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opening of a brilliant career, full of the promise INA D. COOLBRITH.

of prosperity, was, under the irresistible force of N the rosy retrospect, the writer of these lines circumstances, an apparently eternal farewell to sees a cosy interior, in a quiet house, on a

the world of song,- for the singer, who has no hill in San Francisco. There was always a kind

superior among the female poets of her own land, of twilight in that place, and a faint odor of fresh

and scarcely an equal, has almost ceased to sing! violets, and an atmosphere of peace. It was a

In 1874, circumstances had compelled her to acpoet's corner in a city which was more poetical

cept the office of librarian in the Frec Library of then than it now is, and far more poetical than it Oakland, Cal. She has been there ever since; will ever be again. There were little Parian busts

she may be forced to remain there unto the end. on the mantel, delicate pictures upon the wall,

Her life has been a rare example of unceasing rich volumes with autograph inscriptions every

and heroic self-sacrifice for the sake of those who where; through the curtained window

have been dependent upon her. Death robbed saw a marble Cupid wrestling with a marble

her, in 1876, of an idolized mother, and now she swan in a shower of sparkling spray-but this

goes daily to the tread-mill of duty and endures

her fate almost in solitude. was in the garden opposite. If the lawn was

Is it any wonder limited on the hither side of the street, the ex

that a heart so oppressed should find it difficult to

sing? quisite atmosphere of the small salon-it was a salon in the best sense of the word-was most at

Her poems are singularly sympathetic; I know tractive. Here Bret Harte chatted with the hos.

of none more palpably spontaneous. The minor

key predominates; but there are a few lark-like tess over the table of contents of the forthcoming Ovcrland Monthly; here the genial “ John Paul,”

carols suffused with the “unpremeditated joy" of Charles Henry Webb, discussed the prospects of

heavenly inspiration.

C. W. S. his Californian; and here Joaquin Miller, fresh from the glorious fields of Oregon, his earnest eyes fixed upon London in dreaming of future

A PERFECT DAY. fame, met the gracious lady who was the pearl of all her tribe.

I will be glad to-day: the sun Ina D. Coolbrith, although a native of Illinois,

Smiles all adown the land; and of New England parentage, passed her child

The lilies lean along the way; hood and early youth in Los Angeles, California,

Serene on either hand, when that old Spanish settlement was worthy of

The full-blown roses, red and white, the name. She might easily have been mistaken

In perfect beauty stand. for a daughter of Spain; the dark eyes, the luxuriant dark hair, the pure olive skin flushed with

The mourning-dove within the woods the ripe glow of the pomegranates; even the rich

Forgets, nor longer grieves; contralto voice, the mellifluous tongue and the well

A light wind lifts the bladed corn, worn guitar were hers-everything, in fact, save

And ripples the ripe sheaves; only the stiletto and the cigarette. Those were

High overhead some happy bird halcyon days: she was singing her full-throated

Sings softly in the leaves. songs—perhaps too often touched with a gentle melancholy, but this also is Spanish and semitropical-and the world was listening to catch the

The butterflies flit by, and bees; far-off strain from California. She was a constant

A peach falls to the ground; contributor to the Overland Monthly, and she fre

The tinkle of a bell is heard quently appeared in the Californian, the Galaxy,

From some far pasture-mound; Harper's, and other leading periodicals. Her

The crickets in the warm, green grass muse was speedily and cordially recognized in

Chirp with a softened sound. the best quarters, and, in later years, when on a flying visit to the Atlantic sea-board, Whittier, The sky looks down upon the sea, and many another master-singer, welcomed her

Blue, with not anywhere fraternally-paternally, I should say in some

The shadow of a passing cloud; cases.

The sea looks up as fairIn 1881 a collection of her poems, written with but a few exceptions previous to the year 1876,

So bright a picture on its breast

As if it smiled to wear. was published in a small volume under the title of "A Perfect Day," that perfect poem very properly lending its name to the collection. This, A day too glad for laughter - nay, which would seem to have been the auspicious

Too glad for happy tears!

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ness.

SOLITUDE. Was it the sigh and shiver of the leaves ? Was it the murmur of the meadow brook, That in and out the reeds and water-weeds Slipped silvery, and on their tremulous keys Uttered her many melodies? Or voice Of the far sea, red with the sunset gold, That sang within her shining shores, and sang Within the Gate, that in the sunset shone A gate of fire against the outer world ?

- California.
SORROW.
To the weary in life's wildernesses

The soul of the singer belongs:
Small need, in your green, sunny places,

Glad dwellers, have you of my songs.
For you the blithe birds of the meadow

Trill silverly sweet, every one
But I can not sit in the shadow
Forever, and sing of the sun.

-Marah.

SLEEP.
Shut close the wearied eyes, O Sleep!

So close no dreams may come between,
Of all the sorrows they have seen;
Too long, too sad, their watch hath been.

Be fafthful, Sleep!
Lest they should wake--remembering;
Lest they should wake, and waking weep,
O Sleep, sweet Sleep!

-At Peace.
MEADOW-LARKS.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and

pain ? Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad,

so fleet! Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the

noblest gain, The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

-Meadow-Larks.

LONGING.
O foolish wisdom sought in books!

O aimless fret of household tasks!
O chains that bind the hand and mind
A fuller life my spirit asks!

- Longing.
AUTUMN.
For lo, my heart is numb;

For lo, my heart is dumb,
Is silent till the birds and blossoms come!

A flower, that lieth cold

Under the wintry mold,
Waiting the warm spring-breathing to unfold.

-In Time of Falling Leaves.

LIZETTE WOODWORTH

REESE.
IZETTE WOODWORTH REESE. was born

in a little country place, near Baltimore, over five and twenty years ago, of French and German parents, with a smatteringof hardy Welch thrown in on her father's side. Her parents moved to Pittsburgh, when she was a child, but only lived there six months, when they transferred their household goods to Baltimore, where they have been ever since. Miss Reese learned to read when she was five years old. At seven, she devoured everything in the way of mental food, histories, essays, novels, poems, dry old religious biographies, and the Bible. At eight, she made the acquaintance of Dickens, and though she appreciated his genius fully as much as anyone does, with whom he is not the favorite of favorites, she loves Thackeray and Hawthorne above all prose writers of the century. Her most distinguished characteristic is straightforward,

She would rather meet an enemy than write to one, if she had one, but she is too gentle to ever acquire that most desirable of things. She has a horror of a lie in any form. Her sympathies are broad. She has a passion for books, flowers, music, pictures, perfumes, and, chiefest of all, poetry. Her love of nature is as profound as it is reverential. Her favorite poets are the old English ones, and among them, I think, she loves Herrick best. Her first book of poems, “A Branch of May," was published two years ago, and it received noteworthy notices,-Mr. Howells, Mr. Stedman, and Col. Higginson being particularly favorable. Her first poem was published when she was seventeen. For four or five years after, she only wrote from two to three poems a year. She is to-day a "slow" worker, as she herself says. Many of her lines are unforgetable; they enter the chambers of one's brain, and they will not out, but sing themselves over and over again.

Miss Reese is very slender, of medium height, with golden hair, true blue eyes, and delicate features. She's a breathing cameo, as sensitive as an Æolian harp, and as finely strung.

J. E. M.

BETRAYED.
SHE is false, O Death, she is fair!

Let me hide my head on thy knee;
Blind mine eyes, dull mine ears, O Death!

She hath broke my heart for me! Give me a perfect dream;

Find me a rare, dim place; But let not her voice come nigh,

And keep out her face-her face!

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