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The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses
And left the team at the door.
I heard one little squall,
Went team, Little Breeches and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie !
I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches,
And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon,
Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,—but of little Gabe
No hide nor hair was found.
(OHN HAY was born at Salem, Indiana, Octo
ber 8th, 1838. The family originally came from Scotland. John Hay's boyhood was spent in the West, hence we have many of his dialect poems. He graduated at Brown University in 1858. Studied law at Springfield, Illinois, and was admitted to the bar in 1861. It was during the period of his law studies that he won the friendship of Mr. Lincoln, who as President, made Mr. Hay his assistant secretary. He remained with the President as secretary and trusted friend, almost constantly until his death. He acted also as his adjutant and aide-de-camp, and served actively for several months with the rank of major and assistant adjutant-general. He was also brevetted lieutenant-colonel and colonel. After the war he was secretary of legation at Paris and Madrid, and chargé de affaires at Vienna, remaining in Europe from 1865 to 1870. After his return to the United States he became connected with the New York Tribune as an editorial writer, and remaind in that position for six years. He removed to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1876. From 1879 to 1881 he was Assistant Secretary of State. He now resides in Washington in an elegant residence, and is a wealthy man.
Mr. Hay published a volume of poems in 1871, entitled “Pike County Ballads.” In the same year he published “Castilian Days,” a collection of sketches of Spanish life. The most important work of his life is the “History of the Administration of Abraham Lincoln” published in conjunction with John C. Nicolay in the Century Magazine. Col. Hay is believed to be the author of the anonymous novel, “ The Bread-Winners” (New York, 1883.)
C. W. M.
I never ain't had no show;
On the handful o' things I know.
And free-will, and that sort of thing,But I b'lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.
How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that storm. They jest scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child,
And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around The Throne.
JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE.
I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along,No four-year-old in the county
Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy,
Always ready to swear and fight, And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
WALL, no ! I can't tell whar he lives,
Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit
Of livin' like you and me.
That you haven't heard folks tell
The night of the Prairie Belle?
Toiling, forgetting, and learning,
Pure heart and resolute will,
At last I shall climb the Hill, And breathe the enchanted airs Where the light of my life is burning,
Most lovely and fair and free; Where alone in her youth and beauty, And bound by her fate's sweet duty,
Unconscious she waits for me,
And when in God's good hour
- Sunrise in the Place de la Concorde,
ORE than thirty years ago there appeared in
the New York Evening Post, the poem entitled “My Child's Origin.” The lines immediately attracted attention, and were copied extensively into the newspaper press throughout the country. It is said that Massachusetts War Governor, John A. Andrew, was so impressed by them, that he carried them about in his pocket-book, affirming that they were “the sweetest lines ever read.” The author of the lines was David Barker, the subject of this sketch. Mr. Barker was born September 9, 1816, in the thrifty agricultural town of Exeter, in the state of Maine, where he spent the greatest part of his life. He was the son of Nathaniel Barker, a native of Exeter, N. H., who went into the District of Maine, in the early part of the present century, and succeeded in having the name of his native town go to the one of his adoption. Mr. Barker's mother, Sarah Pease, a native of Parsonsfield, Maine, was a woman of great energy of character, and strong religious faith. David was the sixth of ten children. His father died when David was quite young. David's education until about sixteen years of age, was had at the common school, after which he attended the acad. emy in Foxcroft, Maine, where later on he was employed as an assistant teacher, which occupation he followed for many years.
Later on in life thinking that a trade would be more manly, as well as more profitable, than the profession of a pedagogue, he chose the trade of blacksmith. His health however would not stand the severe toil of that occupation, and after a short apprenticeship, he broke down and ever after was an invalid. Quite late in life Mr. Barker entered the office of the late Governor Cony of Maine, and qualified himself for the profession of law, which he practiced for a while in Bangor, Maine, and afterwards until the close of his life pursued his profession in his native town of Exeter.
David Barker died September 14, 1874, at the age of fifty-eight years, leaving a widow-the daughter of Timothy Chase, Esq., of Belfast, and a son and a daughter. He was a member of the Legislature of Maine for 1872, and he received the degree of A. M., from Bowdoin College, owing largely on account of his poetical fame. As a poet he obtained a distinguished reputation, and many of his metrical gems are destined to live. A volume of his poems with a biographical sketch by the Hon. John E. Godfrey, and which has passed through several edi. tions, has been printed at Bangor. Mr. Barker's poetical fame, brought to him by the touching references to his mother, in several of his poems, will endear him to all who maintain their regard for the filial sentiment.
H. P. C.
Land of unconquered Pelayo! land of the Cid
Campeador! Sea-girdled mother of men! Spain, name of glory
and power; Cradle of world-grasping Emperors, grave of the
reckless invader, How art thou fallen, my Spain! how art thou sunk at this hour!
- The Surrender of Spain.
He has no ears for Nature's voice
Whose soul is the slave of creed.
Has God the world adorned;
- The Monks of Basle.