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Nothing of His does He leave shelterless;
Even the toads have holes wherein to bide;
By nooks and crofts in the white wilderness
He spreadeth couches on the bare hill-side

Where His wild flocks may lie;

Shall then His pitying eye
Unseeing pass those humblest watchers by
Who trust and wait His coming patiently
When the white feet of Light

With slow steps walk the hill-tops silently,
And from the mournful north
The sexton winds start forth

Plowing black graves thro' the swart sands of
Night!

III.

Nothing so low but His care reacheth it,

Mild as a day-flush on eve's twilight rim.
Groping in darkness, stained of soul, unfit

Oft clasp we hands unknowingly with Him,
And He doth lead us in

Out of the snow-gusts to His shepherd tents
That lowly rise 'yond the high domes of Sin,
Unseen at dusk by our thick eyes of Sense:

In reverence knock; the Master waits within,
O Soul! my Sonl! go out in thy distress
And seek His tents, and rest in lowliness!

Beneath thick clouds that overhang the plain,
Between white gusts that seek the broken pane

In yon poor hut where shivering Poverty
Stirs his last coals, I look and see again

Visions of warmth, such as they fail to see Whose bleeding feet touch not life's high Gethse

mane:

Under the warm ricks and the byres That lie a-field, white with the frost's keen fires, In hedges, hay-mows, fodder-shocks that stand Like ghosts thick-dotted on the broad, white land, Or housed in barns beneath the roof's great boards, Robins and linnets, birds of snow in hordes, Or warm in grass-tufts where the snows fall dim, Fill they those homes which He hath ordered them, Thatched with His care which shields night's bitter cold:

Thus doth His Love enfold

All things of His that life hath upon earth.

TRUTH.

CAST first the World and then appeal to Him,
For since His coming each is his own Christ
Casting out devils by his truth of soul.
Who sings one Truth our Lord remembereth;
And, though his heart be dust, his Soul shall live.

REBECCA RUTER SPRINGER.

I

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Mrs.

NDIANAPOLIS was the birthplace of Mrs. Rebecca Ruter Springer, wife of the Hon. William M. Springer, of Illinois, the distinguished Member of Congress who for many years has ably represented the district which once sent Abraham Lincoln to the National House, and whose name will go to the future crowned with honor, as he was the author and manager of the bill by which the two Dakotas, Montana and Washington were admitted to statehood—a parliamentary triumph without a precedent. Springer has genius and culture as a birth-right, for her father, the Rev. Calvin Ruter, and his brother, the Rev. Dr. Martin Ruter, were among the most highly educated, laborious, useful and eminent ministers of the Methodist Church, who, at an early day wrought, with such fidelity to lay the broad and sure foundations of civil and religious liberty and progress in the valley of the Mississippi. Her earliest years were divided between New Albany and Indianapolis, and her later academic studies were carried on at the Wesleyan College for girls in Cincinnati. Like Pope, she lisped in numbers;" and the earliest efforts of her pen were dedicated to the Muses; but her love of verse, which grew with her years, was nourished as a secret passion, and no one ever saw or heard a line of her metrical composition until she had nearly reached womanhood and was about to be graduated by her Alma Mater. By accident one of her teachers discovered her gift of song, and she was induced to read one of her poems at a school exhibition. It was received with enthusiThe judgment then expressed has since received additional weight of authority from such competent judges as George D. Prentice, John G. Whittier, Henry W. Longfellow, and others of the divine craft, into whose hands some of Mrs. Springer's poems have fallen. Although a volume of her poems has not yet seen the light,- for the extreme modesty as to her productions which characterized Mrs. Springer in her earlier years has continued to make her coy with the public,a piece of her verse has now and then taken the wings of the morning and found lodgment in many a heart and memory. The House of Representatives at Washington has not often in late years been hushed and thrilled as it was not long ago, when Mr. S. S. Cox, of New York, pleading for the Life Saving Service, quoted an affecting passage from "The Wreck on the Strand." More than once have I known strong men moved to tears by the reading of some bit of pathos from her songs.

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Time, with its experience of marriage, mother. hood, broken health, a long residence abroad, large and intimate intercourse with the best

society, there and at home, and sorrow that follows the death of those dear almost as life, has had a chastening yet quickening influence upon Mrs. Springer's genius and character, and throughout her poems one sees and feels the touch and pulse alike of the power and tenderness, created not only by genius, but

"In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering:

In the faith that looks through death;
In years that bring the philosophic mind."

W. H. M.

THE WEARY PILGRIM.

IN the shadows I'm sitting, all lonely and dreary,
My garments are travel-stained, dusty and worn;
Of struggling and toiling alone I am weary,
So here in the darkness I wait for the morn.
Strong hearts have been near me, to comfort and
bless me,

Fond arms have upheld me in days that are gone;
Warm lips, full of blessings were wont to caress me,
Yet here in the darkness I'm watching alone.

The sunlight of life, hill and valley adorning,
Once flooded my path, but its radiance is o'er;
I'll find it no more, till some glorious morning
'T will burst on my gaze from eternity's shore.
Life's way is so lonely, and toilsome, and dreary,
The night-time is gathering about me so fast,
I'll rest by the wayside, my steps are so weary,
And dream of the morn, till the darkness is past.

GROWING OLD TOGETHER.

WE are growing old together

Time has touched our locks with gray,
And the roseate hues of morning,
From our life have passed away.
But we do not heed the shadows,
Though they lengthen where we stand,
For we closely walk together

Holding each the other's hand.
Oft we count the years together
Since our pathways joined in one;
Part in sunshine, part in shadow,
Have the mingled courses run;
But no shadow, howe'er sombre,

Can a lengthened gloom impart,
When the sunlight softly lingers,

Shed by love, within the heart.

When we've reached life's mountain summit
Down its western slope we'll start,
With a thousand sacred memories,
Nestling softly in each heart.

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LIFE'S morning lies behind; its noon is past;
Its evening comes apace; and we, at last,
Weary and footsore, by the way sit down
And think in sorrow of our lost renown.
Sadly we grieve that in our life hath been
No grand and noble deeds - but all unseen
Our lowly toil. Then some sweet voice chants low,
'Wait till Time's angel shall thy record show,
The patient toil; the suffering meekly borne;
The kind word spoken to the sinking heart;
The cup of water in His name to one
Fainting and desolate; the cruel smart
We seek in other suffering hearts to ease

By earnest deeds of love; Oh! faint heart, these
These are the deeds He counts as labor done,
And binds into the sheaf our toil hath won."

SEA.

How like our mortal life is to the sea!
Its tranquil hours, its storms, its mystery.
Its breaking waves, that ceaseless beat the shore,
Like breaking hearts, that hope till hope is o'er.
Its flitting sails, that meet upon the main
Like hearts that love an hour, then part again.
Its hidden graves o'er which the waters flow,
Hiding the skeletons that sleep below;
Its drifting sands that kindly cover o'er-
Like passing years- the wrecks that line the shore.
-The Wreck on the Strand.

WIL

WILLIAM S. LORD.

WILLIAM S. LORD was born in Sycamore, Illinois, August 24, 1863,-the eldest child of Dr. Frederick A. Lord and Emily Bull Lord. The Lord family traces its descent in this country from one Thomas Lord, who settled in Hartford, Connecticut, in the year 1636, he being one of the founders of that town. The great-grandmother of our poet,-Mrs. Phoebe Hinsdale Brown,—was quite celebrated in her time as a writer of devotional verse, many of her hymns being still sung in the churches. Mr. Lord's parents settled in Chicago at the close of the War, where his father acquired considerable reputation in his profession; but just as he was about to reap the rewards of his toil, he died, leaving the subject of this sketch, then ten years of age and with but three years of schooling, dependent upon his own exertions for a livelihood. He commenced the struggle manfully and has carried it on successfully. He has given himself an education without the aid of schools, and has become managing partner of the leading dry-goods firm in Evanston, Illinois. Mr. Lord was united in marriage with Miss Nellie Rowland, of Chicago, in the year 1884.

What literary skill Mr. Lord is possessed of is wholly due to his own efforts, and his love for poetry has developed in spite of adverse environment. Since 1880 he has contributed frequently to various periodicals and newspapers and has published two volumes of poetry-the first, entitled "Verses," was issued in 1883; and the second, "Beads of Morning," in 1888,-the latter title being taken from Wordsworth's lines in "The Hermit," "beads of morning strung on slender blades of grass," and better describes the modesty of the poet than the value of his verse. Of this latter volume Mr. Eugene Field, of the Chicago Daily News, says: "It affords us pleasure to testify sincerely both to the merits of Mr. Lord's poetical work and to the artistic style in which this work is now presented to the public. We do not understand that Mr. Lord's claims are at all pretentious; in fact we do not know that this dainty little volume has been put forth with any claim whatsoever. Yet Mr. Lord's verse is all of the better order and we like it particularly for its simplicity, its delicacy and its evident earnestness." This the writer thinks is just and merited praise and fully shows the character of Mr. Lord's work. J. C. E.

A PURITAN MAIDEN. A DEW-DROP in a lily's cup, Before the sun hath kissed it up, That softly trembles as it lies Reflecting June's serenest skies,

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