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That somewhere in this world of guile,

There's some one's life needs your correcting.

Methinks 'tis time you learned this art,

Which makes the world's wide page read better; For love needs proving, heart with heart, As well as type with written letter.

C. H. CRANDALL.

IN ADVANCE.

Now Winter is fighing his battles

With many an icy lance, But I'm writing a gentle spring" poem

Which the editors wish in advance."

It is full, as is usual, of “violets,"

It alludes to the “robin's first peep," Though a blizzard's a daily occurrence

And the snow-drifts are seven feet deep.

But the editors — singular creatures,

To whom I am bound hand and foot Grasp at Father Time's typical forelock,

Till it's nearly pulled out by the root.

For they get 'way ahead of the season,

In a manner most wily and arch; So that while you are reading December.

They finish the number for March.

And he who would hope for acceptance

Must strike up betimes with his tune, And sing Harvest Home in Mid-Winter

And jingle his sleigh-bells in June.

So when my spring poem is finished,

No rest does my weary pen get; I must write a review of a novel Which isn't itself written yet!

.

Who would hamper me down as with iron bands,
And would make me a slave to their base com-

mands;
There are vices that hide from my sight away,
As they shrink from your gaze in the glare of day;
There are follies that render a people weak,
And tremble with fear at the words I speak;

There are sorrows that ever unwept shall sleep,
Till the story I tell shall a world make weep:
There are crimes that forever unknown shall rest,
Till arraigned before me they may stand confessed;
And the mightiest truths that a world shall own,
Shall be only as myths till I make them known;
And the good that is coming shall wait its prime,
While I make for the nations a grander time!

I have quickened the pace of the waning years,
And the far-away Future at hand appears -
The far-away Future the ancients saw,
When earth should smile under a nobler law,
When the light that all over the world should

stream,
Should be “full of His glory" who reigns supreme:
When the tumull of battle and strife should cease,
And the march of the years should be crowned

with peace.

Oh, I day after day at my labor sing,
For I know of the gladness I widely fling
With my fingers of iron across the earth
At the grate of the rich, and the cottage hearth –
And I feel that the living of all who live
Will be richer by far for the gifts I give;
And that millions of hearts shall look up and bless,
With the truest of blessings, the PrintING-PRESS.

ALPHONSO A. HOPKINS.

BESSIE CHANDLER.

THE FAIR COPY-HOLDER. Yox window frames her like a saint

Within some old cathedral rare; Perhaps she is not quite so quaint,

And yet I think her full as fair! All day she scans the written lines,

Until the last dull proof is ended, Calling the various words and signs

By which each error may be mended. An interceding angel, she,

'Twixt printing-press and author's pen-Perhaps she'd find some faults in me!

Say, maiden, can you not read men?

RUNNING THE WEEKLY.
In the twilight, in his sanctum sat the editor alone.
And his mighty brain was throbbing in a very

lofty tone;
But he checked a deathless poem, that was fraught

with fancies dim, And he thought of Quill, his “e. c.," and contrived

a pit for him.

Then he stopped right in a leader on the European

war, While he wrote a puff for Barleycorn's new family

grocery store:

Forgive me, gentle girl, but while

You bravely work I've been reflecting

And just as he got started on the "Outlook of To

day,” The foreman came to say the “comps." had struck

for higher pay.

Then he started on a funny sketch, a fancy bright

and glad, When Slabs, the undertaker, came to order out his

"ad."; He smiled and wrote the title, “ The Reflections of

a Sage,” When the panting devil broke in with —" They've

pied the second page!”.

He sighed, and took his scissors when the ever

funny bore Said, “Ah, writing editoria—" then he weltered in

his gore. And as the scribe was feeling happy, writing up

the fray, His landlord came to know if he “could pay his

rent to-day.”

I sent it then to all the rest, to see how they would

find it, But they with their durned printed slips“ respect.

fully declined " it. W'en I got up that poem, in a wild, divine afflatus, My whole brain was runnin' over like a heaped up

hill er taters; An' I rushed aroun' permis'cus like, an' not at all

partic'lar, With my coat-tails horizontal, an' my hair perpen

dic'lar! An' I tore aroun' in frenzy, like a dog that's taken

pizen; I was 'feared I'd knock the stars out, an' collide

with the horizon; For all out-door warn't big enough for old Sebastian

Morey, For I could shin a rainbow, right into the streets

of glory! W'y! all space was stuffed with rainbows, hung

with pots of gold to capture, An' all the everlastin' hills were bustin' into rap

ture; The birds, the frogs, the grasshoppers, all sung

their loud hazanner, An' every single forest tree turned into a pianner? If there was ever a poem foun' I had a chance to

git it; An' heaven was blin'in in my soul, w'en I sot down

an' writ it. The angels told it to me, sir, an' it would make me

famous, If every tarnel editor warn't such an ignoramus! Wal, let 'em print their sappy stuff; but I can do

without it. I've shet off my subscription, an' now let 'em

squirm about it; The 'Lantic, an' the Century, an' Lippincott's, an'

Harper's, Scribner's, and all the rest of 'em, is all a set er sharpers.

S. W. Foss.

In deep abstraction then he plunged the paste brush

in the ink, And stammered, Thank you, since you will in

sist on it, I think When from the business office came the cashier,

“ Here's a mess! Composish & Roller's put a big attachment on the

press."

Then broke the editorial heart; he sobbed and

said, “ Good-by!” And forth he went, to some far land, from all his

woes to fly. But ere the second mile was flown, he sank in wild

despairThe Wabash line took up his pass and made him pay his fare.

ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

READING PROOF.

SEBASTIAN MOREY'S POEM. THE 'Lantic an' the Century, an' Lippincott's, an'

Harper's, Scribner's, an' all the rest of 'em, is all a set er

sharpers, W'en they fin' a son er genius, an' a reg'lar ten

stroke poet, An' a close chum er the Muses, they don't know

enough to know it! I writ a roarin' poem, and I sent it to the 'Lantic, An' then, w'en it come back nex' mail, it nearly

driv' me frantic.

A PRINTER and his proof this thought suggest:

That, though at first unblemished it appears, Subjected to the keen-eyed reader's test,

The proof full soon a different aspect wears. With errors marred and marked, the unskilled eye

Looks on despairing, seeing no avail; But, mark the change, when, printed, by and by,

The blotched offenses into order pale. So may some life, we, superficial, scan,

Seem pure and true; but, changing as we look,

We read the uncorrected proof of man,

And mark the margin as a page of book: Some more, some less; but, 'neath correction wise, 'Twill all read rightly in the last revise.

BENJAMIN PENHALLOW SHILLABER.

THE EDITOR.

Yes, 'mid unceasing worry and turmoil,
To serve that Heart, the Editor must toil;
Under Its bidding must his efforts be;
It forms part of “the editorial We."
Why do the papers gossip, would you know?
Because — the public ear would have it so.
Our journal's not a favorite breakfast-dish,
Unless it gossips to the public wish;
And even they who call “the stuff absurd,”
Will sit and groan, and — read it every word.
Why do we thread men's motives thro' and thro'?
Because our king, The Public, tells us to!
Why do we quote the wedding chimes and hues ?
Because our Queen is waiting for the news.
Why do we type on useless stories waste ?
To please some portions of the public taste!
Why do we into secret haunts repair ?
Because a curious public sends us there!
Why do we tell the crimes of all the lands?
Because The Public Heart their tale demands!
Why are we deep in politics immersed ?
Because The Public fought and quarreled first!
Why do we toil with all that we possess ?
Because The Public Brain will take no less!
Acknowledged let our proud position be:
The Public Heart's prime-ministers are we!

Men of the Press! to us is given, indeed,
To shape the growing appetites we feed!
We must from day to day and week to week,
To elevate our Monarch's motives seek,
That he may, with an open, liberal hand,
Higher and higher things of us demand!
So let us cut our own progressive way-
So onward toil, through darkness and through day;
So let us in our labor persevere,
Cnspoiled by praise-untouched by blame or fear;
Learn to distinguish, with true, patient art,
The private pocket from The Public Heart;
Learn how to guide that Heart, in every choice,
And give its noblest thoughts its purest voice!
Till so The Press The Public Heart may move,
That day by day they mutually improve:
That higher and higher each the other bring,
Till God Himself shall be The Sanctum King!

WILL CARLETON, - From The Sanctum King."

SINGLE POEMS.

LEONA.

LEONA, the hour draws nigh,

The hour we've awaited so long, For the angel to open a door through the sky, That my spirit may break from its prison and try

Its voice in an infinite song.

Just now as the slumbers of night

Came o'er nie with peace giving breath, The curtain half lifted, revealed to my sight Those windows which look on the kingdom of light

That borders the river of death.

And a vision fell solemn and sweet,

Bringing gleams of a morning-lit land; I saw the white shore which the pale waters beat, And I heard the low lull as they broke at their feet

Who walked on the beautiful strand.

And I wondered why spirits should cling

To their clay with a struggle and sigh, When life's purple autumn is better than spring And the soul flies away like a sparrow, to sing

In a climate where leaves never die.

Leona, come close to my bed,

And lay your dear hand on my brow, The same touch that thrilled me in days that are

fled, And raised the last roses of youth from the dead

Can brighten the brief moments now.

We have loved from the cold world apart,

And your trust was too generous and true For their hate to o'erthrow; when the slanderer's

dart Was rankling deep in my desolate heart,

I was dearer than ever to you.

I thank the Great Father for this,

That our love is not lavished in vain;
Each germ in the future, will blossom to bliss,
And the forms that we love, and the lips that we

kiss,
Never shrink at the shadow of pain.

By the light of this faith am I taught

That death is but action begun: In the strength of this hope have I struggled and

fought With the legions of wrong, till my armor has

caught
The gleam of Eternity's sun.

I have grown weary of dust and decay,-
Weary of flinging my soul.wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap; -
Rock me to sleep, mother, - rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep: –
Rock me to sleep, mother,- rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-
Rock me to sleep, mother, - rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-
Rock me to sleep, mother, - rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep; —
Rock me to sleep, mother, - rock me to sleep!

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE. The nautilus and the ammonite

Were launched in friendly strife; Each sent to float, in its tiny boat,

On the wide wild sea of life.

For each would swim on the ocean's brim,

And when wearied its sail could furl; And sink to sleep in the great sea deep,

In its palace all of pearl!

Leona, look forth and behold

From headland, from hillside, and deep, The day king surrenders his banners of gold; The twilight advances through woodland and wold,

And the dews are beginning to weep.

The moon's silver hair lies uncurled,

Down the broad-breasted mountains away,
E'er sunset's red glories again shall be furled
On the walls of the west, o'er the plains of the

world,
I shall rise in a limitless day.

O! come not in tears to my tomb,

Nor plant with frail flowers the sod; There is rest among roses too sweet for its gloom, And life where the lilies eternally bloom

In the balm-breathing gardens of God.

Yet deeply those memories burn

Which bind me to you and to earth, And I sometimes have thought that my being would

yearn In the bowers of its beautiful home, to return

And visit the home of its birth.

'Twould even be pleasant to stay,

And walk by your side to the last, But the land-breeze of Heaven is beginning to

play Life's shadows are meeting Eternity's day,

And its tumult is hushed in the past.

Leona, good-bye; should the grief

That is gathering now, ever be
Too dark for your faith, you will long for relief,
And remember, the journey, though lonesome, is

brief,
Over lowland and river to me.

JAMES G. CLARK.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; -
Rock me to sleep, mother, - rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears, -
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,-
Take them, and give me my childhood again!

And theirs was bliss more fair than this,

Which we taste in our older clime;

For they were rife in a tropic life,

A brighter and better clime.

Lying here 'midst poppies and maize, tired of the

loss and the gain, Dreaming of rest, ah! fain Would I, like ye, transmute the terror of fate

into praise.

They swam 'mid the isles whose summer smiles

Were dimmed by no alloy;
Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm,

And life one only joy!

They sailed all day, through creek and bay,

And traversed the ocean deep;
And at night they sank on a coral bank,

In its fairy bowers to sleep!

And the monsters vast, of ages past,

They beheld in their ocean caves; They saw them ride in their power and pride,

And sink in their deep sea graves.

Yet thou, O earth, art a slave, orderly without care,

Perfect thou know'st not why, For He whose Word is thy life has spared thee

the gift of Will! We men are not so brave, our lives are not so fair,

Our law is an eye for an eye; And the light that shines for our good we use to

our ill. Fails boyhood's hope ere long, for the deed still

mocks the plan, And the knave is the honest man, And thus we grow weak in a world created to

make us strong.

And hand in hand, from strand to strand,

They sailed in mirth and glee; These fairy shells, with their crystal cells,

Twin sisters of the sea!

And they came at last, to a sea long past,

But as they reached its shore, The Almighty's breath spoke out in death,

And the ammonite lived no more!

But woe to the man who quails before that which

makes him man! Though heaven be sweet to win, One thing is sweeter yet — freedom to side with

hell! In man succeeds or fails this great creative plan;

Man's liberty to sin Makes worth God's winning the love even God

may not compel. Shall I then murmur and be wroth at Nature's

peace? Though I be ill at ease, I hold one link of the chain of his happiness in

So the nautilus now, in its shelly prow,

As over the deep it strays, Suill seems to seek, in bay and creek,

Its companion of other days.

And alike do we, on life's stormy sea,

As we roam from shore to shore, Thus, tempest-tost, seek the lov'd, the lost

But find them on earth no more!

my hand.

JULIAN HAWTHORNE.

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