MRS. CARRIE W. HOAG.

BORN: PEABODY, MASS., DEC. 30, 1856. AFTER graduating from the high school, this lady afterward taught school for a few years, but delicate health compelled her to give up the occupation. She was married to Charles E. Hoag in 1884, and is the mother of two daughters. Her verses have appeared from time to time in the American Citizen, of Boston, and the Reporter, of Peabody, both published by her husband, Charles E. Hoag, who is also represented elsewhere in this work.

THE PICTURE ON THE WALL.
See that picture on the wall?
An old picture, that is all;
Yet that picture brings to view
Other days, yet always new,

Of the years ago.

See that house upon the hill?
See the meadow, brook and mill?
It is those that bring to view
Other days, yet ever new,

Of the years ago.

Dear old picture on the wall,

Very dear if very small,

Thou art ever to me new,

Ever bringing to my view

Years of long ago.

White-haired miller in the mill, Brown-haired maiden on the hill, They are constantly in view, Never old, but always new,

New as years of old.

Take that picture from the wall!
Dingy picture, old and small?
I would have it from my view,

I would have me something new
Now upon the wall

Dead, the miller in the mil!;
Wed the maiden on the hill;
I have other girls in view,
And I'll place a picture new
Now upon the wall.

EXTRACT

Thou came and went in all thy meekness,

Came to us in all thy weakness;
Coming, going, all in meekness,

O, how much of life is bleakness
In this world of ours!

WIFE.

What is the name to me?
Think how it came to me;

So still the summer night
Gathered around us there;
Bending your head to me.
My wife," you said to me-

My wife," in accents light, Soft as that evening air. How like sweet birds to me Came those two words to me, Singing all fears to restSinging sweet songs of love, That keeps it near to me, Keeps it so dear to me Me ever happy and blest Blest as the spirits above.

THE SISTERS.

Two sisters there were, when the world was

young,

Earth was fair, and life was gay,

And one had eyes like midnight skies,
And one was fair as day.

But a young lover came in the summer time
To the home of the sisters twain,

They loved him in truth with the love of youth,

But, ah! they loved in vain.

He played them false with his vows so free, Til the love they bore for him

Made the eyes of night shine fiercely bright, And the light of day grow dim,

He went on his way when the Autumn came, And the sighing trees were bare;

And he ne'er returned to the eyes that

burned

Or the face as morning fair,

They waited and watched while hope grew

faint,

Then in sorrow passed away;

And one had eyes like the midnight skies. And one was fair as day,

REV. JOHN B. ROBINSON.

BORN: WARREN CO., OHIO.

GRADUATING at Ohio Wesleyan University in 1860, Mr. Robinson the same year was married and made principal of Mount Washington Seminary, near Cincinnati. He was successively president of Willoughby College, Fort Wayne College, New Hampshire Semi

REV. JOHN B. ROBINSON, D.D., PH.D. nary and Female College, and Jennings Seminary. He has lectured under the auspices of some of the bureaus. This gentleman has published the following works in prose: Infidelity Considered, Vines of Eshcol, Commencements, Serpent of Sugar Creek Colony, Preachers' Pilgrimage, etc. He has also written a vast number of fugitive poems, but his chief poetical work was a volume entitled Emeline, or Home, Sweet Home.

MY BRIDE.

My first, my last, my only love,
My angel bride, my purest dove!
Let others probe the deep unknown,
And circle in some magic zone,
My fancy ends its ravished dream,
Daylight of bliss has flung its gleam;
I'll meet thee at that break of day,
And never more be torn away.
Not goddess of poetic fame

Such ocean wealth of worth can claim.

O, sacred altar! solemn vow!
Where boundless oceans overflow,
And float our souls upon its tide
In life-boat to the other side.
Melt warm affection in a glow,
These ocean currents overflow,
Forever like a sea of tears,

That weep for joy a thousand years.
Th' immaculate of heaven's throng
Can never chant a sweeter song.
If every star in yonder sky
Were riven from its canopy

And crushed to make a starry crown,

A scene of real domestic bliss.

She raised her breast just so his bill
Could peep beneath the downy frill.
..Oh! oh!" said he, what pretty things,

So like their papa's silver wings.
We did it, mamma," chirruped he,
And hastened gaily down the tree,
Ashamed of all his sore neglect,
So lately vowing to protect.

But worms and seeds are lavished now,
The infant birdies sealed his vow.
No happier mates could love or blush
Than papa and good mamma Thrush.
So baby's smile inspires esteem
To which the honeymoon's a dream.

THOMAS H. ARNOLD.

BORN: NEW ORLEANS, LA., DEC. 26, 1857. AFTER learning the printer's trade at Mobile, Ala., this writer for three years was connected with the Times-Democrat, of New Orleans, when he accepted a lucrative position on a St. Louis publication. For three

THOMAS H. ARNOLD.

years Mr. Arnold was connected with the
Chattanooga Times, and is now editor of the
Middleborough News, of which publication
he is also president and manager. In 1882 the
subject of this sketch was married to Miss
Mary B. Harrison, by whom he has two sons.
..'TISS ME AND I'LL DOE TO SLEEP."
"Tiss me, an' I'll doe to sleep,"
Said our darling sweet and low,
For her face was flushed and fevered,
And her breath came soft and low.
O'er her crib I bent and watched her,
Stroking back her golden hair,
And my heart seemed bowed in anguish
Overladened with despair.

..Don't try, mamma, I'll be better
When dis night is done away;
Den your baby'll tiss and love 'oo,
Be a dood child all de day."
How each word seemed ladened
With a sorrow long and deep;

How my heart bled when she whispered,
..Tiss me an' I'll doe to sleep!"

Then I kissed her, oh, so fervent.

Held her tiny hands in mine, And I prayed that God might spare her If but for a little time. Yes, I prayed as never mother

Prayed for that she longed to keep,
And again the words came fainter,
.."Tiss, me an' I'll doe to sleep."
But 'twas useless, God had called her,
He had placed his signet there
On the pure and holy forehead
Of my baby darling fair.
He had called her to heaven,

Where the angels vigils keep,
So the Savior bent and kissed her,
And my babe had gone to sleep.
Oh, ye fathers, and ye mothers

Who have darlings pure and fair,
Guard their gentle little footsteps,
Foster them with tenderest care;
Hear ye not the angels calling

To your dear ones-low and sweet? Hear you not our darling's murmur, "Tiss me an' I'll doe to sleep."

THE FARMER TO HIS SON.

So yer goin' to leave the old home, boy-
Yer goin' away from the farm?
Well, I'm sorry the thing hez come to this,
But I wish yer may meet no harm.

It's hard ter think we must give yer up-
Your poor old mother and me:
We've tried hard fur to do the square thing,

boy,

An' to tote with you fair and free. The world is filled with its crooked ways, And the city's the place whar they Is found on every corner and streetYou'll meet 'em by night and day. You'll have a hard time to 'scape sin, John, Fur they'll always be in yor way! But jest close yer eyes and think, my boy, What the old folks at home would say. Just think that yer old mother's heart would break

If yer foot should slip by the way; And that every night we'll kneel by the bed And pray for our boy away.

We'll pray that some time he may wander back

To the farm where he often has played In his childhood's home, and rest his head On our breast where it oft has laid.

It 'taint that we're 'fraid of the boy we've raised,

Or that aught of his heart's going wrong, But the city is full of vices and sich,

And temptation for sin is strong.

LAURENCE W. SCOTT.

BORN: MONONGALIA CO., VA., May 29, 1846. THE subject of this sketch went to Texas in his youth, where he learned the printer's trade. He was at one time local editor of the Daily Leader, published at Covington, Ky. At the age of twenty Mr. Scott became

LAURENCE W. SCOTT.

a preacher, and has become somewhat distinguished as a theological disputant. In 1872 he returned to Texas, where he published the Olive Branch, which was afterward consolidated with the Southern Christian Weekly. He is the author of Paradox and Other Poems, besides several prose works.

MARCHING HOME. The bells of heaven are ringing, The choir of heaven is singing, The pearly gates are swinging, As we go marching home. The light of heaven is shining, The shade of night's declining, The clouds have silver lining,

As we go marching home. The harps of heaven are playing, The heirs of heaven are praying, To God their homage paying, As we go marching home.

The songs of heaven we're singing,
The garnered sheaves we're bringing,
To Jesus' cross we're clinging,

As we go marching home.
The silver is refining,
The dross of earth declining,
The golden ore we're mining,

As we go marching home.
..We long for heaven," we're saying,
On Christ our hopes we're staying,
To God we're humbly praying,
As we go marching home.
Our souls in heaven we're saving,
In blood our robes we're laving,
The banners high are waving,
As we arrive at home.

And Is there no physician there?"
Grant us balm o' Gilead,"
Is his mother's prayer,
..Soothing balm o' Gilead,
Cordial for our care."

His frame is racked with misery,
His nerves are twinged with pain,

His soul is full of agony,

And this his sad refrain:

"Is there no Lalm in Gilead?

Oh, is there no physician there?"
Echo answers, .. Iliad!"

Echo answers, "air!"
Answers faintly, ". Iliad,"
Expiring on the air.

His father from his study comes-
His hearing is not clear-

He raises to his head his thumbs,
And bends his ears to hear:

"Is there no balm in Gilead?
Oh, is there no physician there?"
..Here is Homer's Iliad-

Doctor, too, is near!"
Holding Homer's Iliad,
He soils it with a tear.

The doctor comes with solemn mein
And looks into his face;

He feels his pulse and sees his tongue And hears his cry for grace:

Is there no balm in Gilead?

Oh, is there no physician there?"

Doctor queries, Gilead?" Doctor whispers, ..there?"

Musing, queries, "Gilead?"

Wondering, whispers, there!"

820

ELVIRA H. HOLLOWAY.

BORN: RICHVILLE, N.Y.

THIS lady went to San Francisco, Cal., in 1860, and holds a teacher's life diploma for that state. Her poems have appeared in the

THE BURNING BUSH.
The Burning Bush that Bible lore
Records as seen by Moses,
Perchance, was the sunlight streaming
Through a bush aflame with roses.

Fair petals crowned with gems of light,
Glowing with glistening pearls,
As the roseate flush of dawn,
Her banner of beauty unfurled.

Our great creator through his works
His wisdom thus discloses;
And by this wondrous power
He spake in the bush to Moses.
Through all the fair creation,
Through flow'ret, leaf and tree,
He is speaking by his wisdom
In tones of mystery.

WAIT NOT.

Wait not till the leaves have fallen
From the rose tree, in full bloom;
Ere you cull the fragrant blossoms,
Would you gather their perfume
Seek not in the winding pathways
Of the vine-wreathed sylvan glade,
For the glory that departed

With the summer's beauteous shade.
Do not wait till loved ones falter,
Droop and perish by your side;
If their burden you may lighten,
Or, with helping hand may guide.
If with loving thoughts and kindly,
You some darkened life would cheer,
Speak them while the tender accents,
Fall with music on the ear.

Do not wait till loving glances

Are by death's chill shadow marred, Speak the words of love and kindness, Ere the ears are closed and barred.

Send the lovely fragrant blossoms,

While the soul's deep sense may know All the wealth of true affection,

That doth from love's fountain flow.

Do not wait till icy fingers

Place their signet on the brow; Crown with love's sweet benediction, Ere too late, the tardy vow.

OUR PATRIOT DEAD.

Whene'er we tread on freedom's plain
We wake to life her dead again!
Though their mounds are worn away
By the waves of time's decay,

Their deeds immortal and sublime

Live through the changing years of time.

As ages pass with silent tread,
The memory of our patriot dead
Will live forever in the soul,
As the cycles onward roll;

And evermore will prayers arise
As grateful incense to the skies.

How loved, how honored are their names,
Though naught of them but dust remains;
Yet, heroes die not with their dust,
Let earth enclose her sacred trust;
The attributes divine were given
As the inheritors of heaven.
Fame will unfading laurels wreathe,
For them proud eloquence will breathe
In lofty strains their highest praise;
And poesy with graceful phrase
For them her fairest flow'rs will twine
And consecrate to freedom's shrine.