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When suddenly there passes from your sight,
And from the world around you some sweet face,
Which you have looked to as the ideal grace
By which to measure your ambitition's pace,
You realize that, as the years unfold,
Of all the human faces, nor behold
How great a void so small a world may hold.
country house, near Paducah, Ky., which home bore the poetic title of “Idlewild.” Her father Dr. W. H. Parham, was a physician of ability. Dr. Parham moved to Blandville, Ky., in 1872, and it was at that place that much of Eugenia's early education was acquired. Her father, however, died before her education was completed, and she was largely left to her own resources. It is an interesting fact that a large pro. portion of successful women, as well as men, especially in the line of literature, were in early life teachers, and it was in this way that Miss Parham continued her education. The principal of the Blandville school soon perceived her great thirst for knowledge and her decided ability to acquire it, so he put her to teaching while she was yet a student under him. Miss Parham's success was such that she was invited to teach in the city schools of Paducah, where she taught for six years. Her religious faith is that of the Disciples of Christ. When the Disciples established West Kentucky College, she was made principal of the normal department, which she conducted three years. Later she became principal of the department of literature in the Judson Female Institute, in Marion, Ala. While teaching has been Miss Parham's chosen profession, circumstances at one time caused her to give some attention to journalism. Before she moved to Paducah, she edited for a time a weekly paper called the Blandville News. J. W. L.
Two sons from out two distant homes one day Went bravely forth in life to win a way.
A HAPPY WOMAN.
The mystery of its hidden trust,
A mystery now no longer, Has told of ash unto dust,
Of faiths grown weak, or stronger.
The woods are bare, which erst awhile were green
Of coffin-lids beneath which lie
Vain forms of human greatness; Dumb questioners of Life are they,
Mute prayers for God's completeness;
Has told of springtime's bloom of light,
And flowers of summer's wooing, Now drifted into heaps of white,
That lonely graves are strewing;
Of cross, and crown, and scepter bright,
All fallen low together;
Went, asking, “Why” and “whither."
Oh the dear, dead days that sleep
Of the Past!
We see not, hear not, but some hand
The untried way is showing; And He who gives and takes shall send
The reaping for the sowing.
Oh, the hopes that in them lie,
Hands, so fair!
Like life, like death, we trust that still
Beyond us and our dreaming, There lies a “Somewhere " that shall thrill
With newer beauty gleaming;
Where mist and shadow, dust and death
Our clearer sight concealing Shall vanish but as mortal breath,
Dear, dead days! forever gone!
Holds the key
THE OLD YEAR.
And yet in heaven, they say,
Thou shalt not ever be;
Of that eternity.
Oh, hidden thought of God!
AGAIN the Christmas bells have rung
The old year out forever; Its shadow on the white sands flung
Shall cross Time's threshold never.