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JOHN HUGH MCNAUGHTON.

JOHN

JOHN HUGH MCNAUGHTON is of Scottish parentage. His father and mother came from Perthshire, and settled in Caledonia, New York; and there the subject of this sketch was born July 1, 1829, and has since resided. His home, midway between Caledonia and Avon, in the beautiful Genesee Valley, secluded among the maples and evergreens, is indicative of the poet's retiracy; and from that charming retreat, with his family and occasional literary visitors, he looks out on the busy world serenely and contentedly.

Mr. McNaughton's first work was a scientific treatise on music-a subject to which he had devoted much attention, contributing papers to Foreign and American journals, on harmony, rhythm, and kindred subjects. These were germane to the song-writer's art, into which he soon entered. Mr. Sheppard, the veteran music-publisher, used to relate an incident that doubtless led the young theorist into song-writing:

"One morning," says Mr. Sheppard, "I was sitting in the back part of my store, wondering at the sudden influx of music-buyers calling for a certain song sung at a concert the previous evening. I noticed a stranger, quite a tall, slim young man, pacing back and forth with folded arms, between the files of music-buyers and casting furtive glances at the busy clerks. Presently he walked up to me, his steel-blue eyes glittering, and said:

"Will the proprietor tell me what he pays for the MS. of such a song as that those people are buying?'

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Ah, indeed?'. that was all he said, and passed out of the store. A few days after I received a MS. song, the handwriting of which I recognized, and with it this laconic note:-- That other song of mine I gave you. If you want this one, the price is marked in the corner. Yours, etc., J. H. McNaughton.'

The price," (continued Mr. Sheppard,)" was outrageous, but I paid it, and never regretted it."

Mr. McNaughton's first volume of poems," Babble Brook Songs," was issued in 1864. In it are included the poems which drew from Mr. Longfellow that remarkable letter printed in "Final Memorials of H. W. Longfellow," and beginning, Your poems have touched me very much. Tears fell down my cheeks as I read them."

Many of Mr. McNaughton's songs in sheet music form have won a phenomenal success. Of "Faded Coat of Blue," Belle Mahone," "Jamie True," As We Went a-Haying," and "Love at Home," an aggregate of 450,000 copies has been published.

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WHEN THE PALE MOON.
(Song with Music.)
I.

WHEN the pale, pale moon arose last night
Its cold light fell on my silent floor,
And I thought of a face so pure and white,
That vanished in years that will come no more.
O pale, sweet face-sweet face! I said,
Come, sit by the window still as of yore;

O pale, sweet face, so dear-and dead!

Come, look from the moon on my silent floor.
II.

And a voice I heard - Oh sweet and dear!-
That hushed the stir of the rustling bough:

From my window in heaven I lean, I hear,
The moonlight I see on thy pale, pale brow.
O pale, sweet face-sweet face! I said,
Come sit by the window evermore!
Look down, dear eyes, so long, long fled,

Come look from the moon on my silent floor-
Silent, silent forevermore!

A SOLDIER'S MOTHER.

I'm weary of gazing into the dark

O the dreary night! O the silent street! I start when I hear the watchdog bark, And I trembling hark for the sound of feet. My boy! will he come to-night to me? I strain my eyes in the dark to see,

Through the night so dreary, dreary! Gazing south, thro' the mist, till my eyes grow dim, I sit by the window awaiting for him . . . . O the night so weary, weary'

Does he dream, as he lies by his camp-fire low, How I watch and wait for my boy to come? When he paces his lonely rounds in the snow

Does he long for the blazing hearth at home?

O what if he's sentry this night so bleak,
And the chill wind freezing the tear on his cheek

Through the drifting night so dreary, dreary! --Gazing south, in the dark, till her eyes grow dim She sits by the window awaiting for him, Through the night so weary, weary!

BELLE MAHONE.

(Song with Music.)
I.

SOON beyond the harbor bar,
Shall my bark be sailing far,--
O'er the world I wander lone,

Sweet Belle Mahone. O'er thy grave I weep good-bye, Hear, oh hear my lonely cry, O without thee what am I, Sweet Belle Mahone?

CHORUS.

Sweet Belle Mahone!

Sweet Belle Mahone!

Wait for me at Heaven's gate, Sweet Belle Mahone!

II.

Lonely like a withered tree, What is all the world to me? Life and light were all in thee, Sweet Belle Mahone.

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V.

No sweet voice was there, breathing soft a moth

er's prayer,

But there's One who takes the brave and the true in his tender care,

No stone marks the sod o'er my lad so brave and true,

In his lonely grave he sleeps, in his faded coat of blue.

ONNALINDA.

Alone she stood, a maiden sweet,

Within the woodland's deepening shade; One beam of sunset through the glade Glimmered in gold about her feet.

Musing, she lingered in covert there,
Far from the clamor of camp's alarms;
Above her a beech flung out his arms
As if to shield a form so fair.
A winsome girl of native grace

And moulded form the comeliest;
Scarce two and twenty Junes had kiss'd
With breath of rose her charming face-
Brunette with crimson tinged and blent,
As if 'neath Saxon face there glowed
The warm maroon of Indian blood
And stirred a doubt of her descent.

Around her bodice trimly laced

Fell glossy falls of raven hair, Half-veiling, half-revealing there The zone that clasped her lissom waist. One hand to ear, to catch alarm, Showed jeweled wrist and rounded arm. In purple folds her kirtle fellThe rimpling hem just kissed her feet In shoon of chamois fitted neat As glove and palm of courtly belle. Deep in her dark eyes' lustrous glance Glistened the star of bright romance. The charms of youth and beauty met In ONNALINDA-sweet brunette'

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ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.

OSE HARTWICK THORPE was born at
When

eleven years of age, her parents removed to Hillsdale, Michigan, where the shy, reserved school girl grew into the quiet, modest woman, and where at the age of twenty-one she was married to Edmund C. Thorpe. This was just at the time when her poem, "Curfew Shall not King To-night," had carried her name into thousands of homes, and won for the young writer a most generous meed of honor. The poetic gift of Mrs. Thorpe is truly a bona fide gift-none of it coming by right of inheritance, unless you consider it another form of expressing the artistic talent of her father. To her only daughter, just entering young womanhood, descended the fondness for brush and pencil.

Mrs. Thorpe commenced writing at an early age, though extreme diffidence and lack of confidence in herself caused her to consign most of her productions to the obscurity of her portfolio. Her first publication, a prose sketch, appeared in her eighteenth year. Her since celebrated poem, had then been written more than a year, but its literary value not dreamed of by the author. In 1870 Curfew Must not Ring To-night" was published by the Detroit Commercial Advertiser and was widely copied. Gaining confidence by the unexpected and highly flattering reception of that poem, others were offered to the local press. Among these were "The Station Agent's Story," "In a Mining Town," 'Red Cross," and various others.

Mrs. Thorpe has been a busy writer for some years, though sadly hindered during the past few years by ill health. Under the sunny skies of California and within sound of the ocean, she is regaining health and finding increased demand for her pen pictures.

Mrs. Thorpe is essentially a home woman, finding great pleasure in the practical details of housekeeping, and frequently writing her best poems while watching the dinner. She is a close reader of all that pertains to her art, and while her real talent lies in her poetry, she is a successful writer of healthy stories for the young. Several of these have been published in book form. She has also published a book of poems, styled "Ringing Ballads." A. B. L.

CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. ENGLAND'S sun was slowly setting o'er the hill-tops far away,

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day:

And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,

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