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. CONTENT. 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. We wait and long; we fear and dread; If Heaven we ask, to Heaven draw near; ENDEAVOR. LIKE skyward sparks our souls aspire, To fall as drops the sand. Morn finds 'mong clouds each heart's desire; We've failed our highest to attain, Alike to things both near and far, The babe's wee hands stretch out. From striving shall the babe desist Because the moon meets not his fist? How grew that tree with deep-set root? 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. 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. '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, SONNET. DEAR friend, in leafy, balmy days of June tune. Dost dream on California's gold-stored strand OLD-TIME PICTURES. Ar play, a boy, just turning eleven They quarrel then "make up" in haste. MYSELF. THOUGH palace grand or humble cot, WALTER ALLEN RICE. 39 FIVE YEAR-OLD PERPLEXITIES. Oh! pity me, dolly; for dolly, I've done 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 fuss." I climbed the first shelf, and while there on my feet, But, dolly, I don't mind my fall, or the bumps, It seems as though, dolly, this day has been years. When anything's wrong, mamma says we must run And tell the truth, dolly, 'bout all that we've done; Now shouldn't I feel, dear, more glad than I do? As soon as it happened, I came and told you. Oh, dear! I'm so sorry 'tis broken! But hark! I'll find the way to her lap, and once in it, WALT WALTER ALLEN RICE. ALTER ALLEN RICE was born in Bangor, 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, Mifflin & 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. When she has closed the golden doors of day, How tenderly she wafts the cooling breeze O'er city thronged and pleasure's calm retreat, Where weary mortals seek a moment's ease And greet her coming as a respite sweet. 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. So silently the wondrous change transpires Of evening first come twinkling into sight. How heaven and earth now clasp each other's hands, And angels' footfalls we can almost hear. Onr weary feet now press the jasper sands, And through the mists the City's heights appear. Ah, now the struggling spirit rends its chains, And upward soaring to its native plains, Communes the while with all that's pure and grand. OCTOBER. OCTOBER! Why do I this month adore? I'll tell thee, friend. The years have not been long, 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, The fire hid in my heart broke into flame; THE HEART'S CONFESSION. NE'ER subject bowed before the royal throne I cannot tell; but since that hour supreme Became, at thought of honoring thy name, OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON. 41 OLI OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON. LIVIA GENEVIEVE LOVELL was born in 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 Miss Lovell were generally written by her. 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." "THE LITTLE BROWN FIST." L. A. So plump, dimple-dented, covered with tan, The sun-god hath kissed the dear hand on each side, In the crease of each finger, the dirty nails small, Go ask the bee, whence the charm and the power, Nay, the bee is too busy. Well! open the hand; Ah! there we must leave the riddle untold, THE SONG OF THE DARNING-NEEDLE. 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. Out and in; here's baby's sock! Catch each thread and part, In and out; here's Johnie's hose! Out and in, in and out, To do this work of thine, While mother forecasts other stars That on his life shall shine. 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. So out and in, in and out, With glances swift and nimble, I sing the song of mother's love, With needle, thread and thimble. Out and in, in and out, Threading swirtly through, Have patience for the song, I beg, We've holy work to do. TO MY WEE BIT LAD. My own dear lad, my wee bit lad, With eyes like violets sweet with dew, My dear wee lad, my own dear lad, Did ye learn in sooth your secret deep 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, Outlives the dreariest wintry snows, MY SONG. THERE'S a song in my heart, dear love, For my thoughts, like storm-driven birds, For out of the lowering darkness "I love you," and all the space, love, That renders us far apart, Cannot bannish thy face, love, Or thoughts of thee, from my heart. And how would my thoughts find thee? Winging their weary flight, To seek a haven of refuge For their sad part, to-night; Careless, perhaps of their presence, Feeling no fear or alarm, That they in this tender endeavor Should battle the wind and the storm! Nay-you will never forget, love, And when my thoughts reach you alone You will meet them, and greet them, as yet, love, And we will be patient and wait, love, AN IDEAL. EYES shaded grey, wistful, tender, 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. SPRING. 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. Berkshire. |