petals of my flower. Guarded by affection's band,

She grows in childish grace; Heaven narrows down to me

In her dear little face.
Jewels hide in lips and eyes,

Too costly for an Earl;
Fairest gem in all Love's crown,

My pure and priceless pearl.
Deeper grows Life's mystery

In her rose-heart of bliss;
Fondly all my being fold

My own to clasp and kiss.
Who would miss the strange, sweet

Where baby-fingers rest?
Pure, exquisite happiness!

Unknown, 'tis all unguessed.
Sweet life, clinging 'round my heart

Doth softly curl and curl,
Drinking dainty dews of love,

My own dear little girl.
Yearning light in tender eyes,

And hair with sunshine glossed,
Dream-like bringeth back to me

A something I have lost.
Star-gem, 0, so proudly worn!

My treasured gift of Love.
Dear God! shelter from life's storms

My bosom nestling dove.

O bosom, with agony heaving,

O'erswept by the tide of wrong, Beneath tbe dark billows, yet breathing

The low, sweet cadence of song; In misery's dark thou art sailing

O'er wild, tempestuous waves,
No beacon the darkness unveiling,

No beckoning light that saves.
O sister! thro' sorrow made kindred,

Have courage! be patient and strong;
I, also, have stemmed the dark current

of falsehood, injustice and wrong; And know there is sure compensation

For all of life's troubles and ills, Thro' time and earth's discords unchang

ing, Which destiny ever fulfills. O think not, in Love's dark Valhalla,

Thy spirit should still weep its dead, Where all the past's bitter memories

Steal ever with phantom-like tread; There are hearts whose love will not falter,

True souls that no dross can alloy, According thee justly thy merits

The same thro' all trials and joy. The flowers of thought breathe a fragrance

And healing naught else can impart, With tenderest sympathies glowing,

If born in the true poet-heart. O sensitive soul! gather comfort,

And singing, grow hopeful and strong; For only the beautiful spirit

Can triumph o'er sorrow in song. And others, less gifted, shall bless thee,

And feel as they read less alone, For lifting another life's burden,

A blessing will fall on thine own.

LOVE'S DELIGHT. Wafting us on, o'er sea of gold, In gem-lined barque of fairy mold: Lingering long by happy isles, Lighted with nature's choicest smiles; Incense wafied from spice-groves rare, Amber-tinted the sky and air, Merging all sense in dreamy bliss, Thrillingly sweet as rapture's kiss. Airily skims our boat along, Yet, pausing to the Naiad's song. Liquid and low, 'till lulled to rest. Old Neptune's gently swelling breast; Reflected in the waters bright; Each hue of day's declining light, Advancing o'er the sylvan scene, Twilight traileth her mystic screen; Only our barque disdains the night, Nearing the shore of Love's Delight."

O eyelids so heavy with weeping,

And tears that are yet unshed;
O heart, that so sorely is keeping

The half of its woe unsaid :
O soul-life, so grievously wounded,

Thy moans doth thy hurt betray, And deeps that no mortal has sounded,

'Tis dark in thy depths to-day.

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