PS 
 
 ■i»ii*« '«Bw uuhejUUm^ ; 
 
 In jSvcniitd 
 
 witbtk 
 
 iDoets and Butbors' Club 
 
 of Colorado 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap...\._^ Copyright No._._ 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
DtC 
 
 14 
 
 \b9» 
 
 UEC 14 1898 
 
An £vening 
 
 witb the 
 
 Ipoets and Hutbors^ Club 
 of Colorado* 
 
 ^ 
 
 CHRISTMAS EDITION. 
 1898. 
 
 .36 
 
 ( Copyrighted. ) 
 

 23099 
 
 ^Hk^'^ 
 
 ^ V^»c:>C 
 
 72860 DEC M 1898 
 
 ■''f ';•-,- 
 
 
 •<.S 
 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting this Booklet to the public, it is 
 not the object of the members of the 'Toets and 
 Authors' Club" to pose as artists, but simply to 
 show what we are trying to accomplish in the line 
 of original work. 
 
 These stories and poems were not designed to 
 appear in a collective form. But the subject matter 
 is as it was given during an ordinary evening's 
 program. 
 
 Respectfully submitted, 
 
 IDA L. GREGORY, 
 
 President, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Our Christmas Greeting. 
 
 Colorado, 
 
 Mary Morris (A Life Sketch), 
 
 Phenomena, 
 
 Our I^ittle I^ad, 
 
 The Muffler, 
 
 Thrushes, , - 
 
 Thrums, 
 
 To My Friends, 
 
 Snow, - - - 
 
 The Unrecognized, 
 
 A Dream, 
 
 An American Iviterature, 
 
 To Allie — in Heaven, 
 
 An Autumn Reverie, 
 
 Lyndona, 
 
 The Unmasking of a Saint, 
 
 lyove! What Is It? 
 
 Wild Flowers of Summer, 
 
 BlvKANOR Fui<I,KRTON 
 
 Ida Iv. Gregory 
 
 NoRRis C. Sprigg 
 
 B1.IZABETH M. Weatherhead 
 
 AI.ICE POIyK Hii,i, 
 
 H. Iv. Wason 
 
 H. Iv. Wason 
 
 Mrs. R. B. B. G11.1.ESPIE 
 
 J. A. V. Price 
 
 Mary W01.FE Dargin 
 
 Frederick A. Johnson 
 
 Myron W. Reed 
 
 Orro Hai^i, 
 
 Cora Townsend McNerney 
 
 K1.1.A Randai.1, King 
 
 Marguerite Zkaring 
 
 Amanda Kerr Lewis 
 
 JU1.1A A. Wansey 
 
 The Incarnation (Story of the 16th Century), Geo. W. Cox 
 Stephen A. Douglas, - - Chas. W. Bigei^ow 
 
{jdT (jiristroas (greeting. 
 
 
 {^* {^W ^» 
 
 NCE more we're in the Christmas tide, 
 As for many centuries past, 
 And floods of memory rash along, 
 While the years roll by, so fast. 
 
 The Christmas tide with meaning grand, 
 
 From old Judea's plains. 
 Where wandering shepherds stood spell-bound 
 
 By sweet angelic strains. 
 
 And still, upon our listening ears. 
 
 There falls the sweet refrain, 
 "Peace and good will" from God to man. 
 
 As on that star-lit plain. 
 
 Ideal still, that pure, sweet song. 
 
 Breathed forth by angel band: 
 For selfish greed and cruel war, 
 
 Drive * 'Peace" from every land. 
 
 But yet from friend to friend is passed, 
 
 The happy season's gift — 
 These dear remembrances of love 
 
 Oft clouds of sorrow, rift. 
 
 From Colorado's sun-kissed plains 
 
 And hoary mountain peak, 
 Sweet messages and gladsome strains 
 
 Her childrens' voices speak. 
 
 5 
 
(olorado. 
 
 ®FAIR young State, facing the grand to be, 
 With shining eyes that flash with sense of power, 
 O'er sunlit peaks, and canons wild and free, 
 Thy throbbing heart doth beat from hour to hour, 
 With hopes and aspirations, that do tower 
 
 Above thy sisters — though so youug thou art. 
 Thy beauty's fame, the richness of thy dower, 
 
 Hath brought from lands and nations far apart. 
 Thousands, who coming, nestle to thy heart! 
 
 Because thy sapphire skies hath smiles for all 
 
 Thine air gives life, thy boundless prairies room. 
 Deep in thy mountains' heart, where shadows fall, 
 
 Ivie hidden treasures, waiting in the gloom. 
 For willing hands to take thy wild flowers' bloom. 
 
 And deck with dainty tints, the hills and dales. 
 Thy dawns, and golden sunsets all, illume 
 
 With glory earth and sky ; Italia pales 
 Before the glowing radiance that prevails . 
 
 And thy fair cities! See where proudly stands 
 
 The Queen! her fanes and towers of stately height 
 Uplifted to the blue! From many lands 
 
 Have come the eager throngs, alert and bright, 
 That crowd her busy marts, the radiant light 
 
 Of youth doth shine, they onward long to press 
 With thee, ^^oung State — a land of pure delight 
 
 To make thee, so that from the wilderness 
 Fair homes may blossom, all the world to bless. 
 
 Bl^EANOR Fui,I.KRTON. 
 
JVlaraJVIo! 
 
 orris. 
 
 (A Life Sketch:) 
 
 IT was in the year that Sumpter was fired upon, 
 that there lived in a small village in South- 
 western Missouri, the family of John Morris. 
 He was a brave, sturdy man of the pioneer type, 
 who had left his old home in Kentucky some eight 
 years before, and brought his bride to this wild and 
 beautiful spot. By perseverance he had established 
 a good business, and life seemed expanding daily 
 into fine possibilities for the sturdy carriage-maker 
 and his little family. 
 
 All day long the busy wife worked to the tune 
 of the anvil and hammer, soul-stirring to her as 
 martial music is to the soldier. Well she knew that 
 plain and homely lives like theirs contained love 
 and contentment. 
 
 The scarlet rambler that she had brought from 
 the old home, a tiny slip, now covered the little 
 porch and peeped in at the window, its delicate 
 green leaves just beginning to unfold in the warm 
 April sunshine; and John's favorite flower, the old- 
 fashioned spice pinks, that bordered the walk to the 
 spring, were full of buds. The birds sang as they 
 flitted from tree to tree, and the peacefulness of 
 
* 'Acadia" seemed to have settled over the little 
 valley. One day, news of Sumpter came. War 
 was declared, and the call for volunteers sounded 
 throughout the land. 
 
 John Morris was among the first to respond to 
 his country's call, though with a heavy heart, withal, 
 for his own brother Edward, the pet, the youngest 
 of them all, wore the gray, while he had put on 
 the blue. ''Brother against brother," continually 
 flashed through his mind, ''But thank God we are 
 still friends, let come what may." 
 
 "Good-bye, Mary," said John, as he clasped 
 her to his bosom, "take care of yourself and the 
 babies; kiss them often for me; God bless you all!" 
 and he was gone. 
 
 ' 'Will the separation be harder for him than 
 for me?" thought Mary, as she gazed after the 
 retreating form. "Life cannot be the same now 
 that the sunshine is gone. The burden seems too 
 heavy," she moaned, as he disappeared from her 
 sight. 
 
 Eight long, dreary months elapsed since John 
 had marched away to join the troops at Lexington. 
 Eight months of anxiety and suspense for the wife, 
 and of loneliness for the children. 
 
 One cold, stormy evening Mary was preparing 
 the little ones for bed, a step w^as heard on the 
 porch, a voice was heard humming "Home, Sweet 
 Home." "Papa! Papa!" fairly screamed the de- 
 lighted Kitty, eldest of the three children. "My 
 
 8 
 
papa!" said quiet little May. *Tapa tummed 
 home!'* lisped Jasper, the three-year old. 
 
 ''O, John!'' That was all, but the words con- 
 tained a world of meaning. 
 
 '*No, my little wife, never a deserter, thank 
 God! only home on a short furlough. Am I ill? 
 Oh, no; only a slight cold." But how pale and 
 wan he looked. Mary's heart almost failed her as 
 she hastened to remove the tattered garments, and 
 worn shoes from the bleeding feet. '*Not a word 
 now until I make you comfortable. ' ' The cheerful 
 cabin, ivarm fire, and clean bed made home seem a 
 veritable paradise to John, who had slept on the 
 ground for months. With tender and careful nurs- 
 ing, he was soon well again; and the few remaining 
 days of his furlough were spent in putting things 
 to rights. A nail here, a board there, stacks of 
 wood surrounded the cabin, and everything wore 
 an air of comfort. The majority of the people said 
 the war would soon be over; but the wise ones 
 shook their heads. Many lives they felt would be 
 sacrificed, homes destroyed and country laid waste 
 before peace would be declared. 
 
 Rumors now reached them that guerrillas were 
 hiding a few miles away and might, at an}^ moment, 
 burn the village. *'Idle rumors," some said, but 
 men looked worried and care-worn; mothers clasped 
 their children to their breasts with anew fear, and 
 no one ventured far from home. 
 
 As the days passed, affairs assumed a more 
 
threatening aspect. Work-shops were closed, farm- 
 ers and merchants gathered on the 'Tublic square," 
 and gravely discussed the situation. John came 
 home one evening looking pale and anxious. Mary 
 felt that all was not well. *'I must cheer him up, 
 no matter what the trouble may be,'' thought Mary, 
 **and make the few remaining days a pleasant 
 memory when on the field of battle.'' *^Come, my 
 babies, climb on papa's knee; tell him how much 
 you have helped mama to-day, and what a nice, 
 comfortable bed you made for Tabby and the little 
 kitties. Katie, tell your papa about the brave boys 
 in blue you saw march away today. Now for a 
 romp, a good-night kiss, and off to dreamland." 
 
 ' 'What is the matter, John ? Why are you so 
 depressed?" 
 
 *'0h! my wife! my children! What will become 
 of you?- The rebels are coming and may be upon 
 us at any moment! We must collect our thoughts, 
 lay our plans to escape. Oh, my God! that it 
 should come to this! in this fair and beautiful land 
 of ours, 'The land of the free!' " 
 
 The snow fell thick and fast on that memorable 
 November night. The wind shrieked and groaned 
 dismally as it carried the fine particles of snow into 
 every crack and crevice, and it seemed to say, *'We, 
 too, are at war." 
 
 Suddenly Jack, the burly mastiff, lying by the 
 fire-place, pricked up his ears, uttered a low growl 
 and sprang to the window. 
 
 lo 
 
* 'Who comes there ?'* and John snatched his 
 musket from the table. 
 
 * 'Brother/' was the guarded reply. **I came 
 to save you; flee for your lives!" 
 
 One long look of love and anguish into the 
 little home, one clasp of the hand, and he was gone! 
 
 John and Mary gazed at each other for a mo- 
 ment. Words were useless; all was lost. 
 
 Home! How the word burned in the memory 
 of the wife, as she hastily gathered together cloth- 
 ing and food for their journey. 
 
 In the meantime John, together with James, 
 his invalid brother, who made his home with the 
 family, was making hasty preparations for removal 
 to a place of safety. By midnight, all was ready. 
 The ox-team stood at the door. Bedding, clothing 
 and food were thrown into the wagon in a promis- 
 cuous heap. The children cuddled down in warm 
 places, all ready to start, but what a leave-taking! 
 
 How could the}^ leave the home the}^ had 
 worked so hard to make ! Trifles, mementos of the 
 olden days, ' 'when life was bright and hearts were 
 young,'' all must be sacrificed to the "God of war." 
 
 A hasty glance through the house, a loving 
 and sad farewell to the pets they must leave behind, 
 and they were off, never to return. 
 
 On reaching the main street of the village, a 
 wild scene presented itself; pandemonium reigned 
 supreme. Terror-stricken inhabitants were running 
 to and fro ; the feeble flicker from the lanterns 
 
 II 
 
served only to intensify the darkness. Drivers, 
 cursing and lashing their teams, trying, in vain, to 
 urge them on through the driving storm. Mothers, 
 praying and trying to soothe their terrified and 
 shivering children. 
 
 The little party moved on slowly, leaving the 
 noise and confusion behind, but not the sadness of 
 their hearts, made still more sad by the terrible 
 scenes just witnessed. 
 
 Oh! war may seem a romance when it does not 
 reach those near and dear to us, when home ties 
 are not severed; but when hearts are broken and 
 homes destroyed, the aspect is changed. 
 
 Morning found the refugees far from home, 
 cold, weary and hungry. After partaking of a hur- 
 ried meal and feeding the oxen, they again urged 
 them on, but the second night they were compelled 
 to seek shelter from the storm in a deserted negro 
 cabin. 
 
 Fortunately they found plenty of wood and 
 soon had a roaring fire in the low, broad fire-place. 
 The logs crackled, the flames sputtered, and the 
 rosy light cast a cheerful glow over the old cabin 
 and the strangers beneath its roof. 
 
 *'How w^arm and comfortable,'* thought Mary, 
 as she prepared supper for the cold and hungry 
 travelers. *'I wonder if we are safe? How dark 
 and stormy ! What a terrible night to be out, 
 homeless wanderers! Will the sun ever shine again 
 as in the days gone by?'' 
 
 J2 
 
**Hark! I certainly heard the report of a gun! 
 What does it mean?" 
 
 "O Mary!" cried James, rushing into the 
 cabin, pale and breathless. 
 
 ' 'What is the matter ? Are the rebels coming?' ' 
 and Mary ran to where the children lay sleeping. 
 
 ''We are lost! John is hurt, dying!" 
 
 "Oh, no!" cried Mary, rushing past him, out 
 into the storm. 
 
 There he lay, pale and bleeding from a wound 
 in the head, and, there, bending over the prostrate 
 form, was the rebel who had fired the fatal shot. 
 The rebel ? Yes. Good God! it was the brother 
 who had risked his life two nights before to save 
 him! 
 
 ''O Mary! do you think he will die? I did 
 not know him!" and he fell on his knees, in the 
 storm, writhing in prayer. 
 
 Tenderly they carried the dying man into the 
 cabin. His wife took his wounded head in her arms, 
 calling, calling to him, as in the days of their court- 
 ship long ago. He did not hear, he did not re- 
 spond. Two days of alternate fear and hope, when 
 at the last he opened his eyes and gazed lovingly at 
 those around him. "Good-bye, Mary; take care of 
 yourself and the babies. — Kiss them often — for 
 me. — My love — to — Edward — " and he was not. 
 
 Only a rude pine box and a little gash in the 
 hillside; that was all. To this day no stone marks 
 the spot. But God keeps watch. Grief and re- 
 
 ^3 
 
morse left their mark. Edward, who had not 
 ceased his pleading for some sign of recognition, 
 gave way under the strain. His mind became a 
 blank to all except the words, ** My love to Ed- 
 ward/* 
 
 Henceforth, as Mary cared for him, as in a per- 
 petual childhood, he would sit throughout the long 
 days and imagine himself a child, as in the fair, far 
 days when John and he played in their Kentucky 
 home, in the long waving grass, chasing butter- 
 flies, gathering nuts, wading the little creek, build- 
 ing toy water-wheels in its mellow murmuring 
 waters. 
 
 Did it require self-sacrifice on the part of Mary 
 Morris to care for the slayer of her husband ? If it 
 did, she never betrayed it by look or word. The 
 day after the funeral, the family resumed their 
 journey. To leave the husband and go on alone 
 seemed well-nigh impossible. 
 
 Wending their way slowly over the rough road 
 to the brow of the hill, the wife could but pause for 
 one last look upon the scene of their great sorrow. 
 The lone grave among the pines, unmarked by board 
 or stone, only the wind to chant a requiem and the 
 promise of kind ''Mother Nature" that the grass 
 should grow, and the wild fl owners bloom, when 
 winter should lift his icy coverlet. 
 
 Then the breath from the trees seemed to 
 blow from those pines, under which she and John 
 had walked in the days of their courtship, and she 
 
remembered then, how they had prayed together 
 there, and how he had said that God would care 
 for them, and all, surely, would be well. 
 
 The team moved slowly down the hill. She 
 was standing alone. At the memory of that far- 
 distant prayer under the Kentucky pines, the peace 
 that came to her spirit there seemed to return; she 
 turned to descend; for her there were God, onward, 
 duty, destiny, until that morn of morns, when he 
 who had walked with her under the Kentucky 
 pines, should walk wnth her under the tree of life. 
 She followed down the hill into the future, and one 
 day joy came back to her when she saw her son, 
 another John Morris, a leader in the council of the 
 land for which his father had died. 
 
 Her feet seemed to step stronger with each 
 motion. ''My lot," she said, 
 
 "It is the lot of woman 
 
 To uplift, 
 Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift 
 The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavor 
 To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever. 
 The mission of genius: to watch, and to wait, 
 To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate. 
 The mission of woman on earth! to give birth 
 To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth; 
 The mission of woman: permitted to bruise 
 The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse 
 Through the sorrow and sin of earth's registered curse 
 The blessing which mitigates all; born to nurse, 
 And to sooth, and to solace, to help and to heal 
 The sick world that leans on her. ' * 
 
 ^5 
 
The team turned a bend in the road, Mary soon 
 caught up with it, and the kind people who had 
 accompanied her up the hill, saw her no more. 
 
 Ida ly. Gregory. 
 
 ^Iienon)en9. 
 
 c 
 
 HINK of the Artist, who painted the flowers, 
 Think of the mountains, the vaUeys, the showers. 
 Think how they come whene'er they are bidden, 
 Think of the treasures that therein are hidden. 
 
 Think of the great seas, the lakes and the ocean, 
 The great heart of love, the lasting devotion; 
 Who produceth the actors is back of the stage; 
 Whose own sovereign will controlleth the age. 
 
 Think how great a world, of day and of night. 
 The birds and flowers, the joy and the light, 
 The music, the fragrance, perfection of pleasure, 
 Inexhaustible store of excellent treasure. 
 
 Whence cometh love, and whence our devotion. 
 The symmetrical blending, the beauty of motion, 
 The orbs and the planets, the great solar system? 
 Think where and from whence this wonderful Wisdom. 
 
 'Tis He giveth color and he giveth sound. 
 He painteth the bee that flitteth around, 
 He prepareth the poet, for the singer the song. 
 He is coming again to right every wrong. 
 
 NORRIS C. SpriGG. 
 
 i6 
 
O^r jmie [ad. 
 
 ©THINGS has changed since he went away, 
 And somehow the light seems gone from the day; 
 And natur' seems sad and sort o' blue, 
 And the birds don't sing as they used to do, 
 And the brindle pup do' want to play, 
 And he droops his tail in a hang-dog way ; 
 And he seems to say, *'I'm a mournin' too, 
 Fer suthin' that once I had, 
 Suthin' that made me so happy: 
 'Twas the love of a little lad. 
 And there's no one to play with me. 
 Now that he's gone. 
 
 And I feel sort o' lonesome like an' forlorn." 
 The spotted calf in the meado' lot, 
 Her age was two days, but she hain't f ergot 
 Of how she was gi'n to our little lad; 
 And she misses him too, and she wants him bad. 
 She hain't forgot the mornin' down in the meado' lot 
 When he patted her sides and smoothed her hair, 
 And called her little Spot, 
 
 And she gi'n him a lick with her little red tongue; 
 And "Daddy," says he, "she's a pretty one, 
 And I wouldn't sell her now, would you. 
 If some one was to offer a hundred er two?" 
 The little red colt, she neighs in vain; 
 I reckon she's callin' her master's name; 
 Fer he used to feed her with things she'd like. 
 And she thought a heap o' the little tyke; 
 She'd sort o' rub up agin his clo'se. 
 And invite him to tickle her on the nose, 
 And she'd whinny and neigh till he knew as well, 
 
 ^7 
 
Just what she was a try in' to tell. 
 
 She'd follow him 'round, like a cat would a mouse, 
 
 All over the barn and into the house, 
 
 Just fer a lump of sugar, er a juicy apple er two; 
 
 And how to get what she wanted, 
 
 She was pretty sure to know. 
 
 The old sow pig, she misses him too, 
 
 Just as much as a pig can do; 
 
 Why once she invited him into her pen 
 
 To have a look at her young ones ten, 
 
 And * 'Daddy," sez he, *' 'tis very plain 
 
 She wants me to give these pigs a name." 
 
 So what did he do but name them all; 
 
 And they learnt their names and would come at his call. 
 
 Our old dog Tra}^ over there in the shade, 
 
 Ah, many's the time with the lad he's played 
 
 At fetchin' sticks, and huntin' fer game; 
 
 But suthin' now seems to tell him. 
 
 He won't never do it again. 
 
 Sometimes he will start and jerk up his ears, 
 
 'Tis the little lad's voice he fancies he hears. 
 
 Then he settles down and sort o' sighs. 
 
 And the saddest look comes into his eyes. 
 
 Indoors the yellow canary, 
 
 Who used nearly to split his throat, 
 
 He twitters a little now and then, 
 
 But he never sings a note. 
 
 And sadly there in the corner. 
 
 Sits our old pussy gray; 
 
 She seems to be hankerin' fer some one 
 
 To push up her hair the wrong way. 
 
 And sadly we sit in the twilight, 
 
 The little lad's mother and I, 
 
 A watchin' the clouds o' sunset. 
 
 And the stars come into the sky, 
 
 And we think and talk of our little lad, 
 
 i8 
 
Of the happy care-free way that he had; 
 
 And somehow the tears is bound to fall, 
 
 Fer he's gone from our sight, and beyond recall. 
 
 Othe days, and the nights, they are long and sad, 
 
 A pinin' and wishin' fer our little lad; 
 
 And though we'd give all our years to have him back 
 
 Again on this lonely farm, 
 
 Still God knows best, and somehow we feel , 
 
 That wherever he is, he is safe from harm; 
 
 And all we can do is to watch and wait 
 
 For our time to pass through the heavenly gate; 
 
 And then if the Bible says what is true; 
 
 Why our lad '11 be waiting fer us there too, 
 
 With eyes like the blue mornin' glories. 
 
 And hair like the yellow corn. 
 
 Just as happy and sweet as he used to be. 
 
 In the days that's now passed and gone. 
 
 Bl<IZABETH M. WKATHKRHEAD. 
 
 ^* t^* {^W 
 
 c 
 
 jV^ffler. 
 
 O thee I'll softly cling, 
 When winter's snow. 
 Makes me the proper thing, 
 Where e'er you go. 
 
 And when the task is done — 
 
 All veiled in gloom 
 And doubt of glories won. 
 
 No pleasures bloom. — 
 Drawn closely to thy breast 
 
 I'll warm thy heart, 
 Till sorrows ne'er confessed 
 
 From thee depart. 
 
 AI.ICE POI.K Hll,!,. 
 
 19 
 
^^Hovjsoe^er the world went ill^ 
 Thrushes still sa?ig in it.^'' 
 
 SO they did, and sing they will, 
 Dare they once begin it; 
 But our thrushes seem afraid, 
 Sing too much for praises — 
 Pose like tiny actois made 
 B'er the curtain raises. 
 
 Tremble lest their twittering throats 
 
 Should forego its cunning, 
 And some stray impromptu note 
 
 Make folks think they're funning. 
 Never dare they give it out 
 
 As did thrushes olden, 
 Whether tremulo or shout 
 
 By no power withholden. 
 
 Poet thrushes act the same; 
 
 Theme has nothing in it, 
 Can they only spread their name 
 
 Where some chance may win it? 
 True the daily press is down 
 
 Solid upon thrushes — 
 Burns their pretty feathers brown. 
 
 Every twitter crushes. 
 
 But the ranges rear their crests 
 
 Where their Maker placed them, 
 Columned clouds in splendor rest 
 
 As creation graced them; 
 Rivers chant tho' winter bars 
 
 Many a choir with ice floes; 
 Press the poet's self-love jars 
 
 By its cynic nice blows. 
 
 20 
 
Do these prove the case in point, 
 
 That we have no thrushes? 
 Office chairs may lack a joint, 
 
 So paste pot and brushes. 
 Howsoe'er the world goes ill, 
 
 Thrushes will sing in it, 
 As do lark and whip-poor-will, 
 
 Nightingale and linnet. 
 
 j^* {^W 8^* 
 
 H. L. Wason. 
 
 ^ran)s. 
 
 ^•i/HRUMS, whether of silk or cotton 
 d \ Whether of coarse or fine, 
 
 ^^^ Thrums, to the finished fabric 
 
 Or snapped in the midway line 
 Thrums, always, and who shall help it, 
 
 While the loom of life doth spin. 
 And the Weaver's skillful fingers, 
 Keep filling the new warp in? 
 
 H. Iv. Wason. 
 
 21 
 
^ 1^ prieods. 
 
 ^» t^* %^ 
 
 as the old year now is sinking 
 'Neath the waves of endless time, 
 At the new born era's coming 
 
 Makes each moment seem sublime, 
 Draw the Presence close within us 
 
 Hold this chain of thought, as one, 
 
 Bring the nineteen hundredth, telling 
 
 That the truth Our King has won. 
 
 Send electric currents flowing 
 
 With God's love, His truth and light 
 That will lift us higher; higher: 
 
 To ethereal' d halos, bright, 
 May this union hold forever, 
 
 Kndless harmony increase 
 Till that voice in echo answers, 
 
 All is perfect joy and peace. 
 Where thou art, I am, not seeming. 
 
 Free in purpose, free at will, 
 All's supreme within thy holding — 
 
 All thy hopes, thou canst fulfil 
 Ye are Gods in given numbers. 
 
 Fill out, then the laws sublime 
 See that justice is your motto 
 
 In the coming years of time. 
 
 Hold the swaying restless nations. 
 
 Gather a//, the crumbs that fall, 
 From the Master's bounteous table. 
 
 Feed His lambs; not one, but all: 
 Prisons then: Oh, no! unfettered, 
 
 Free to all; this air we breathe, 
 Freed aye, brothers sisters kindred, all — 
 
 Anthem'd blessings, will receive. 
 
 22 
 
NoWy within without's the kingdom, 
 
 Where the Master reigns supreme, 
 Gives us bread, the spirit's manna. 
 
 Garnered well, with love serene, 
 Holy, blessed, Holy Giver 
 
 Heaven's harmonious chorus sing. 
 Ring, celestial bells a welkin, 
 
 Welcome to our royal King. 
 
 Mrs. R. B. B. G11.1.ESPIB. 
 
 ^W ^* 5^* 
 
 3 
 
 now. 
 
 B RIFTING, driving, glittering snow, 
 Wildly beating the window's glow; 
 Swirling, curling, whirling away — 
 A shadowy wraith of diamond spray. 
 
 A mantle falling through icy air, 
 
 White as the robes the angels wear, 
 Cursing and blessing it comes to earth — 
 
 The woe of the one and the others mirth. 
 
 A tinkling bell and a tolling bell, 
 
 A joyful herald, a mournful knell, 
 A life that is present, a life that is past, 
 
 Are jangled in one in the snow-whirling blast. 
 Drifting, driving, glittering snow, 
 
 A picture of human life you show — 
 Out of the nowhere and back again, 
 
 Glow-clad a moment — and out of ken. 
 
 J. A. V. Prick. 
 23 
 
THe [Jorecognized, 
 
 t^» t^* t^* 
 
 CHE Fort loomed dark and grim against the 
 midnight sky, a sleepless sentinel keeping 
 watch over the vast solitudes of the prairie. 
 Up and down in the moonlight the sentry paced off 
 his beat while the barracks slept. The men were 
 much wearied with the days preparation and excite- 
 ment, for the sun had gone down on a fair land no 
 longer at peace with the world. Suddenly a soldier 
 raised himself on his elbow, cautiously cast his eye 
 over the rows of sleeping men and listened. Only 
 their deep breathing came to his ear. Stealthily 
 he slipped out of his bunk, into his uniform and 
 made his way to the open door. He pulled his soft 
 felt hat down over his eyes, and was about to pass 
 into the open when the sentry stopped him . 
 
 *'I'm sick,'' he faltered in reply to the sentry' 
 question. 
 
 ^Tasson." 
 
 Swiftly he crossed the parade ground and 
 reached the outer guard. He glanced hurriedly from 
 left to right, and in a moment would have passed 
 the line, but the picket saw him and called **Halt!" 
 
 * 'It's you again, is it?" said the picket as he 
 detained the soldier by his cape and closely scanned 
 his face. 
 
 '%et me pass," the soldier pleaded. 
 
 24, 
 
There was no answer. 
 
 * 'Just this once, Mac. ' ' 
 
 The strong voice pleaded and trembled with the 
 earnestness of his request. 
 
 *7ini," said the picket, drawing a deep breath, 
 * 'Didn't I tell you the last time I would never let 
 you pass the lines again?" 
 
 "Yes, Mac; but you know why I want to go — 
 let me go, this is the last night." 
 
 "Yes, this is the last night. Tomorrow we 
 march; for that reason, if no other, I ought not to 
 let you pass." 
 
 "O Mac, let me go, and I promise you I'll be 
 back in an hour — no one will be the wiser, and it 
 means so much — so much to me. ' ' 
 
 Still the picket was silent. The soldier chafed 
 under it and grew desperate. 
 
 "I'm going anyway. You may shoot me or 
 not, just as you like," he said defiantly, taking a 
 step forward. 
 
 The picket looked into the intense eager eyes 
 of the man before him, and struggled with the sym- 
 pathy that bid him defy his duty. 
 
 "Put your hand on my gun," he said at last. 
 * 'Swear that you will be back in an hour. If 3^ou 
 are not back by that time, my life may answer for 
 
 vours." 
 
 Tears of gratitude sprang to the soldier's eyes, 
 as he placed his left hand on the gun-barrel, raised 
 his right to the moon-lit heavens and solemnly re- 
 
 25 
 
peated, '*As God lives, I promise.'* Without a 
 word the picket shouldered his gun and paced off to 
 the far end of his beat. The soldier gazed a mo- 
 ment at his retreating form, now a black, slow mov- 
 ing figure against the sky, then quickly went on 
 his way. 
 
 Now he was on the dusty road that wound 
 dimly over the swell past the poor, mean shanties of 
 the ''unrecognized.'' Here lived in various states 
 of wretchedness the wives of a few of the privates 
 who had maried without the ofl&cer's consent, and 
 upon these social law at the Fort had placed its ban. 
 As Jim Downer passed over the prairie, he could 
 see long lines of washing in front of the shanties 
 in the distance, and a bitter look came into his face. 
 Backward his thoughts travelled, and the scene of 
 their first meeting at the Colonel's ball came into 
 his mind. She was the young school-teacher at the 
 Fort, and a favorite with the ofl&cers' wives, and he 
 likewise a favorite with his oflScers. He remem- 
 bered how sweet and dainty she looked in her white 
 gown of organdie and lace, the neck close up to her 
 pretty throat, her cheeks glowing with youth and 
 health, her eyes glistening like cornflowers after a 
 storm. He remembered how swiftly the hours 
 passed, and how he had returned to his barracks to 
 dream of floating draperies and shining eyes until 
 reveille sounded the next morning. 
 
 The bitter look passed away and his face grew 
 handsome in the moonlight, for this memory was 
 
 26 
 
like a beautiful dream that grew in beauty the 
 longer he dwelt upon it. A rabbit scurried across 
 the way and broke the thread of retrospection. The 
 The bitter look now came back — she was now his 
 wnfe and had joined the ranks of the unrecognized. 
 The dry grass crackled ominously under his swiftly 
 moving feet, and a feeling of apprehension almost 
 akin to alarm, stole into his mind.' He started at 
 his own shadow. Even the chirp of a cricket in 
 the grass made him uneasy, so deep was the silence. 
 At last he passed under the lines of white, flutter- 
 ing things and stood before the door. There was no 
 light in the cabin, only the moon streaming in at 
 the window and through the cracks in the poor 
 walls. 
 
 ''Madge?'' he called softly as he crossed the 
 threshold. 
 
 ' 'O Jim ! ' ' came a woman' s voice from the dark- 
 ness, and in a moment he felt her loving arms about 
 his neck. He sat down before the open window 
 and took her on his lap as he might a little child, 
 and pressed her to his throbbing heart. The moon- 
 light silvered their motionless forms and touched the 
 woman's hair as it flowed unrestrained over the 
 broad breast of her soldier husband. For a long 
 time they sat in the silence, their hearts pulsing 
 with the sorrow that knows not words. At length 
 the man started and looked at his watch — he had 
 but ten minutes to reach the Fort. 
 
 27 
 
*'I must go/' he said huskily, but his wife still 
 clung to his neck. 
 
 '•I must go!" he repeated a little firmer. 
 
 She raised her head from his breast; there were 
 no tears in her eyes, only the love-light burning on 
 unsatisfied. She would not let him see how deeply 
 this parting wounded her. Taking his dark hand- 
 some face between her hands, she drew it down and 
 kissed him again and again. 
 
 "Madge, darling — the babies. I must kiss 
 them before I go.'' 
 
 Silently she led him to the next room where 
 the twins lay sleeping. This too was full of the 
 moonlight that was everywhere. In the corner 
 stood an old cradle, one rocker gone, and over it a 
 white muslin curtain. He pushed it back gently, 
 and looked with longing eyes upon his babies, one 
 at the foot, the other at the head. As he gazed on 
 their innocent loveliness and felt the trembling of 
 his wife at his side, the tempter came. 
 
 ' 'Take Madge and the babies and hide in the 
 mountains," it said. ''One soldier more or less can 
 make but little difference, and this parting is hard — 
 so hard. ' ' 
 
 Fiercely the idea burnt into his brain, and as 
 fiercely he fought against it. The nails of his 
 clenched hands left their marks in the flesh, so ter- 
 rible a foe was this unseen adversary. Suddenly 
 the face of the picket came between him and his 
 struggle, and shorn of his power, the tempter stood 
 
 28 
 
aside. A sad, sweet peace came into his face, and 
 stooping he touched the brow of his babes so lov- 
 ingly, yet so lightly, that they did not waken. Giv- 
 ing ihem a last fond look, he drew the curtain over 
 the cradle and left them. Drawing his wife to the 
 doorway he held her there in a long embrace. He 
 kissed her hair, her hands, her eyes, and then with- 
 out a word, stepped out into a world suddenly grow^n 
 dark and lonely. 
 
 *7im?' 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 *7im?" 
 
 He turned back. 
 
 '^Whatisit, darling?^' 
 
 '*I want your promise.'* 
 
 ''Yes, yes, — anything; what is it, darling?*' 
 
 *7iG^/' pressing his large hands to her lips, ''I 
 know you will be true to me — ' ' 
 
 ''Yes, of course — don't worry about that," he 
 interrupted. 
 
 "I want to ask you to remember — never do as a 
 soldier what you would shrink from doing as a man. 
 Do not hide what is degrading and debasing under 
 the cloak of a soldier — you are a man first — a sol- 
 dier afterwards." 
 
 "I promise," he said as he kissed her again, 
 then stode forward once more into the silent night. 
 The moonlight gleamed on his broad shoulders, 
 and with straining eyes she watched him disappear 
 over the swell. For a moment she stood in the 
 
 29 
 
doorway after he had gone from her sight, over- 
 whelmed with a sudden, awful sence of loss. With 
 the look of one who does not comprehend, her eyes 
 rested on the black, angular buildings of the Fort, 
 swimming before her in a sea of light. Her dumb 
 eyes followed the fluttering of the regimental flag, 
 as it floated far out over the barracks and mingled 
 wdth the mystery of the night. The sight of the 
 emblem seemed to recall her wandering senses, and 
 w^ith a cry like that of a wounded animal, she stag- 
 gered into the room where the twins slept. Throw- 
 ing herself upon the bed, she gave way to the wild 
 clamorous grief w^hich had so long struggled within 
 her. At the sound of her weeping the twins aw^oke 
 and mingled their piteous cries with hers. So in- 
 tense was her own sorrow that pity and compas- 
 sion was dead. Only the brooding instinct of the 
 mother caused her to take the frightened crying 
 babes in her arms. Back and forth she rocked them 
 cradling their heads on her heaving breast. Her 
 tear wet eyes looked straight before her, and seemed 
 to pierce the distance. Her only thought was of the 
 silent figure gliding swiftly over the prairie. She 
 did not even know when the wailing voices were 
 hushed, but absently rocked on, holding the babes 
 fast to her breast. At last, worn out with weeping, 
 her own tired eyes closed and she slept. Her abun- 
 dant hair fell about her like a veil, and now and 
 then baby hands opened and closed restlessly on its 
 
 shining strands. 
 
 30 
 
After awhile the gray light crept in where the 
 moonlight had been, shrouding the empty cradle, 
 making duller and dingier the scanty furniture of 
 the room, lingering on the face of one who now and 
 then moaned in her sleep. Suddenly the sunrise 
 gun rolled its swift, sharp sound over the prairie, 
 and the gray shrouded cradle was rosy with the 
 early dawn. The sound had hardly died away, 
 when a glittering line of bayonets appeared over the 
 swell, and a thousand marching feet moved with 
 quick regularity over the dusty road. Nearer they 
 came, and the sound muffled in the distance grew 
 into the distinct *'one, two,'' as though one man 
 marched instead of a thousand. Now they were 
 passing the cabins, and not a few turned compas- 
 sionate glances toward them. One soldier turned 
 his dark, tear-dimmed eyes toward the farther cabin, 
 and his colonel heard him murmur, ''God pity — God 
 bless." At that moment the w^oman on the bed 
 moved uneasily, and called softly, ''Ji^^. Jim?" 
 The marching feet died away and the prairie again 
 slept in its boundless silence. Suddenly she aw^oke 
 with a start. ''Come back to me, Jim!" she 
 moaned, but only the waking cries of her babies 
 answ^ered her. The emptiness of the future drew 
 in and about her like a pall, for the light of her life 
 had gone with those swift marching feet. 
 
 The months passed, and Madge Downer's weary 
 face often appeared at the post office window. At 
 first letters came regularly, but for a long time she 
 
had gone away empt5^-hande(i, empty-hearted. But 
 her soul was cast in a heroic mould, and all through 
 the months of silence she still believed in him, still 
 trusted him. Her faith was fixed and could not be 
 moved. The time dragged on, and still there was 
 no news. Rumors of battles on sea and land passed 
 from lip to lip, and with pinched anxious face 
 Madge listened and waited. Once she saw the 
 Colonel's wife, her girlhood's friend. They did not 
 speak, but each read in the other's face a common 
 sorrow, a common fear. 
 
 At last there came a day when Madge was no 
 longer able to go to the post office. Her strength 
 was gone, and listlessly she dragged herself about 
 the cabin, caring as best she could for the fretful 
 babes, while her eyes burned with a feverish light 
 that told of waiting, suspense, — disappointment. 
 
 One day the Colonel's wnfe went to the post 
 office, and the postmaster gave into her hand a let- 
 ter, the first she had received for many weeks. 
 With eager fingers she opened it and was about to 
 turn away. 
 
 ''How is Mrs. Downer?" asked the postmaster, 
 calling after her. 
 
 *'I do not know," she answered in a low voice. 
 
 ''There's a letter for her here," he added, and 
 I'm afraid she's sick. She has been here regularly 
 until last week, and the disappointment in her eyes 
 made my heart ache. We that knew her a few 
 years ago can see a terrible change." 
 
 32 
 
**Yes/' she answered absently, while she fin- 
 gered the first sheets of her letter. The postmaster 
 watched her narrowly as she stood before him, her 
 eyes gliding rapidly over the closely written pages. 
 Suddenly the letter dropped from her hand and she 
 rushed toward the window. 
 
 ' 'Let me have it, quick!*' she cried. ''I will 
 take it to her.'* 
 
 The postmaster passed it to her with a pleased, 
 relieved smile, for he sympathized with the lonely 
 refined woman, isolated from friends because of the 
 conditions surrounding her marriage . The Colonel' s 
 wife picked her letter from the floor, and hugged it 
 with the other one to her bosom. She ran rather 
 than walked the distance to the shanties, while the 
 wind blew her dark hair about a thankful, softened 
 face. A prayer of gratitude was on her lips as she 
 hastened on with her message. 
 
 The door of the shanty was open, and she en- 
 tered without knocking. Madge was lying on the 
 bed, unheeding the cries of the twins in the cradle. 
 She raised herself with an effort, and as she recog- 
 nized her caller a look of hurt embarassment over- 
 spread her face, and an unconscious apology for the 
 poverty of her surroundings rose to her lips. The 
 Colonel's wife did not hear, nor wait for welcome, 
 but with a joyous light shining in her face, threw 
 her arms about her and sobbed: 
 
 **Madge, darling, forgive me, if you can." 
 
 33 
 
Madge was astonished, but the Colonel's wife 
 went on, 
 
 "Here's a letter for you — a letter from Jim.*' 
 
 Madge comprehended but one word, and with a 
 glad cry reached for the letter. The Colonel's wife 
 put it into her hand, but the shock was too much — 
 she fell back on the bed unconscious. When she 
 recovered, she was in the Colonel's pretty home at 
 the Fort. She but vaguely understood where she 
 was, but somehow her sorrow seemed lifted. A 
 sound as of rushing water was in her ears, and 
 through a mist she saw dimly the Colonel's wife 
 bending over her. Then she seemed to remember, 
 and reached out her thin hand with an eager gesture. 
 
 **Yes, Madge, but let me tell you — you are too 
 weak to read it now — shall I?" 
 
 She inclined her head and the Colonel's wife 
 continued, 
 
 ^ll'lltell the best first— he saved the Colonel's 
 life and has been promoted for bravery. He is Cap- 
 tain Downer now, and is coming home on a furlough. 
 As soon as you are well enough you are to meet him 
 in Washington, you and the babies. Is that enough?' ' 
 
 Madge could not answer. Pride, loyalty, love 
 struggled with each other and stifled speech. 
 Happy tears over-flowed into her eyes, and she 
 turned and buried her face in the pillow. The 
 Colonel's wife understood, and without a word 
 softly tip- toed out of the room. 
 
 Mary W01.FE Dargin. 
 
 34- 
 
TiD 
 
 re^n). 
 
 CHE ev'ning shadows had thrown their pall 
 O'er the face of nature, serenely calm, 
 While the saddened notes of the whip-poor-will's call, 
 To my dreamy senses brought a heavenly balm. 
 
 The gentle night winds that played o'er my brow, 
 
 Lulled me to rest in their fond embrace, 
 Their rhythmic music seems to come to me now, 
 
 Leaving on mem'ry its gentle trace. 
 
 I stood in a quiet, sequestered glen. 
 
 Alone, in a forest's most lovely spot. 
 The home of the golden-crested wren. 
 
 And the vale of the blue forget-me-not. 
 
 Alone — alone — in that beautiful bower. 
 Where the hand of God in plenty had strewn 
 
 Happy content, in His lavish power, 
 
 Deep in the wild -wood, to man unknown. 
 
 A laughing brooklet, o'er its pebbly bed, 
 Kissed the flowers wild on its mossy banks, 
 
 While the stately pines, by its waters fed. 
 In silence gladly seemed to render thanks. 
 
 Although in the midst of beauty and life, 
 
 A sadness o'erspread this lovely scene, 
 As from ev'ry picture of nature rife, 
 
 Were reflected the words, ''It might have been." 
 
 I saw in the life of the forest deep 
 
 The story of man on his earthly way 
 To the zenith of hope — only to sleep, 
 
 When his star had set with the sun's last ray. 
 
 3S 
 
His joys and griefs, his sorrows and fears, 
 
 Ambition's chariot of tinsel and gold, 
 Had borne to him only its garner of tears, 
 
 Reap'd from childhood, and youth, and man grown old. 
 
 The budding leaf and the lovely flower, 
 
 The stately oak and the river free, 
 Alike will fade whene'er His hour 
 
 Shall doom them to Time's eternity. 
 
 My vision passed when the waning moon 
 
 Had bade farewell to the marshy fen, 
 And had sunk to rest o'er the lowland dune 
 
 'Neath those fateful words, ''IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN." 
 
 Frederick A. Johnson. 
 
 36 
 
/Vi) /Vn)eric9n literature. 
 
 ^ffl[T was pleasant to me to meet in England 
 
 H plants and weeds familiar to me in the gar- 
 
 ■■ dens of Vermont. The weeds that line the 
 
 walk from the gate to the door of the house in 
 
 which I was born, I recognized in Yorkshire. 
 
 The immigrant from the Old World to the 
 New brought with him seeds. Carefnlly or care- 
 lessly he planted them. Old England is in New 
 England. We imported the names of three of our 
 
 chief cities — Boston, New York and . 
 
 I have not space to mention the **Villes'' and 
 ''Hamptons" in the map of a free and independent 
 United States. There is a pleasant town on the 
 Fox river in Wisconsin named Berlin. The war of 
 the Revolution did not separate us from the Old 
 World. 
 
 The north wind from Canada sewed thistle 
 seed all along our northern frontier. Coming West 
 you can trail the immigrant. He fed his horses 
 oats and he fed the ground thistle seed. 
 
 We have been for a long time dependents on 
 an old world we fled from. Once in a while we 
 thought we had invented a good word or phrase. 
 ''Dog-gon-it" is supposed to be of Indiana. Oh, 
 no! I find it in Node' s Ambrosiana^ used by Chris- 
 topher North. 
 
 37 
 
We brought over to the New World Old World 
 books and plays! 
 
 Until lately the scenery of our theaters was 
 from over the ocean. Our novels were English, 
 or translations into English. After many years we 
 raised an American man, nothing foreign about 
 him — Abraham Lincoln. That product gave us 
 courage to undertake to raise other things distinct- 
 ively American. The whole earth may secede, but 
 we are self-supporting in Literature and Art. We 
 have home-made pickles and peppers that will agi- 
 tate the gorged liver of any old major of the English, 
 stationed in India. 
 
 It is a delight to me to know that there is no 
 Old World botany of Colorado flowers. It has 
 finally dawned on the slow American mind that we 
 need not imitate. We can have, and do have, 
 American books and plays. 
 
 We have come to a sense of ourselves. The 
 first stiff backed book of Thomas Carlyle was com- 
 pelled to be published in America. Hawthorne, 
 much oppressed by the Puritan malarious conscience 
 of old Salem, settled himself down to write ' 'The 
 Scarlet Letter. ' ' It is purely New England. As 
 ocean rolls between it and anything foreign. It in 
 as individual, and of the soil, as a cactus. Emerson 
 and Thorean are as individual American as Arizona. 
 There is only one Arizona. There is no Gila mon- 
 ster in all Europe. Hawthorne had eyes like 
 Robert Burns. He saw what oppression, sup- 
 
 3S 
 
pression, and depression and John Calvinism could 
 do for a people to make them unhappy in life, and 
 fearful in death. 
 
 Longfellow and Whittier, at their best, cele- 
 brate our own Atlantic coast. 
 
 The interior has been attended to. James 
 Whitcomb Riley has set Indiana right before the 
 world. The climate may not suit you, but the 
 folks do. Hamlin Garland found Iowa somewhat 
 neglected and he published **Main Traveled Roads. ' ' 
 It is a photograph of the life of an Iowa farmer and 
 of his wife and children. Not of a farmer who has 
 retired and leases his land, but of the other man 
 who does the work and depends on Mr. Leiter and 
 a famine in India for a decent price for his grain. 
 When a famine in India occurs and Mr. Leiter ap- 
 pears in the Chicago wheat pit at the same time, 
 then the Western populist farmer concludes that 
 McKinley and God have consolidated. The ragged 
 radical buys a new sweat-shop suit of well pressed, 
 cheap'and nasty shoddy and works himself in among 
 the best of people. Hamlin Garland makes the grim 
 situation of the farmer appear. I am sorry to say 
 that his first book is his best and his last is his 
 worst. 
 
 Miss Murfree * 'Egbert Craddock" has pene- 
 trated the veil that hid "Smoky Mountain.'' There 
 is plenty of literary material in East Tennessee. 
 A prospector can find all kinds of tragedy and com- 
 edy in East Tennessee. 
 
 39 
 
The Southern country, its races and mixture of 
 races, and the result is made plainer by Cable, by 
 Page, by Edwards. 
 
 Helen Hunt did much for Colorado. Nobody 
 has seen our State with keener eyes. The fascina- 
 tion of the mountains held her seven days in the 
 week — until she could not see. 
 
 We find Bret Harte making his home for the 
 last twenty years in London. But nobody has the 
 gift to paint in words California, its color, its kind, 
 like Bret Harte. He knows the miner, the gambler, 
 the barkeeper. He sees that they also are men. 
 He is as keen a detective of human nature as 
 Dickens, Western American human nature he knows. 
 
 We have not done all we can. 
 
 At present I prefer *'Shore Acres, 'V Puddin'- 
 head Wilson, '' * ^Alabama, '^ ^ ^Shenandoah, '^ ^^Rip 
 Van Winkle,'' the American product, to anything 
 imported. 
 
 Myron W. Reed. 
 
 4.0 
 
c 
 
 To'/Vllie— lo i^eaVei), 
 
 HY gentle heart will beat no more, 
 And from me thou hast parted . 
 By Jaith^ I see thee on that shore 
 Where none are broken-hearted. 
 
 In mem'ry, I recall again 
 
 The winding path to ''Poplar Spring," 
 The flowers we gathered in the glen 
 
 When little birds would with thee sing. 
 
 The wild grape's bloom perfumed the dale, 
 The sun's rays peeped through leaf and shade. 
 
 The rippling waters in the vale 
 
 Would float the fairy-boats we made. 
 
 There oft' I'd go, and in my breast. 
 There comes an aching, chilling pain, 
 
 I see the log, where oft' we'd rest, 
 And 'round it withered flowers remain. 
 
 Dear little one! though now apart. 
 
 Oh! *'May His grace sufficient be," 
 To change my wilful, sinful heart. 
 
 And take my spirit soon to thee. 
 
 Dark grow the shadows — evermore, 
 From thee on earth I'm parted. 
 
 ^y faith ^ I'll meet thee on that shore 
 Where none are broken-hearted. 
 
 Orro Hai,!,. 
 41 
 
/Vi) mitflron Re\/erie. 
 
 ^* {^* ^* 
 
 BRIGHT rays of the warm sun fell upon the 
 golden-brown and red of changing leaves, 
 mirrored against the clear blue of an au- 
 tumn sky. In the park, beds of late flowers and 
 lawns, still green, preserved by constant care, at- 
 tracted many to spend their leisure moments there. 
 
 On one of the seats a young mother sat, 
 watching her four small children playing and 
 scampering about. Beautiful children they were, 
 and full of life, health, and mischief. As the 
 mother watched them, her young face grew sad, as 
 she thought of all the care and worry, they had 
 brought into her young life. 
 
 A woman, scarcely younger than herself, ac- 
 companied by her lover, occupied a seat not far 
 away. Scraps of their gay conversation floated on 
 the autumn breeze to the ears of the young mother, 
 until her heart had an aching longing for the 
 departed days, when gaiety, with no thought of 
 are was hers. Close to her side the baby toddled, 
 and looking wishfully into her face, lisped, 
 * 'Mamma, tum pay wis me.*' Her pleading tones 
 and wistful face, for once went unheeded, as the 
 mother, still occupied with dreams of the past, re- 
 plied, **Run away dear, and play with brother. 
 Don't bother mamma; mamma's tired." The rum- 
 
 4-2 
 
ble of carriage wheels sounded on the pavement 
 just outside the park. The mother looked up, 
 startled, to see a funeral procession passing by. 
 The hearse of spotless white, drawn by two white 
 horses, contained a little white casket, covered with 
 flowers. In the mourners' carriage, she saw the 
 father's face, with a look of awful grief stamped 
 upon it. Beside him, sat a little boy and girl, down 
 whose cheeks tears were streaming in childish sor- 
 row. With a trembling heart, she next saw the 
 pitiful face of the mother, too grief stricken for 
 tears. 
 
 The sun sinking from the sight behind the 
 golden-brown of the trees, and tinging the rustling 
 dead leaves with a brighter hue, fell upon the young 
 mother, hurrying homeward. Her little ones were 
 gathered close about her, and a thankful prayer 
 was in her heart for God's kindness in giving, and 
 leaving with her, her darlings. 
 
 Cora Townsknd McNkrnky. 
 
 4-3 
 
I^dona. 
 
 s 
 
 UCH a little wisp of sunlight 
 
 Once dropped in, to flood our home; 
 Prancing, 
 Dancing, 
 Tempting us, no more to roam. 
 
 Sporting with things that surround her; 
 Laughter-loving, from care free, 
 
 Rambling, 
 
 Gamboling, 
 Now here, now there, soul full of glee. 
 
 What a bliss to know that ever, 
 She is ours, that nothing — never — 
 
 Alarming, 
 Harming, 
 Can tear her from the hearts, that love her. 
 
 Our little chick, is just now fledging. 
 Will danger fast, and thick, come hedging? 
 
 Surrounding? 
 
 Abounding? 
 What's to guard her, from all harm? 
 
 The sunshine of that baby face. 
 Adorns the girl, enticing grace, 
 
 Enhances, 
 
 Entrances, 
 All charms, which make her, still, our praise. 
 
 Papa's own dear name she bears, 
 
 lyike clover sweet, whose bloom she wears. 
 
 She's rifting. 
 
 Drifting, 
 Swiftly toward young maidenhood. 
 
 U 
 
Her morning breaks, with ruddy glow; 
 As fresh perfume of violets blow, 
 
 Gliding, 
 
 Guiding, 
 Her hither, thither, along life's rounds. 
 
 Our boding fears are quick in coming, 
 A shadow passes, in the gloaming, 
 It whispers tales of sweet delight. 
 Pictures our darling, visions bright; 
 
 The music swells. 
 
 The festive bells 
 Ring out. 
 
 We're all alone! 
 Our little maid has flown from home. 
 
 Ei.i*A Randai,!, King. 
 
 45 
 
^e [Jnn)3Skir)g of a^diot. 
 
 ^» t^* t^C 
 
 {^^.iv 
 
 ITH the execution of Maxi- 
 milian, in the year 1867, and 
 the restoration to power of the 
 lyiberal Party, came the dawn 
 of prosperity to Old Mexico. 
 Capitalists, professionals, tour- 
 ists, philanthropists, and ad- 
 venturers, soon found their 
 way to the far-famed land 
 where the great Montezuma 
 had cast gold into huge wheels 
 to be given as souvenirs to allay the malice of his 
 enemies. 
 
 Among those who came to the City of Mexico 
 were people of every religious creed, and of no creed; 
 but their common antipathy for the church of the 
 country led them to establish a non-sectarian church, 
 which became known as the Undenominational 
 Church of the Saints. 
 
 During the period of its infancy and poverty, 
 the society held religious services in a hired room 
 north of the Alameda; but, finally outgrowing the 
 limits of this place, the west wing of the beautiful 
 church of San Francisco was fitted up for the use of 
 the Saints. 
 
 46 
 
The dull stone floors, worn smooth by the feet 
 and knees of priest and monk, prince and pauper, 
 gave way to beautiful mosaics in many colored mar- 
 bles. Crucifixes, catafalques, saints, virgins, and 
 Sangre de Christos, all, were banished. The walls 
 and ceilings took on a soft gray tone, and were en- 
 riched by graceful frescoes. The confessionals were 
 converted into ladders by which the poor might 
 mount to the gallery, while comfortable pews below 
 invited those who could pay the rent. 
 
 Every appointment of the church was grand, 
 and there were added unto the congregation, daily, 
 such as desired to identify themselves with the most 
 distinguished and influential English-speaking people 
 of the city. 
 
 The classes in Sunday-school were taught by 
 young men, young girls, old girls, and whosoever 
 would consent to teach, without respect to previous 
 history, or servitude in vocations quite antagonistic 
 to the Golden Rule. 
 
 When it was proposed to exchange their hum- 
 ble quarters for the expensive and ostentatious 
 Church of San Francisco, a few conservative men 
 strongly opposed it. Prominent among these was 
 Pleasant Barclay, a wealthy Quaker, who, at 
 thought of leaving the sacred place that had so long 
 sheltered their exiled hearts, was plunged into the 
 depths of foreboding. He spoke touchingly of the 
 benefits of simplicity, and the dangers of vanity, and 
 at the conclusion of his appeal, he fell upon his 
 
 ^7 
 
knees, and prayed as if he were speaking face to 
 face with God. He implored that the lyord would 
 continue to hold the dear people in the hollow of 
 his hand, and keep their hearts steady and true. 
 In the midst of his petition he burst into tears, but, 
 recovering his voice, he continued: ** Heavenly 
 Father, save us from pride; save us from worldli- 
 ness; from envy, from injustice, from selfishness 
 and hardness, save us! God of the pure in heart, 
 save us from hypocrisy!'' 
 
 The people were deeply affected, for Pleasant 
 Barclay was a very influential and wealthy man. 
 
 Notwithstanding their fears, this devout Quaker 
 and his wife Ruth, went with the Saints to the new 
 place of worship; their daughter Patience, who was 
 as the apple of their eye, pined for the society of 
 the young people of the Undenominational Church 
 of the Saints. 
 
 Having been a stranger to the hollow inconsis- 
 tencies of society until her character was formed, 
 and having inherited the sterling qualities of sev- 
 eral generations of Barclays and Foxes, who had 
 battled for right principles, and had considered man's 
 duty to man of prior importance to man's duty to 
 God, Patience Barclay had developed noble mental 
 and moral powers, of which, however, she was un- 
 conscious; neither did she realize that she was 
 as beautiful as the fair creature that smiled at the 
 reflection of her own lovliness in the limped streams 
 of Eden. 
 
 ^8 
 
In all her young life, this Quaker maiden had 
 never attended any religious service, save that of the 
 Friends in her native New Jersey village; conse- 
 quently her mind was unprejudiced, and her faith 
 in professing Christians was strong and beautiful. 
 She was charmed with the theoretical teachings of 
 the Undenominational Church of the Saints. Often 
 as she sat in her pew, her face would light ap with 
 a peculiar sweetness, as memory pictured the little 
 church of her childhood. How glad were the songs 
 of the birds in the trees! What marvelous pictures 
 of azure sky, fleecy cloud, and flowering tree were 
 framed by window case and open door! What 
 heavenly thoughts had entered her young heart, 
 while waiting for the moving spirit ! 
 
 As the soul of Patience Barclay expanded, and 
 reached out for some holy mission to fill, the desires 
 of certain young men enlarged and reached out to- 
 ward her. Foremost among these was the superin- 
 tendent of the Sunda^^-school, Julius Turner, who 
 had deftly managed his heart-strings so as to lead in 
 the path of wealth and beauty. Although no longer 
 young, the dexterity — acquired by practice — with 
 which he conducted the affairs of the heart, gave 
 him great advantage over the inexperienced youths, 
 who blushed at the maiden's every glance or smile. 
 
 Julius Turner had steadily risen in the oflBces 
 of the church, until he had become a model for the 
 young men, a favorite with the young women, an 
 Inspiration to the little children, and a saint in the 
 
 49 
 
estimation of all. How fitting that such a spiritual 
 
 giant should have for a helpmate 
 Patience Barclay, the charming 
 heiress! And so thought Julius 
 himself. 
 
 After months of judicious 
 courting, the heart of Julius was 
 wild with joy to see the color in 
 the maiden's cheeks deepen and 
 spread under his ardent gaze, 
 and to see the white lids droop 
 over the lovely eyes, as if to hide 
 a secret that lurked in their 
 dreamy depths. A new passion had crept into the 
 gentle heart of Patience, and it kept singing, 
 ** Julius, Julius!^' until the radiant beauty of her 
 face became almost angelic, under the spell of love. 
 How her heart outran her footsteps as she wended 
 her way along the norrow streets on Sabbath morn- 
 ings, — so eager she was to see Julius at the church 
 door ! 
 
 Seeing by the maiden's sweet ways that he had 
 found favor in her sight, how natural it was for 
 Julius to confide to her his love as they plucked the 
 wild flowers in her father's huerta! How he ad- 
 mired Pleasant Barclay's palatial home, set in the 
 midst of an extensive wooded park on a hillside in 
 Tacubaya! How gay were the spreading fig trees, 
 the laden pomegranates, the orange groves, the 
 clumps of rhododendrums! How beautiful were 
 
 50 
 
the fountains, vines, and shady paths on every hand; 
 and the rustic bridge, with its festoons of running 
 roses and traiUng sprays of clematis that kissed the 
 cool lips of the chattering rill beneath ! How thrice 
 blessed, thought Julius, was the lofty, spiked stone 
 wall that shut out the world in general, and other 
 lovers in particular, and shut in himself, amid all 
 this quiet beauty, — even amid these unmistakable 
 indications of wealth! 
 
 Seeing their daughter's growing attachment 
 for Julius Turner, Pleasant and Ruth Barcay felt 
 moved to investigate the young man's antecedents, 
 even his character, private and public. They found 
 that he was a tyrant to those under him, a syco- 
 phant to those above, a grinder of the poor, a self- 
 seeking, sly man, one who would strike in the dark, 
 and, to promote his own worldly interests, would 
 seek preferment even in the house of God ! 
 
 The}'- believed that whatsoever a man soweth, 
 that shall he also reap; and they were not willing 
 that Patience, nay. even her little children, should 
 be doomed to assist a low-principled man in reaping 
 the merciless whirlwind. 
 
 One day during a very serious conversation 
 regarding the future welfare of their daughter, 
 Pleasant said, 
 
 ''Ruth, I would willingly see all our wealth 
 removed and swept into the sea, rather than have 
 the life of^our child despoiled of its peace and beauty; 
 but we must proceed wisely, lest we blight the 
 
 5^ 
 
flower in removing the canker. When our high- 
 principled daughter sees for herself that the man 
 is ignoble, she will give him up of her own accord." 
 
 **I agree with thee, Pleasant, and I would sug- 
 gest a plan for unmasking Julius Turner in the 
 presence of Patience. ' ' 
 
 Further conversation on the subject was inter- 
 rupted, for, over the rustic bridge, and up the daisy- 
 strewn path came Patience with sprightly step and 
 eager eye. Joining her parents on the veranda, 
 she stooped and put her velvet cheek to her father ^s 
 lips, and gently stroked his hair, murmuring, ''Dear 
 father!" 
 
 * 'Thou spotless one! my daughter! God shel- 
 ter thee from every snare that lieth in wait!" 
 
 Kneeling, and hiding her face in the soft folds 
 of her mother's gray dress, the maiden said, 
 
 ''Mother, Julius Turner is coming to speak to 
 thee and father. ' ' 
 
 The Book of Psalms slipped to the polished 
 marble floor, and Ruth gently caressed the curls that 
 lay like twists of sunshine on her lap. 
 
 "Daughter, doth Julius Turner love thee for 
 thine own true self ?" 
 
 "O mother, never was maiden loved as I!" 
 
 "Patience, heart of my heart! wouldst thou 
 wish to marry this man if thou wert convinced that 
 he is unprincipled?" 
 
 "Never! But, mother, it is his nobleness of 
 
 5^ 
 
character and devotion to religion that have won 
 tny heart 1" 
 
 >< >< 
 
 It was Easter Sunday. The Saints, with 
 bowed heads, were in their pews. The Reverend 
 Mr. Puff sat upon the richly upholstered pulpit sofa. 
 He had just concluded an eloquent discourse on 
 Brotherly Love, from the text, ' 'If a man love not 
 his brother, whom he hath seen, how can he love God, 
 whom he hath not seenV 
 
 The subdued light, sifting through the stained 
 glass windows and the sweet fragrance of Easter 
 flowers added charm to the solemnity of the scene; 
 while the communion table, with brightest silver and 
 snowiest linen, added awe. 
 
 The choir in the loft above the pulpit, sat rev- 
 erently silent. But the great organ trembled, and 
 wept, and exulted in rhythmic whispers, like the 
 melody of a dream. Save the muffled sob of the 
 music and the occasional creaking of the ladders, or 
 the rustle of a silk gown, there was not a sound to 
 break the holy stillness. 
 
 Suddenly the eloquent silence was threatened 
 by the unwelcome presence of a hump-backed, meanly 
 dressed old man, who advanced to the middle of the 
 church and stood, looking wistfully at an empty 
 seat. 
 
 Not recognizing in the intruder, a brother whom 
 he had seen, and fearing that his presence might be a 
 
 53 
 
menace to the calm, spiritual frame of mind, so con- 
 ducive to the worthy partaking of the Lord's sacra- 
 ment, the head usher, Julius Turner, with velvet 
 step approached, and, jerking his thumb over his 
 shoulder in the direction of the gallery, said, 
 
 '*01d fellow, there is no room here for such as 
 you; mount the ladder!'* 
 
 At this moment Patience Barclay raised her 
 head, for her quick ear had caught the cruel words. 
 Her pitying eye rested upon the bent form, and in a 
 moment she was at the old man's side, and with 
 gentle persuasion led him to her own pew. 
 
 As for the head usher, he was filled with con- 
 sternation and apprehension, lest this unguarded 
 act of his should affect the future ownership of 
 Pleasant Barclay's vast estates. At the close of the 
 service he walked humbly by the side of Patience, 
 down the long marble pavement, between the beds 
 of daisies and forget-me-nots; but the maiden, with 
 face averted, preserved an ominous silence. As her 
 lover waited, hoping to get one look into his sweet 
 heart's eyes, the hump-backed old man brushed by 
 him and entered the carriage, unbidden. 
 
 Even the gentle Patience seemed annoyed by 
 the intrusion, but Ruth showed no sign of surprise 
 or displeasure. 
 
 As the head usher was about to drag the un- 
 welcome guest from his seat, the old man, in a 
 twinkling, removed his beard, goggles, hat, and 
 wig. 
 
 54- 
 
^^My father P'' cried Patience. 
 
 Julius turned to speak, — his tongue had lost 
 its cunning. 
 
 With eyes of lightning and voice of thunder, 
 Pleasant Barclay exclaimed: 
 
 ^^ Young man^ the U7imasking is mutual! GoP' 
 
 Marguerite Zearing. 
 
 5-5- 
 
a 
 
 [oVel l/{i]9t Js It? 
 
 LITTLE boy with bright brown eyes, 
 And hair of the raven's hue, 
 
 Sported in glee with a fair, sweet child, 
 With her eyes of azure blue. 
 
 A vision of beauty, to him she seemed. 
 
 Though she teased him sorely, too; 
 But still he followed, wherever she led, 
 
 So brave, devoted, and true. 
 
 "Stop, girl!" he cried, **in your merry glee, 
 
 Till I whisper a word in your ear, 
 Why do you 'witch and lead me thus. 
 
 Tell me what Love is, my dear. ' ' 
 
 **What is the charm you cast about me, — 
 
 You little frolicsome elf! — 
 That I'm ever seeking to frolic with you. 
 
 And love you, in spite of myself? 
 
 **Do stop your laughter and fun, Blise! 
 
 You sing and dance, as a linnet! 
 Come sit by my side, while I talk of our love, 
 
 And ask you the secret that's in it." 
 
 She came to him with her bright, dancing eyes 
 Flashing back to him beauty and joy, 
 
 And he told her all that was in his heart, 
 That he was her "true lover" boy. 
 
 "Elise! you're as fleet as a bird on the wing, 
 
 So happy, so wild, and gay. 
 You're sweet as a rose, or a violet, blue. 
 
 That blossoms along our way. 
 
 56 
 
*'You seem as the sunshine, glad and bright, 
 
 Which conies to us after the rain, 
 Sorrow can't stay where you are, my dear. 
 
 For you'll brighten and cheer all again." 
 
 **And is it Love that makes us so gay?" 
 
 Said the little one, happy and free; 
 **Then let's dance and sport all the long summer day, 
 
 I'm so happy that you love me!" 
 
 A handsome youth, with a thoughtful brow, 
 
 Held a maiden, sweet by the hand, 
 As they stood where the brook and the river meet, 
 
 In the pure, happy young-lover land. 
 
 "What is Love?" asked he, with a piercing gaze. 
 
 As he looked in her soft, blue eye; 
 **Is it beauty, or grace, or a charm of soul? 
 
 Is it almost a pain or a sigh?" 
 
 **I've studied it long, but it ever eludes 
 My most earnest and hopeful thought; 
 
 I cannot tell what its texture is, 
 E'en when most with happiness fraught. 
 
 "Its warp must be made of the golden threads 
 
 Of joy and of pleasure, I know, 
 Yet into its woof is woven some stuff, 
 
 Which thrills me and pains me so. 
 
 * 'There's joy and happiness every hour, 
 
 As long as with me you can stay. 
 But pain and anguish creep into my heart, 
 
 Lest the angels will steal you away." 
 
 *'I cannot define it, I'm sure," she said, 
 
 **But such thoughts do not trouble my brain, 
 
 I only know 'tis so sweet to be loved, 
 So tell it to me again." 
 
 57 
 
So talked these babes, and this 3'outhful pair, 
 
 Of this wonderful problem of ours, 
 Of that little word, so often heard, 
 
 Morning, noon, and in moonlit bowers. 
 
 But the answer comes not; they ask in vain, 
 
 Forever it from them hides. 
 There's more to be learned in the passing of years, 
 
 With their rolling and restless tides. 
 
 The husband and wife, in the bright early dawn 
 
 Of pure wedded love so true. 
 Thought they knew it all, but they often found 
 
 It a vision which quickly flew. 
 
 Some say that I^ove is but for a day, 
 
 For a week, or a month, or a year. 
 Ah! the love that's a real love, will stay 
 
 With its owners, never fear! 
 
 True Love is so patient, forgetful of self, 
 Suffers long, and will always be kind, 
 
 'Tis never found in the lower plane. 
 But the God ward part of the mind. 
 
 'Tis not on the sunrise slopes of life's hill, 
 That we learn of its greatest behests, 
 
 Nor even on top, where the broadest glow 
 Of the golden noon sunshine rests. 
 
 But the sundown steeps of the hill of life 
 Are the spots which give us the test. 
 
 When heads are silvering at the top. 
 Then, true love is at its best. 
 
 The sorrows of life, as the blasts of the wind, 
 
 Drive its roots more deeply still. 
 As the massive ones of the giant oak. 
 
 On the storm-beat sides of the hill. 
 
 58 
 
No fear, then, nor doubts are woven in 
 
 This magical web of love, 
 For trust, and confidence supreme, 
 
 Brood o'er, as the wings of a dove. 
 
 As the days pass along, the golden warp, 
 
 With its woof, is both strengthened and tried, 
 
 From the bright young, sunny and happy hours. 
 When first called * 'husband and bride." 
 
 Even such, cannot answer my query bold, 
 
 For its mystery, mystery still, 
 And will be, though they live with each other on 
 
 To the very foot of the hill. 
 
 For earth has no language wc know of now. 
 
 To describe this beautiful love. 
 Which tested, proven, then stronger has grown, 
 
 'Till it seems like the Father's above. 
 
 **So, darling! fold me close to your heart. 
 And call me your grey -haired bride, 
 
 And I'll try to answer you ''What Love is" 
 When we've crossed to the "other side." 
 
 Amanda Kerr Lewis. 
 
 59 
 
Wild powers of%(iu)U)tr. 
 
 m 
 
 t^ ^* ^* 
 
 IlyD flowers of summer — how gay thou art! 
 Much brighter than early flowers of spring 
 Courage thou givest the fainting heart, 
 
 When thou thy bright blossoms about us fling, 
 
 The drought to thee, hath no alarms! 
 
 Thou dreadest not the summer's sun! 
 Throughout them all, thou spread 'st thy charms. 
 
 Unfolding thy petals, one by one. 
 
 The dusty highway, the valley green. 
 The prairies, broad and boundless waste, 
 
 The mountain top and the meadow's sheen. 
 Are by thy varied blossoms graced. 
 
 The golden rod, and the lily wild, 
 
 The daisy white, and with golden hue, 
 
 The purple astor, and the columbine, 
 
 All bloom beneath the heavens' own blue. 
 
 On railroad car, or on steamer's deck, 
 
 In tracing road, or winding bend. 
 Thy gorgeous blossoms nodding beck. 
 
 And to the landscape, beauties lend. 
 
 Oh! who can see these flowers wild. 
 
 In torrid heat of summer time. 
 But wishes once more to be a child 
 
 And wander o'er the meadow, the mountain climb 
 
 To pluck the flowers of gorgeous hue, 
 
 And dream of when at eventide. 
 We brought our treasures, heavy with dew. 
 
 To our gentle and loving mother's side. 
 
 60 
 
And heard her voice so soft and mild, 
 
 As in her hands the blossoms placed, 
 With loving thanks to her dear child, 
 
 For centre table brightly graced. 
 
 But youthful days come back no more — 
 We've reached the golden summer time, 
 
 And soon our autumn's harvest store, 
 
 Shall be garnered up for the "Happy Clime." 
 
 JUI.IA E. Wansky. 
 
 6i 
 
Tffe locarnstioi). 
 
 OT 
 
 A Story of the i6th Century, 
 
 HBRK gentle winding Arno westward turns to seek 
 the sea, 
 Florence sits the acknowledge queen of all fair 
 Italy 
 
 Renowned in works of art, a genius shrine, to which all 
 give 
 
 Homage; though dead the authors, they in their work sim- 
 niortal live. 
 
 Here a noted sculptor dwelt, though his name's forgotten 
 now, 
 
 His works remain, these more important, than by whom or 
 how, 
 
 They into being came, great deeds, result of thought live on; 
 
 Our human hands are only instruments, these, soon are 
 gone. 
 
 The great statue is but the reflex from the sculptor's soul. 
 
 Mind, thought, God, all one, the source whence the univer- 
 sal whole. 
 
 Frugal, he had acquired an ample store of goods and lands, 
 
 Upright, industrious, of fertile brain and skillful hands, 
 
 And blessed with wife and children, home and friends, and 
 a good name, 
 
 It seemed he should not want for more; but lo! a tempter 
 came, 
 
 And whispered, ^^Fame, win Fame! Times are ripe, the 
 ages dark are past, 
 
 The Renaissance begun, all powers in one direction cast. 
 
 And fashion what shall be the world's most famous master- 
 piece!" 
 
 As in fair Eden, man heard and yielded, so now, Release 
 
 62 
 
He straightway took from all perplexing cares and said, 
 
 ''I will!'' 
 When reinforced by application and inherent skill, 
 There's much in those little words, constant effort well 
 
 applied. 
 Is genius by another name, and this ne'er can be denied. 
 Fame, success, are not attained by a single act or bound, 
 He that succeeds must climb the toilsome ladder round by 
 
 round; 
 Each step that's ta'en is work; there is no other way to rise; 
 By sculptor's chisel, painter's brush, or author's pen, the 
 
 prize 
 Is always at the very top, if lofty be your aim; 
 He that aims not lofty, is not worthy of lasting fame. 
 A massive block of marble before him lay, shapeless then, 
 From which he must evolve a matchless form admired of 
 
 men; 
 Chip, click! the work began at break of day at set of sun, 
 He only ceased, more eager then, than when the day begun. 
 Chip, click, chip, click, day after day, time as it sped away 
 He noted not, to eat and sleep he little cared, to pray 
 He took not time, in labor so absorbed; full well he knew 
 That with each click and blow, the statue still more shapely 
 
 grew. 
 Meantime, while he chipped, and carved, and shaped, his 
 
 wife neglected. 
 Sadly pined, sickened, died; his children left unprotected, 
 Drifted away and were lost in the maelstrom whirl of life; 
 Quondam friends looked at him askance, and said, "He's 
 
 mad!" But rife 
 Was the story of his marvelous work of mind and skill. 
 As they whispered, praised, and slandered, as idlers ever 
 
 will. 
 At last after days, weeks, months lengthened into years; 
 
 complete 
 The statue was from classic head to sole of shapely feet; 
 
 63 
 
'Twas, as it stood there under the moon's soft light and sil- 
 very gleam, 
 Beautiful as a maiden's vision, or an angel's dream. 
 In each curve so graceful, so true and perfect in each line, 
 Wer't not made by human hands, one might think it were 
 
 divine; 
 An artist passing, surprised, exclaimed, with uncovered 
 
 head, 
 **Ye Gods! is this a living creature?" listening then, he 
 
 said: 
 *'Aye, thou hast eyes, mouth, ears, yet seeeth, speaketh, 
 
 heareth not, 
 **Pray what has he who bro't thee here and fashioned thee, 
 
 forgot ? 
 Hadst thou it, thou couldst hear, and speak, and see, and 
 
 breathe, and live. 
 **Hadstheto thee that priceless boon, that peerless thing 
 
 to give, 
 Then men would worship thee, obey thy every beck and 
 
 nod, 
 Ah! that peerless, priceless thing is the living breath of 
 
 God." 
 At the feet of the statue the exhausted sculptor lay, 
 On the completion of his work his strength had fled away ; 
 He slept, he dreamed of home on Arnos' banks, beneath the 
 
 trees. 
 Of a true, loving, faithful, trusting wife, while at his knees 
 His children played; then he heard a voice-demon, wind or 
 
 ghost: 
 *'You have won and you have lost; is the bauble worth the 
 
 cost?" 
 Awakened, troubled by the dream, in which as in a glass, 
 He saw himself moaning, * 'Accursed! am I, alas! alas!" 
 A flood of light outlined a form, "His masterpiece," he 
 
 said, 
 * 'Child of my brain, my only child, all others having fled; 
 
 64. 
 
And fashioned by my hands thro' long and weary hours, in 
 
 you 
 Are centered all my hopes, and joys, and happiness, for 
 
 you 
 I sacrificed wife, children, home friends, yet I'd give still 
 
 more; 
 In me it is accursed, in you they all would it adore; 
 Couldst thou accept, to thee I'd give my life, that thou 
 
 might live. 
 In all thy loveliness, taste all that health and beauty give. 
 When life is in its spring; for could a heart within thee 
 
 throb 
 And force through all thy form the living tide of life, and 
 
 rob 
 Cold marble of its lifelessness; or could a radiant smile 
 And crimson blush overcome thy face and nature reconcile; 
 Couldst thou hear and speak, see and feel, and be a sentient 
 
 thing, 
 And into beauteous life, with all its thrilling pleasures, 
 
 spring. 
 Then I'd give thee mine." He ceased; the soul then bid 
 
 his clay farewell. 
 And straightway sought a fairer tenement in which to dwell. 
 Then suddenly, by some occult power, all unknown to man, 
 Through all the classic marble form a living tremor ran, 
 A crimson flood through all the veinous rivers rush, a heart 
 Within began to throb, coldness gave way to warmth, apart 
 The e^'Clids ope'd, lips moved as though to speak, then 
 
 hands and feet. 
 To fulfill life's harmony. Incarnation was complete. 
 Thus what had been a shapeless block of stone, by man's 
 
 control. 
 In wondrous beauty grew, through God became a living 
 
 soul. 
 This story's all a myth, a dream, and roughly drawn the 
 
 scene, 
 
 65 
 
Yet may not we from it some thoughtful, useful lessons 
 
 glean ? 
 Fleeting fame lies at the end of a long and toilsome way, 
 To attain, ponder well the cost, then query, will it pay ? 
 Riches, honor, power and name, hard to win, not hard to 
 
 lose, 
 Weigh them all 'gainst home, righteousness and love, then 
 
 wisely choose. 
 
 • Gkorgk W. Cox. 
 
 66 
 
^tepfien ]^ HoOgl^s. 
 
 ^ 
 
 aFTER any great conflict it is the custom for 
 those who have taken no part in it to criti- 
 cise the manner in which affairs have been 
 conducted. They do not stop with the minor de- 
 tails but theorize and point out how the plan of a 
 whole campaign should have been executed. Men 
 who served as leaders were lacking in judgment, or 
 were not honest in their convictions. This is the 
 frame of mind in which the American people are 
 today. They charge the leaders in the late war with 
 being inhuman, and neglectful of the lives and 
 comfort of the men under them. They fail to ap- 
 preciate that these are not incidents which belong 
 alone to our war with Spain. 
 
 From history we learn that such incidents be- 
 long to all our wars. We need only to recall the 
 intense suffering at Valley Forge, the blood-stained 
 tracks on the snow, when the facts come to our 
 minds that bales and bales of shoes were awaiting 
 transportation to the army. No one now thinks of 
 charging neglect or inhumanity to our patriotic 
 forefathers. Time has given us the proper perspec- 
 tive by which to judge men and events. A genera- 
 tion at least must elapse before we are qualified to 
 pass an unbiased judgment. Thus the events of 
 today will be judged more impartially by the next 
 generation. We are only now reaching the point 
 
 67 
 
where we have the proper perspective to pass upon 
 the events of the Civil War. It is with justice that 
 the South has objected to the histories of the 
 United States written for the public schools. 
 
 When the originator of the doctrine of Squat- 
 ter Sovereignty returned to his home in Illinois, 
 after his great battle in Congress, no man, perhaps, 
 was more thoroughly hated than he. Even today, 
 some of our historians have failed to correct the 
 impression that Stephen A. Douglas was a dema- 
 gogue and was seeking his own personal advance- 
 ment. These writers were perhaps too near the 
 time of which they wrote to get the proper view of 
 Douglas. The shadows and lights of his character 
 were not grasped and put in his picture. Notice a 
 few of the side lights in the character of this re- 
 markable man. He believed in a higher education, 
 and in a sense may be called the founder of the 
 Chicago University. Not a rich man, yet he desired 
 to establish a college in Chicago. He owned part 
 of the land on the west side of Cottage Grove Ave. , 
 between Thirty-third and Thirty-fifth streets. He 
 offered some of this land to the Presbyterian church, 
 if they would erect a building, and establish a 
 university. The suggestion not meeting with favor, 
 he made the same proposal to the Baptists, who ac- 
 cepted and undertook the task. The task finally 
 became so great that it was necessary to accept the 
 advice of J. D. Rockefellow, to sell the old site, and 
 go out farther, and st art anew. 
 
 68 
 
The former site of the Chicago University is 
 doubly historical, because it was on part of the same 
 land that Camp Douglas was situated during the 
 rebellion. After the capture of Island No. 10, the 
 government sent ten thousand prisoners to Chicago. 
 Temporary barracks were constructed and called 
 Camp Douglas. At first, this prison had no floor, 
 and a great many prisoners escaped by tunneling 
 out. 
 
 Of the first ten thousand sent here about half 
 of them died during the winter. The quarters 
 were very poor and the prisoners, accustomed to the 
 weather of the South, could not endure the rigor- 
 ous climate, and many died, mostly from pneumonia. 
 They were buried in trenches near the camp. When 
 spring opened, and the prisoners were still kept 
 here, and in fact more were sent, the authorities 
 then set about the removal of the bodies, and the 
 rearrangement of sanitary affairs. Over six thous- 
 and bodies were exhumed and buried in Wood 
 Lawn. Over thirty thousand were confined at 
 different times in this prison. 
 
 Not far from here, on Thirty- first street and 
 lake front, stands the Douglas Monument. It is 
 beautifully located. The figure of Douglas faces 
 the East and commands a view of the beautiful ex- 
 panse of waters. It is turned toward the East, 
 possibly, because it was in the halls of Congress 
 that he won great fame and honor. It is frequently 
 said that the people around a man's home are the 
 
 69 
 
last to appreciate his worth, and do him honor. 
 This was certainly true of Douglas. 
 
 Upon his return from Congress, after his great 
 fight for Squatter Sovereignty, the people were so 
 exasperated over the stand he had taken, that when 
 he appeared in Chicago to speak they refused to 
 hear him. He was hissed and hooted, so that it 
 was impossible for him to be heard. Later on he 
 was invited to speak before the State Legislature at 
 Springfield, and here, for the first time, he was ac- 
 corded a chance to be heard, and explain his posi- 
 tion. Chicago was justly ashamed of the treatment 
 she had given him, and wished to atone somewhat 
 by again inviting him to speak in the city. He was 
 not well, and should not have accepted the invita- 
 tion, but he felt that he was entirely misunderstood 
 in Chicago, and desired to set himself right before 
 his people. He spoke, and a few days after he was 
 taken worse and died. 
 
 The base of the monument has four figures, 
 one on each corner. The one on the Northeast rep- 
 resents Illinois. The great State now appreciates 
 the true worth of this noble character, one of the 
 greatest of her sons. The figure South of that is 
 Justice. Surely this man stood for justice. We 
 may not agree with him in regard to the docrine of 
 Squatter Sovereignty, yet many men of the time 
 did, and thought he had struck the right solution 
 for the great question before the people. The aboli- 
 tionist, the slave-holder, and the slave were all to be 
 
 70 
 
treated with fairness. The figure West of Justice 
 is History, while that on the remaining corner rep- 
 resents Eloquence. Douglas surely made History. 
 
 His achievements will ever be a part of the 
 history of this country, and his eloquence the envy 
 of every statesman. Illinois, Justice, History and 
 Eloquence — very fitting figures to adorn the monu- 
 ment of a great son of Illinois. 
 
 The inscription is a beautiful thought to be 
 handed down to posterity. ''Tell my children to 
 obey the laws, and uphold the constitution." What 
 grander sentiment could be expressed by a loyal son 
 of America! He expressed the same idea in his 
 speech at Raleigh during the campaign. He said, 
 ' 'I am ready to put the cord to the neck of anyone who 
 would dissolve the Union.'' The idea was certainly 
 carried out by him in his actions after the election 
 of Lincoln. He stood firmly by Lincoln and sup- 
 ported the Union, though he thereby alienated many 
 of his former friends, and was charged by them 
 with desertion and the desire to court favor with the 
 rising tide, 
 
 A true perspective will reveal Douglas as if he 
 stood forth in noon-day light, bright in his loyalty 
 to the Union, and with much shortened shadows. 
 
 Chari^es W. B1GE1.OW. 
 
 ^Thoughts suggested upon visiting the points men- 
 tioned, and reading criticisms upon the leaders in war with 
 Spain. 
 
 71 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 
 
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