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'Twould break up the choir when I went away.”
Has it lost the ring that it had of old ?
For they look askance, and with glances cold;
And the girls declare, with a pretty pout,
That the stranger there, he has put them out.
What matters it, though, when trifles befall ?
One sweet hope is left, that is better than all:
His neighbors and friends may all have forgot,
But sweet Mary Ann, he is sure, has not.
She gave him a rose, when he sailed away:
He'll show her that rose when he goes to-day.
How glau she will be, after waiting so long,
To see him again so hearty and strong!
Alas for the sailor! alas for the rose!
They've gone round the world, and this is the

close: ** You have stayed too long, you have stayed tro

Had you come before,”— this was all her song.
"You had found my heart but an empty nest,
And ready to welcome its truant guest.
Go, bring the dead rose to life if you can,
But your place is filled by a better man."
And sadder and wiser he went his way,
But he kept that rose to his dying day.

DOUBT. O, children beloved, will you not understand 'Tis the doubt in the heart that unnerves the hand : To the arm of a child, that would trust me all, With never a doubt of what would befall, I could give the strength and the courage and skill Of the mightiest angel that does my will.

-Doubt. MEMORY. We may leave the garden, and bar the gate; Put an angel there, with a sword, to wait; But what can the bars or the angel do To keep all the fragrance from stealing thro'? Then who would not turn at the rose's wooing, And look once again to his heart's undoing. O, wishes that kiss us, but to betray! For they always send us empty away, And they stab our hearts with their beauty, so. And yet it may be, like the delicate snow, Or the burnished dust of the butterfly's wing, They'd turn, at our touch, to a different thing.

- Unfulfilled.

EASTER. As children that have sobbed themselves to sleep, Remember not, at morning, why they weep, Our eyes that folded with the lashes wet Will wake and all their tearfulness forget On Caster morning.


TOT every writer puts as much of his person

ality into his work as does Maurice Thomp

A reader of his books may guess correctly as to his physical appearance, mental calibre, and moral character. And, seeing him, taking him as he appears, one may guess with equal certainty as to the kind of literary work he would produce. Mr. Thompson is not a typical Western man, though his childhood was passed in his native state, Indiana.

His youth and early manhood, from 1854 until the close of the war, was spent in the valley of the Oostenaula River, in Georgia. In many ways he shows his sympathy with the South, and his love for it, but this sectional predi. lection is rather romantic than real. It is a graft, not a natural growth. Student though he is, Mr. Thompson is eminently an out-of-doors man. The charm of the change from our variable climate to that of one near the sea shore, may have done much to foster this trait. The removal from flat, swampy Indiana to the hills of Georgia may have quickened the latent vein of gypsy blood which we all possess in greater or less degree. He is an enthusiastic sportsman, a crack shot with rifle, pistol and shot-gun, and as an archer has surpassed every authentic record in wing shooting. He is also an expert tricyclist. His education was obtained through private tutors, and at twentyfour he had a fine knowledge of the ancient classics, some acquaintance with Hebrew and its cognate oriental languages, and could read five tongues. He is a ready and accurate sketcher. and from his long excursions into unfrequented regions he brings back pencilings of birds, plants, animals, bits of landscape, persons and places, which serve to enrich his written memoranda.

Knowing of Mr. Thompson's admiration for the South, and for much pertaining to Southern people, an observer will more readily understand his manner; otherwise, many of his poses give the impression that he learned to dance late in life and has never fully assimilated his Terpsichorean training. In person he is tall, though not noticeably so, with dark hair, eyes and complexion. A phrenologist would say, “His language is small"; and his “ Cracker" neighbor in Georgia would say, “He has no great gift of gab”; nevertheless, his work is praised for its purity and elegance of expression. This estimate is partially correct; but sometimes he sacrifices force of expression for elegance.

Although Mr. Thompson is chiefly known through his prose, perhaps his best work is his poetry.

Here his love of musical and liquid sounding words assists the flow of his lines. His

Songs of Fair Weather" are fresh and breezy as a May morning. He reminds us in one instance

But who could tell by such a plan Which of us was the stronger man?

There at the margin of the wood, Side by side our arrows stood,

Their red cock-feathers wing and wing, Their amber nocks still quivering,

Their points deep-planted where they fell An inch apart and parallel!

We clasped each other's hands; said he, “ Twin champions of the world are we!"


He sits among the morning hills,

His face is bright and strong;
He scans far heights, but scarcely notes

The herdsman's idle song.

He cannot brook this peaceful life

While battle's trumpet calls; He sees a crown for him who wins,

A tear for him who falls.

The flowry glens and shady slopes

Are hateful to his eyes;
Beyond the heights, beyond the storms,
The land of promise lies.

He is so old and sits so still,

With face so weak and mild,
We know that he remembered naught

Save when he was a child.

His fight is fought, his fame is won,

Life's highest peak is past; The laurel crown, the triumph-arch,

Are worthless at the last.

The frosts of age destroy the bay,

The loud applause of men Falls feebly on the palsied ears

Of three-score years and ten.

He does not hear the voice that bears

His name around the world; He has no thought of great deeds done

Where battle-tempests whirled;

But evermore he is looking back,

Whilst memory fills and thrills With echoes of the herdsman's song

Among the morning hills.

every line.

of Hypatia's longing for a manifestation from the gods:

"Now I would give (such is my need)

All the world's store of rhythm and rhyme
To see Pan fluting on a reed

And with his goat-hoof keeping time!" Between the Poppy and the Rose” is a gem of a poem, not only because it is so finely descriptive, and because of its perfect measure, but for the warmth of heart that breathes in “Ceres ” is another fine piece of versifying. Ιη some instances Mr. Thompson ruthlessly sacrifices rhyme, rhythm, and strength for the sake of airing one of his well-appareled pet words.

Mr. Thompson is a many-sided man. His literary work is probably his recreation indoors. His real work is his law practice. He has been a member of the lower house of the Indiana Legislature, and has lately resigned the office of State Geologist of Indiana.

M. H. B.

We were twin brothers, tall and hale,
Glad wanderers over hill and dale.

We stood within the twilight shade
Of pines that rimmed a Southern glade.

He said: · Let's settle, if we can,
Which of us is the stronger man.

“We'll try a flight shot, high and good,
Across the green glade toward the wood."

And so we bent in sheer delight
Our old yew bows with all our might.

Our long keen shafts, drawn to the head,
Were poised a moment ere they sped.

As we leaned back a breath of air
Mingled the brown locks of our hair.

We loosed. As one our bow-cords rang,
As one away our arrows sprang.
Away they sprang; the wind of June
Thrilled to their softly whistled tune.

We watched their flight, and saw them strike
Deep in the ground slantwise alike,

So far away that they might pass
For two thin straws of broom-sedge grass!

Then arm in arm we doubting went
To find whose shaft was farthest sent,

Each fearing in his loving heart
That brother's shaft had fallen short.

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Two flakes of sunshine in deep shade,

Two diamonds set in rougher stone, Two songs with harp accompaniment

Across a houseless desert blown, No, nothing like this vision is;

How deep its innocent influence goes, Sweeter than song or power or fame,

Between the poppy and the rose.

Such quiet came, expectancy

Filled all the earth and sky: Time seemed to pause a little space;

I heard a dream go by!

Between the poppy and the rose,

A bud and blossom shining fair, A childlike mother and a child,

Whose own my very heart-throbs are! Oh! life is sweet, they make it so;

Iis work is lighter than repose: Come anything, so they bloom on

Between the poppy and the rose.

I heard a whisper sweet and keen
Flow through the fringe of rushes green,
The water saying some light thing,
The rushes gayly answering.

-Death of the White Heron,

Where water-grass grows overgreen

On damp cool flats by gentle streams,
Still as a ghost and sad of mien,
With half-closed eyes the heron dreams.

- The Blue Heron.

Short is his song, but strangely sweet

To ears aweary of the low,
Dull tramp of Winter's sullen feet,

Sandalled in ice and muffed in snow:


Thou art the last rose of the year,

By gusty breezes rudely fanned: The dying Summer holds thee fast

In the hot hollow of her hand.



Short is his song, but through it runs

A hint of dithyrambs yet to be, —
A sweet suggestiveness that has
The influence of prophecy.

- The Bluebira.

DIANA. She had a bow of yellow horn, Like the old moon at early morn. She had three arrows strong and good, Steel set in feathered cornel wood. Like purest pearl her left breast shone Above her kirtle's emerald zone; Her right was bound in silk well-knit, Lest her bow-string should sever it. Ripe lips she had, and clear gray eyes, And hair pure gold blown hoiden-wise Across her face like shining mist That with dawn's flush is faintly kissed. Her limbs! how matched and round and fine! How free like song! how strong like wine! And, timed to music wild and sweet, How swift her silver-sandalled feet! Single of heart and strong of hand, Wind-like she wandered through the land. No man (or king or lord or churl) Dared whisper love to that fair girl,

- Diam.

EROS. O, naked baby Love among the roses, Watching with laughing gray-green eyes for me, Who says that thou art blind? Who hides from thee? Who is it in his foolishness supposes That ever a bandage round thy sweet face closes Thicker than gauze? I know that thou cans: see!

-Gudin Slatiei

Thine is the way of happiness and truth,
And all thy movements are as swift and smooth,
As through the air the strongest-flying bird's.
Infinite joy about thy presence clings,
Unspeakable hope falls from thy going wings!

He is a poet strong and true
Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew;
And like a brown bee works and sings,
With morning freshness on his wings,
And a gold burden on his thighs,-
The pollen-dust of centuries!

- Ilik Honer.
Was it a dream? We call things dreams

When we must needs do so, or own
Belief in old, exploded myths,
Whose very smoke has long since flown.


ISS JANE MARIA READ, daughter of Rev.

William Read, a Baptist clergyman, was born in Barnstable, Mass., Oct. 4, 1853. From her childhood she was always busy with work or thought She was

a close and sympathetic observer of nature, almost every phase of which had a voice for her. From her sixth to her twelfth year she resided on the coast of Maine, where she became imbued with a warm love for the ocean and delighted to watch its changing moods. Her literary taste began early to be developed in her home, where she was wont to listen absorbed to the reading of history, travels, and Scott's poetical works, when too young to enjoy reading them alone. Later, for several years, she was a student at the Coburn Classical Institute, in Waterville, Maine, though ill health compelled her to leave during the last year of her course, without gradu. ating. During her school life, and subsequently, her love of poetry increased year by year. Hav. ing been presented with a copy of Longfellow's poems, it became for months her constant companion, the more so because the state of her health at that time prevented her mingling much in society. Many of the poems she read and re-read until she could easily repeat them, and all became quite familiar. These gave impulse and shaping to her native poetic tendencies. In one of them she read:

“O thou sculptor, painter, poet,

Take this lesson to thy heart
That is best which lieth nearest -

Shape from that thy work of art.' This she accepted as a great truth, and has ever, in her writing, looked within her own heart for its teachings, and for the lessons reflected there from nature. Brought up in a family where she was forced to see the burdens of others, she has written for burden-bearers, and has sought to show the brighter side to those whose lives are shaded. Many of her poems are luminous with the calm, soft light of her own Christian faith. For years she has written for many publications.

In 1857 selections from her poems were gathered into a volume under the title of Between the Centuries, and Other Poems."

Miss Read resides at Colebrook Springs, Mass., where her father has a pastorial charge. J. L.

PROEM. For those who think life's common thought,

Who claim no learnéd, massive mind, These fading, wildwood flowers are brought,

May-flowers and violets, here entwined. I see the common toil, and tear,

And hear the tread of plodding feet;

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