MRS. JANE E. ROUSE.

BORN: BRANCHPORT, N. Y., 1829. FROM an early age the poems of Mrs. Rouse have appeared from time to time in the local

MRS. JANE E. ROUSE. press. She is now a resident of New Era, in the state of Michigan.

THE PIONEER.

They tell me I am growing old, my locks are turning gray.

It may be so. I cannot tell. I feel as young to-day.

My hands as strong, my eye as true, as when
I came to Michigan, full thirty years ago.
The scenes have changed since I came here,
So long ago, a youthful pioneer.
No house we found, but under a tree
We pitched our tent,- husband and me.
We raised a log house, covered it o'er
With shakes for roof, puncheon floor,
And gathered moss from off the trees
To keep out the cold (and shutter fleas);
For, ladies, though you think it queer,
The flea was really the pioneer.

The people were scattered - few neighbors

had we;

Shelby was nowhere, and Hart, where was she? A peach orchard then where the county seat

stands,

A log house here on the Randall lands.

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But all nature smiled, and villages grew,-
Our county prospered, our people, too,
Our neighbors increased, the land was tilled,
School houses built, and soon were filled,
And all went merry as a marriage bell,
Until on the land the shock of war fell.
We heard the call for volunteers,
'Twas bravely answered by our pioneers.
The laugh was hushed, and a quiver ran
Through every heart, from child to man.
Then aside the work was laid,-
The mimic battle was portrayed
By children marching to and fro

With wooden guns, and sabers, too,

Alas! my boys were girls, and all they could do Was march and sing, and sing it o'er,

they led.

We watched them as away they sped, Only wishing we were men to follow where [make a scare, The Minnesota Chipawa's thought they would And down they came with war paint on and feathers in their hair.

For many days and many nights I gathered my young brood, [was good,

Expecting, fearing I knew not what, but God
Peace was restored. My own came back, a
soldier brave and true [army blue.
As ever faced the rebel ranks, or wore the
I could tell you of trials hard to bear,
But the silver lining was always there,
My trust in my Savior was never betrayed;
On him my burdens were always laid,
And I learned how much the heart can bear,
When we lost our home, but even there,
The rainbow of hope still shone above,-
And to work with my hands was a labor of
love.

My will is made, I have much to bequeath,
Good will to all. And when beneath
The sod I'm laid, just breathe a prayer
For Grandma Rouse, the pioneer.

TO THEE, WISCONSIN.

To Thee, Wisconsin, noble state, a tribute I would pay,

Though not my birth-place, thou hast been
My home for many a day.

I love thy woodlands and thy hills,
Thy prairie's broad and wide; I love the little
running rills,

That deck thy low hillside.

And there our loving gray-haired sire, and

there our mother, too,

Sit waiting in their old arm chair" with calm and placid brow,

THE LAUGH OF MY WIFE.
There is a sound that charms my ears,
That makes me to rejoice,

No music e'er had sweeter charms
Than that sweet rippling voice.
No, I would not for all this world-
Or all its wealth by half,

Silence in sorrow's lonely spell
That ever joyous laugh.

It brings the sunlight to our home
And drives dull care away,

My heart is lighter for that laugh
When kneeling down to pray.

When wandering through the land of dream
Its joyous notes I hear,--

Not all the wealth of earth's rich mines
To me were half so dear.

Or when from sorrow's threatening clouds
The muttering thunders roll,
That ever joyous laugh brings peace
And comfort to my soul.

And when within the pearly gates,
With joy supreme I rise,

I hope to hear that joyous laugh
Peal forth beyond the skies.
And now to make her happy still
Shall be my aim through life,
I'll ask no sweeter music than
The laugh of my loved wife.

To-day the sun in splendor shines
To chase away our sorrow;
But ah! these fickle human minds,
Are sadder on the morrow.
Far in mid-heaven one tiny cloud,
One ripple on the sea,

Are oft enough to darkly shroud

The mind in misery.

It would be better, far, if we,

E'er in these brighter hours,

Would scatter golden seed to lea,

To ripen into flowers.

And then when darksome days appear,

The flowers still would bloom; Our hearts to ever kindly cheer With beauty and perfume.

LOVE.

Man loves but once, but woman oft: Ne'er again if once his heart

Is lured into deception,

Can o'ercome the stinging smart
And play again a second part

With the same conception.

THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK.

BORN: CAMBRIDGE, O., APRIL 16, 1852. AFTER receiving his education in Zanesville, Mr. Peacock was for about ten years associate editor of the Topeka Kansas Democrat. He has published several volumes of poems: The Vendetta and Other Poems appeared in 1876; The Rhyme of the Border War in 1880, and Poems of the Plains and Songs of the Solitudes in 1888. The last volume reached a third edi

THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK.

tion in the first year, and has been translated into the German. Mr. Peacock has been a resident of Topeka, Kansas, for fifteen years, and was married in 1880 to Miss Ida E. Eckert, a lady of fine congenial literary tastes. His poetry is exclusively American. Although comparatively a young man, Mr. Peacock has already gained a national reputation as an eminent writer and poet.

KIT CARSON.

He comes! his steed with mighty bound
Flies swiftly o'er the echoing ground
He seems a wanderer astray,
Whose past had been a better day;
A being which to earth was hurled,
Whose home is in another world-
Who rides mysterious o'er the earth,
Surprised and dazed with his new birth?
A river runs before his course,
Which he must cross, and soon, perforce.
The channel's bank is reached, the wave
His courser's sides doth hem and lave,

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The shore is won, and once again
He thunders o'er the endless pain!
The rider's stern and flashing eye
Speaks courage wrath,and vengeance nigh.
And well, I ween, his foes may fear
His anger in his mad career -
Ah! who is he that finds no rest?
"T is brave Kit Carson of the west!
And some dear friend he now doth aid,
Who stands on peril's brink, afraid.

THE KANSAS INDIAN'S LAMENT.
Our tribe is less'ning year by year,
The pale-face drives us back
With us, the bison, bear, and deer
Before his onward track -

In battle with his armed power,
The Red Man fears but dares not cower.
The footprints of our moc'sins fade,
They once left paths for miles,
And the Great Spirit hides in shade,
No more we see his smiles:

Few wampum belts our tribe needs yet,
For soon the warrior's star will set.

These broad prairies once were ours;
We fished the many rivers;

On yonder Kaw, embanked with flowers,
With arrows in our quivers,

With dusky maids, wigwams behind,
We sailed before the singing wind.

The sunflower waved its yellow head,
Across the grassy plains-

And, like our chieftain, now are dead
The spirit-herbs for pains:

Pale-face, our mild clime's not for thee,
It moves, with us, toward sundown sea.
Our moons are few, our race is run,
Some dark fate drags us down;
Less bright the once all-glorious sun,

The golden stars are brown —
The tall mounds black and dismal loom,
Each day speaks of our coming doom.
Our wasted race my father brave,
My squaw and pappoose too,
All here lie buried in the grave,

Here rots my swift canoe -
The things I loved have passed away,
Ah! soon will I be gone as they!
Methinks the pale race might have spared
Some spot where we'd abide,-
Spared us, who once owned all, and shared
With them from tide to tide:

"T is strange, 't is passing strange to me,
Why they would drive us in the sea.
Our small tribe 's scattered like the leaves
And wasted to a few-

Each warrior for the bright past grieves,
Which vanished from our view!
They wait till Manitou's voice sounds,
Calling to Happy Hunting Grounds.

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We go! the white race takes our place;
Great Spirit, what am I!

Once thousands strong, where 's now my

race

On plains beyond the sky?

O take me too, I would not stay,
When all I loved have passed away!
Perchance, when many moons have fled
And the Great Spirit's wrath,

Our many loved ones, from the dead,
Will come back to earth's path,
To hunt again the buffalo,
And no pale race to bring us woe.
But soft! methinks I hear a voice?
Great Manitou's! speaks He!
It makes my craven heart rejoice-
O what would'st Thou with me?
"Be brave! God's Happy Hunting Grounds
Are great and good, and have no bounds!"

THE BANDIT CHIEF.

Hark! is a courser's clattering feet!
That courser madly speeds away-
The midnight moon from her high seat
Sheds on the earth her brightest ray.
Who comes? A rushing steed draws nigh,
Whose hoofs are sounding far and near?
As swift as though from ghouls he'd fly,
He passes forest, plain, and mere.
Perchance some wild fiend crazed with fright,
Flies on its way from Heaven down-hurled!
Perchance some demon of the night,
Escaped from Hell, rides o'er the world!
Whoe'er he be so fearful near,

As dread as fiend or demon he,
To followers he rules through fear,
And leads through crimes to victory.

He nears! I see his eye of hate?

"T is gleaming like an evil star; He seems th' embodied form of fate Swift rushing to the field of war.

On, on, the terror of the sod,

A tempest in his heart of ire;
He fears no man, no fiend, no God,
In his wild, stormy soul of fire.
Ah! well each follower knew his power;
They'd felt the thunder of his might-
They knew his wrath at any hour

Was like the awful storm of night.
To him all foes in combat quailed,

Before his arm and eagle eye

His life seemed charmed - to him death paledHe swept in power puissant by.

As when in darkness men do mourn,

And lo! a star breaks through the night! That star a mighty genius born,

Grasps from the gloom immortal light! So when great hosts had them at bay, And his wild clan deemed all were lost,

He led them from the night to day

On like the storm-swept holocaust!
Woe! woe to them he seeks this night,
For they shall feel his vengeful hand
They who have robbed, without the right
From him, the leader of the band!
I see him yet! and lo! he's gone-
And yet I hear his steed of fire,
Whose steel-clad hoofs still clatter on,
Swift bearing him and all his ire.
Full twenty years James reigned supreme,
The monarch of his own desire:

His will was all the law, 't would seem,
That marked his mad career of fire.
And like the great Napoleon,

He passed in view before man's ken,
A great and strange phenomenon -
A Titan asking naught of men.
He did what others would not dare -

His deeds were rampant, fierce, and fell;
Throughout his life, and everywhere,
He braved each, all-man, Heaven, and Hell.

THE MANIAC.

The maniac sprang from off his bed,
And placed his hand upon his brow.
..I feel within, my soul is dead!"
His mind is wandering now.-
..Fiend! open the door - unbar! unbar!
Why am I chained by arm to floor?-
But see, there's one bright, shining star,
Which kindly guards my prison door!
"It stands a silent sentinel, there;
With pity looks from its bright eye,
Adown on me in my despair-

Ah! there's a serpent on the sky! ..It's crawling, like the crawl of Death; It coils; now buries in a cloud;

I feel its poisoned, fetid breath!
It warns me of the burial shroud!
..Hark! hark! I hear, I see in the air,
Fiends, demons, dragons, and devils!
Why tarry with me in my despair?

Why not off to their wild revels?
..But still they stay - behold! I see!
But this is madness, my keepers tell
O! from out this prison, free me!
Why make my living death a hell?”

BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. Beautiful woman, thou art, True th' womanhood, sweet! God places in thy heart

A wealth of love that's meet. And why, I cannot tell!

But oh, thy voice to me Sounds like some far-off bell That wakes sweet memory!

MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE.

BORN: NEW YORK CITY, MAY 27, 1819. THIS intellectual woman has written numerous poems, dramas, and lectures. She is a very strong advocate of woman's suffrage, and has lectured extensively in aid of reforms. Her poetical works are Passion Flowers, and Words of the Hour; two of her best works of

JULIA WARD HOWE.

prose are Life of Magaret Fuller, and Sex in Education, which have especially received much praise from both press and public. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe is a devoted and loving mother, and is adored by her children. The death of her husband in 1876 was a severe blow to so devoted and loving a wife. Mrs. Howe is one of the editors of the Woman's Journal, and has been president of various woman's associations.

THE NURSERY.

Come, sing for us, dear Mother,
A song of the olden times;
Of the merry Christmas carol,
Of the happy New Year chimes;
Nor sit here, idle-handed,
To hang your head and grieve,
Beside the blazing hearthstone
This pleasant Winter's eve."

Then she sang, to please the children,
With half-forgetful tongue,

Some merry-measured roundel
Of the happy days and young;
But, pierced with sudden sorrow,
The words came faint and slow,
Till one, in childish panic,
Cried; Mother, sing not so!"
Then all the little creatures
Looked wondering in her eyes;
And the Baby nestled nearer,
Startled at their surprise;

The voice grew thin and quavered,
Low drooped the weary head,
Till the breath of song was stifled,

And tears burst forth instead.

For misty memories covered

The children from her ken,

And down the bitter river

She dropped-no mother then;

No sister, helpmeet, daughter,
Linked to historic years;
An agonizing creature
That looked to God in tears.

But when some sudden turning
Had checked her hopeless way,
She saw the little faces

No longer glad or gay:

And as they gazed, bewildered
By grief they could not guess,
Their sympathetic silence
Was worse than her distress.

Then she tore the fatal vesture

Of agony aside;

And showed, with mimic gesture,
How naughty children cried.-
And told of hoary castles
By giant warders kept,
Of deep and breathless forests
Where tranced beauties slept;
Weaving in rainbow madness
The cloud upon her brain,
Till they forgot her weeping,
And she forgot her pain.

"Twere well to pour the soul out In one convulsive fit,

And rend the heart with weeping,
If Love were loosened from it.
But all the secret sorrow
That underlies our lives,
Must wait the true solution
The great progression gives.
Those griefs so widely gathered,
Those deep, abyssmal chords,
Broken by wailing music
Too passionate for words,
Find gentle reconcilement
In some serener breast,
And touch with deeper pathos
Its symphonies of rest.

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