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miles for the pleasure of the exercise, “not knowing," as she says, “what it is to be tired.” During her spare moments she is engaged upon a work entitled “Leaflets of Artists,” which comprises sketches of the lives of artists by eminent writers.

F. L. M.

A fairer picture ne'er was seen,

This little mimic king and queen. “Not introduced!" Screams her mamma,

And leads her off to Grandpapa.
High, higher up the mountain side,
Far, farther o'er the ocean's tide,
Down, deeper through the valley's lane,
Wild, searching reckless o'er the plain,

Dear sisters sigh, astonished, sad;
“What motive rules this willful lad?”
“ He will be lost," groans stern papa.
“Let him search on," says grandmama.


While waiting for the Lily,

We lose the sweet Mayflower; While longing for the sunshine,

The beauties of the shower.

While dreading distant thunder,

We miss the bird's sweet song; While fearing all life's evils,

We blind our eyes with wrong.

She dreams, and wakes, and dreams anew,
As though she'd nothing else to do;
Not heeding cares that come too soon,
Builds castles higher than the moon,
And whispers low, each hope, each fear,

In grandma's arms, to grandma's ear.
“ She'll be no use!” cries her papa.
“Disturb her not,'' sighs grandmama.

We wait and long; we fear and dread;
Why may we not enjoy instead?
If Heaven we ask, to Heaven draw near;
Come with the children; lo! 'tis here.

'Though ten years 'lapse 'tween that and this, The same sweet lips unite to kiss.

Birds listen, wondering what they mean; “ I'll be thy king; thou'lt be my queen.”

This picture's touched with higher aim,
And too, it needs a larger frame.
Now introduced are pa's and ma's.
And shaking hands, are grandmammas.


Like skyward sparks our souls aspire,

To fall as drops the sand.
Morn finds ’mong clouds each heart's desire;

At eve we grope on land.
We've failed our highest to attain,
Shall we then cease to try again?


Alike to things both near and far,

With gleeful, prattling shout, To nurse's cap or distant star

The babe's wee hands stretch out. From striving shall the babe desist Because the moon meets not his fist?

Dear friend, in leafy, balmy days of June
Thy rarest gems of verse were sung. Thy hand
Pure thoughts unwrapped and into being fanned
As screened from sun, or neath the silent moon
With “brook and branch ” of pine thy heart kept

Dost dream on California's gold-stored strand
Of rock-built mansions? one that, towering grand
From banks of waving grass, this quiet noon
O'erlooks and guards our fair Penobscot stream?
'Mong ferns and sedges which the brooklet wets
Birds, buds and blossoms breathe of thee to-day.
With brush, though faintly, to refresh thy dream
I've traced for thee both home and violets.
These simple tributes at thy feet I lay.

How grew that tree with deep-set root ?

By reaching towards the sun. Though standing at the ladder's foot,

Its rounds are one by one. By constant striving we shall find Our sheaves and the wherewith to bind.



At play, a boy, just turning eleven
Espies a lovely lass of seven.
They quarrel then “make up" in haste.
Her lips meet his; he clasps her waist;

THOUGH palace grand or humble cot,
Though creams or crusts, it matters not.
All else may prove their falsities,
Within myself my castle is.



WALTER ALLEN RICE was born in Bangor,

Oh! pity me, dolly; for dolly, I've done
The worst thing that could be done under the sun.
Don't look at me, dolly, so smiling and glad,
When I am so dreadfully, dreadfully sad.

Dear dolly, you know, we were 'bout to take tea;
I went for lump sugar, for you and for me;
I couldn't ask mamma, for she'd gone down town;
Nor Bridget, for she was then changing her gown.

I begged aunt to give me a bit of sweet sauce,
But she's an old maid, and you know how cross;
I wonder if auntie was ever like us!
She said, “Run away, child, and don't make a


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I climbed the first shelf, and while there on my feet,
And tasting of your lump, to know if 'twas sweet,
I reached up for mine, but the next thing I knew,
Such bumps on my head, dear! I'm glad twasn't


But, dolly, I don't mind my fall, or the bumps,
And didn't care much then to pick up the lumps.
To tell it, or whisper it, most makes me choke.
But listen.— The sugar-bowl fell down and broke!

Me., January 14, 1857, and for a long term of years that city was his home; but latterly his employments have called him to various New England cities, and more recently he has been engaged as a lecturer in the interests of secret society work. This nomadic life naturally has not been favorable to much literary achievement, but nevertheless he has done considerable pen-work since leaving Harvard College in 1877. Much of this has been in the direction of verse, and his poems have appeared in different publications. Whether or not Mr. Rice published anything before he left Harvard, I am unable to say, but during freshman years he devoted himself to verse-making, and in addition to short stories, he prepared the manuscript of a novel, which he soon consigned to oblivion, his reason for not allowing the story to be printed, “That it was written simply for the pleasure of the thing.” Having a strong liking for elocution, Mr. Rice took up its study professionally, and on leaving college he gave readings in many of the Maine and New Hampshire towns. In this connection he prepared a course of lecture readings, “Five Evenings With American Authors,” which were very favorably received by lovers of good literature, though the young lecturer soon abandoned the field for lack of material support. The authors treated of were Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Bret Harte and Mark Twain. Previous to entering Harvard, Mr. Rice graduated from Phillip's Academy at Exeter, N. H., having also been a graduate of the Bangor High School in his eighteenth year. Among other positions he has ably filled is that of proof-reader with the publishing house of Houghton, Miffin & Co., of Cambridge, Mass. He left Cambridge to engage in lecture work for the Order of the Iron Hall, a vocation giving large opportunity for travel and observation, and one in which success attends him. Mr. Rice was married July 5, 1887, to Miss Lydia A. Chase, of Roxbury, Mass. A man of thoughtful, studious habits, a lecturer of recognized ability and a graceful writer of prose and verse, he is one of whom the future promises much. R. R.

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Sweet Babyland! no myth, no dream.
Though proud, or great, or wise we seem,
Could time fly backward, soon we wonld
Be once again in babyhood,
And in loved arms contented lie,
List’ning to some sweet lullaby.


When Titan reins his fiery steed at last

O'er seas of flame, and gorgeous fleecy isles, His red-plumed helmet then is proudly cast At Evening's feet whose face is wreathed in



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Ne’er subject bowed before the royal throne

More proudly than do I acknowledge thee

Queen of my heart, that ever had been free Till thy resistless love made it thine own. Whether the splendor of thine eyes alone

Conjured the spell, or all thy charms combined,

Swaying at thy sweet will the unwilling mind,
Bound me in fetters I had never known,
I cannot tell; but since that hour supreme

My being's thrilled anew with nobler aim,
And passing fancies that we idly dream

Became, at thought of honoring thy name, Grand aspirations, whose bright glories seem

To light the pathway up the heights of fame,

Above the crib some gentle grandma bends

And smooths with loving touch the coverlet; So Evening, with her spangled spread descends,

And folds away each burden of regret.

As each long sultry day doth reach its close,

And fragrant is the air with new-mown hay, How softly down the insects' murmur flows,

And blissful quiet steals along the way.


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Laughing, musing, weeping,

Each succeeds in turn; Each is in our keeping,

All too soon we learn. Weeping, musing, laughing,

Life is only this; Tears we're surely quaffing

From the cup of bliss.

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OCTOBER! Why do I this month adore ?
I'll tell thee, friend. The years have not been

Nor have I yet forgot that husking song,
And full moon shining through the old barn door.
A merry throng laid bare the golden ears,

While jest and laughter kept the night awake,

And forfeits not a few we had to take;
But under all I bore a world of fears;
That night I meant to know. Was I to blame?

I thought the time would never come to end,
But when 'twas done, and home we 'gan to

The fire hid in my heart broke into flame;
And though to her 'twas somewhat of a fright,
She's been my wife for five Octobers bright.

Shadows may be listed,

And the spirit roam, When the scenes have shifted

In a cloudless home, Where there is no dying,

Morning, noon or night, Pleasure never sighing,

But eternal light!


In the crease of each finger, the dirty nails small, The sun-god hath left his fond kiss on them all.

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Go ask the bee, whence the charm and the power,
Mayhap he may know, from the honey-sweet flower,
Which by the sun-god is fondled and kiss't,
What spell he has given that "little brown fist."
Nay, the bee is too busy. Well! open the hand;
The laddie's deep fortune we'll understand.
The life-line extends cross the palm to the wrist,
But it baffles our reading-the "naughty brown


Ah! there we must leave the riddle untold,
The sun-god hath kissed it and left it the gold,
And the power we ne'er fathom, yet may not resist,
Of loving so dearly that "little brown fist.”



1859 in Glendale, Ohio, a suburban village near Cincinnati. She is the seventh child of Oliver S. and Sarah J. (Russell) Lovell. Her father was a distinguished lawyer, an intimate friend of Chief Justice Chase, and the late Justice Stanley Mathews, whose residence was close to the Lovell homestead. For many years Mr. Lovell was chief of an important bureau in the United States Treasury. Delicate health in early years prevented Olivia attending a public school and necessitated a home education. She commenced writing at an early age, and when eleven years old published two short stories in a New-Church paper. She soon became the center of a select literary coterie, and, under the pseudonym of Tobias Tickeltoe, conducted an amateur journal called Saturday Gossip, aided by a sister who, because of her physique, was styled the “Slim Reporter.” Under her editorial nomenclature she produced several humorous short stories, and often now writes under this nom-de-plume. The young lady soon developed considerable dramatic talent, which found opportunity for display upon the stage of a home theater conducted by herself, who, in connection with a sister, was the sole representative of the histrionic art. The pieces performed were generally written by her. Miss Lovell about this time dramatized a translation of T. B. Aldrich's “ Mere Michel et Son Chat." The piece was called " Mere Michel and Her Cat," and was published by the Harpers in Young People, with elaborate illustrations. It was a very successful play. Many other plays and stories of the author have appeared from time to time in that journal for jueveniles. In 1882 Miss Lovel was united in marriage to Henry Neill Wilson, an architect. They removed to Minneapolis, where Mr. Wilson followed his profession for several years.

In consequence of ill-health Mr. and Mrs. Wilson removed from the West, and, after a brief sojourn in the old homestead, they removed permanently to Pittsfield, Mass., where they now reside in a beautiful home called “Ingleside."

L. A.

In and out, out and in,

Threading swift and nimble; Gliding thither bright and slim,

Coquetting with the thimble. Shining with a kindly gleam

Across the wide dimensions Of every hole, or gaping rent,

With sharp and keen attention.


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So plump, dimple-dented, covered with tan,
So brown and so hardy, for such a wee man,
Oh! what is the charm, we none can resist,
In the slightest caress of that “little brown fist.”

And here are Nell's hose, Nan's and Sam's!

Ah! such weary days Mother and I alone can spend

Mending the family ways. But in and out, out and in,

With patience, and the thread, We weave the mesh across the way

Where ruthless footsteps tread.

The sun-god hath kissed the dear hand on each side, All down the knuckles, where wee dimples hide,

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My dear wee lad, my own dear lad,

The lad I love sae well! Did ye learn in sooth your secret deep Ere the spirit of Elfland fell asleep?

May I never learn the mystic spell,

But be content to love thee well, Knowing none ere loved sae true, My wee bit land, as I love you.


But, my lad, my wee bit lad,

My bonniest lad of all,
Trust me, dear, such love as mine

Outlives the dreariest wintry snows,

That blight the violet, blast the rose; Abiding midst, like sweet sunshine.

Golden on the garden wall,
It makes life's moments glad.
This is the love, my bonny lad,
My wee bit lad, I bear for you,
And none in life ere loved sae true!


Eyes shaded grey, wistful, tender,

Drooping lashes, dark and long; A rosebud mouth, that doth render

The roguish dimple free of wrong. Graceful with the art of winning

From life and living love's sweet part; Earnest with the power of giving,

A child's faith, but a woman's heart. With mirth in gladness, tears for sorrow,

Trusting God in tender wise, For the great unfathomed future,

Which unrevealed. before her lies. Jnst a woman, trusting, faithful,

Gladdening where her glances fall; Wise by reason of her loving,

Just a woman that is all.



THERE's a song in my heart, dear love,

That I dare not sing to-night, For my thoughts, like storm-driven birds,

To thee would take their flight; And the bitterness of my longing,

Would wearily beat and throb Through the night wind to thee, love,

Like a hopeless, pitiful sob.

ONLY the hum of the distant bees

Seeking their sweets from the clover; The wind in the top of the apple trees;

Heaven's blue arching over. Only the song of the joyous birds

Afloat on the sunshine's glory, Returning their thanks-grace for foodIn the same, never-old sweet story.


For out of the lowering darkness

That bends with the summer rain, I can sing but one song to-night, love,

Hear but one tender refrain;

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