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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.
teaching in the south.
Since 1868 Miss May I only wish the space may not be long

Between the parting and the greeting song, -
But when, or where, or how we're called to go,

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
She would not mind the changes; if a tear
Should fill my eye I know that she would see,
And give sweet consolation unto me;
Yet, in her heart, some things would little

Knowing how much their discipline I need.
And so, I think, though Heaven be not far,
And friends can see us even as we are,
They may be glad, like loving motherhood,
Because they know how all things work for



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,
Should I improve the moments flitting by,
Should I more closely follow God's great plan,
Be filled with sweeter charity to man,

If it were I?
If we could know!
We cannot, darling; and 'tis better so.

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





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 child more dear than even life,
Ah me! their loss what anguish rife,

The heart opprest.
But all together, there we meet
The ones we loved, with joy replete.
Their faces smiling, do we greet,

In home of rest,
So if our waking hours are sad,
Our slumbers may be bright and glad,
Our aching heart in peace be clad,

E'en for a time.
Awhile forgot our woeful loss,
The crown of thorns, the heavy cross,
The spirit all so tempest tossed,

In sleep sublime.
Oh, slumber, sweet to weary soul,
Whose spirit yearns beyond control,
To fly unto the heavenly goal,

And vanished friends -
We thank thee for this soothing power,
For dreams that soothe as Lotus flower,
For years of bliss within the hour,

That slumber lends.

"Tis said we live a double life,
In beams of joy or hours of strife,
In moments gay or sorrows rise,

That make our lot.
That waking hours we know are one,
In which our honors all are won,
And noble acts and deeds are done,

As our allot.
The other is the land of dreams,
Where all is weird, though truth it seems,
Where oft we float o'er silvery streams,

So happy we.
Where every cloud has passed away,
And all is bright as gladsome day,
And flowers bloom beside our way,

So joyously,
Sometimes we know deep sorrow there,
The troubles dire, the load of care,
That portioned as our earthly share,

Doth spirit grieve.
But then comes to us, it doth seem,
The happy thought, •• "Tis but a dream,"
And light doth in the bosom beam,

And joy receive.
The friends we loved gone o'er the stream,
We find them in that .. Land of Dream,"
And greet them warm, by love supreme,

With outstretched hand.
Their eyes are beaming, bright as stars,
We leap the golden, shining bars,
While nothing our fond rapture mars

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
A-sweeping back the curtains of the night,
Until the earth, all beautiful and bright,
Bursts forth in one grand anthem of de-

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-
I long beneath my Father's roof to rest,
To lean my head upon my Brother's

breast -
I watch the sun declining to the west,
Rejoicing that the Evening time is come!


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,
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 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

sheaves -
Have simply a bundle of worthless leaves.
"T is well He knoweth how frail we are,

And remembereth we are dust;
And giveth us grace in our darkest hour

In His Righteousness to trust;
Else fatal 't would be, instead of sheaves,
To carry a bundle of worthless leaves.
Sometimes I tire of the burden of life,

And long for the hour of rest;
Aye, fain would I lay my aching head

On my loving Savior's breast;
I grow so weary, instead of sheaves,
Of bearing this burden of useless leaves.
Dear Savior! teach me to look to Thee,

And trust in Thy grace alone;
And help me do, as the years go past,

All my duties, one by one,
That I may bring Thee, instead of leaves,
A bundle of beautiful, golden sheaves.

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

Still, many hold that evening time is best.
Full well I know that evening time is best
To one a-weary and in need of rest;

Unheeded all, the silent Hours

Pass outward, one by one;
So much amid the Past we love,
Or castles of To Come, we move,
We scarcely deem the Present ours,

Until, percbance, 'tis gone;
Gone with its record, dark or fair -
For all life's deeds are written there.
In silence, too, the hurrying Years

Pass outward, one by one;
We almost deem Time's silver sands
Are lying idle in our hands --
Though blotted here and there with tears —

Until they, too, are flown;
Or, furrowed brow and frosted hair
Tell how the Years are passing there.


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.

Not dead! The strain can never die

That trembles to the Poet's lyre,
But, floating upward to the sky,

Is caught up by the leavenly choir;
For Song is but the truth exprest,
That vibrates in each human breast,
Aud, past the realm by mortals trod,
It lives – eternal as its God.

We stand to-day on the beach of Time,

Whence we gaze far out to sea,
Whose waters tenderly lave our feet,

Then dance back laughingly;
But each rippling ware bears from the shore

A grain of the gleaming sand,
And frailer becomes our hold on earth,

And narrower grows the strand.



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 low, sad music of the distant pines,
And the strange odors as of tropic flowers,
Sweet as the breath of Eden.

And this we ftud, 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 sacred temple, beautiful and fair,
Above the jarring sounds of earth and air.

Softly the evening breeze

Is coming now -
Sighing among the trees -

Fanning my brow:
Now quickly hies away,
'Mid other scenes to play.
But whither it doth go,

No one can tell;
O'er hills and streams we know

Through shady dell;
But where it findeth rest
No one hath ever guessed!
It may be that 't is lost

'Mid waving corn: Or where Aurora fair

Awakes the morn
Where Night and Morning greet,
Or earth and heaven meet!
Its whispering tones are heard

Among the pines :
By it the leaves are stirred,

And flow'rs, and vines;
And often we rejuice
To hear its merry voice.
But we can never find

Its dwelling-place;
Nor with surveyor's line

Its bound'ry trace!
That it doth come and go,
Is all the wisest know !

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


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