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MARY K. BUCK.

MR

But at night when so softly they're sleeping,

Cuddled down in each snug little bed, With busy hands safe from all mischief

And quiet each restless young head, And a look of such peace on their features,

As if never a tear they had shed;

As I gaze on their dear rosy faces,

So sweet in their innocent sleep,
I pardon, unasked, all their mischief,

Nor thought of their naughtiness keep; For my heart overflows in the silence

With love that is tender and deep.

RS. MARY K. BUCK, of Traverse City,

Mich., is a daughter of Bohemia, in the literal and not the figurative sense of the word, though the latter might still be very appropriate. But the land of the rugged mountain ranges of the Erzberg and the romantic depths of the Bohmer Wald were very early exchanged for the evergreen pine forests of Northern Michigan and the sparkling blue waters of Grand Traverse bay. So, although not native and to the manor born, this portion of America's “bonnie northland” is proud to claim her as its own. She is still on the sunny side of life's meridian, and personally is a most charming little lady, with a quaint, sweet originality of her own that wins her everywhere hosts of warm friends and admirers. A devoted mother, a shrewd business woman doing good work daily in her husband's office, a model housekeeper, it can easily be seen that she has not much time to woo the muses. Had she more leisure and less of the active duties of life, the world would know more of her. As it is, her literary work makes up in quality what it lacks in quantity. Her graceful verse is very often found among the fugitive poems that have been so often copied as to have lost name and identity, and are bound up in many compilations of choice poetry. Originally, she has written for St. Nicholas and other leading periodicals, but mainly for prominent newspapers, the Congregutionalist, Advance, InterOcean, Portland Transcript, Detroit Free Press and Good Housekeeping being among the number. As a prose writer, she has written many bright short stories for leading periodicals, and is at present at work upon a book, of which more will be known later on. If the past forecast the future, Mrs. Buck has a brilliant one before her.

E. L. B.

How small seem the trifles that vexed me!

How could they have power to annoy! And gently I fold the worn garments

And pick up each battered old toy, While I think of the homes where no children

Repay ev'ry care with a joySad homes, where their merry young voices

No longer the glad echoes start, To fall, like the sweetest of music,

On a mother's lone, aching heart,
Whose dear ones too soundly are sleeping

From her sheltering arms apart.
Oh, mothers, like me, who are weary

And often too hastily chide,
Keep not your fond words for the sleepers,

Nor wait for the darkness to hide
The love welling up from the heart-spring

When kneeling your darlings' beside.
Let us give of our best in the daytime;

Let mother-love brighten and bless The pathway the dear ones must travel;

Too soon will life's burdens oppress; Let theirs be the joy to remember

Mother's smile and the tender caress.

THE CHILDREN.

MOWING.

THROUGH the day, when the children are round me

So full of their laughter and play, I, busy and careworn, oft wonder

How they can be always so gay. While I long for rest, they care only

To frolic and romp all the day.

O, HE lightly swings his gleaming scythe

Down in the fragrant clover,
And he hums a gay refrain the while

As he turns the winrows over;
And his heart beats time to the old love rhyme,

The song of a happy lover.
The cool wind fans his sun-burnt cheek,

Then ruffles the rustling grasses
That softly bend their graceful heads

To every breeze that passes.
And a whirring cloud of locusts loud

Springs up from the scented masses.

They weary me so with their chatter,

Their constant demands and their noise; They leave muddy tracks on the carpet

And litter the room with their toys, Till at times from a heart that's o'erburdened

I mete out harsh words to my boys.

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WILLIAM F. McNAMARA.

WILLIAM FRANKLIN MCNAMARA, pen

And pleasant it is when summer noons

On the hills lie fast asleep, With green leaves whispering their tremulous

runes, And the warm air full of sounds, the tunes,

Mayhap, of fays who keep

'Tis said by the old folk everywhere

Themselves from mortal sight; And days like these are so wondrous fair That they float aloft in enchanted air,

Nor wait for the secret night.

The cardinal lifts its fire-plumed head

By the lisping streamlet's side, When the earlier days of the summer are fled, And the scattered petals of roses red

Lie low in their perfumed pride.

name Harry Hazleton, was born in Camden, Maine, December ist, 1855, the first of eleven children, seven boys and four girls, all living, and a family, too, of natural refinement, with intellects above the average. The father of this large family, a hard-working, honest man, who has for some years been laid away at rest, was born on the island of Achill, in Clew Bay, on the west coast of Ireland. At the age of twenty he came to America. Ten years later attracted to Camden, the charming sea-port of the Penobscot, having a natural love for the beautiful, he fell in love with the town, and also with Miss Martha Wellman Allenwood, a sterling young woman of rare Christian grace, whose ancestors figured in the annals of the pioneer history of Maine, resulting in a happy marriage.

The early life of William McNamara “ran quiet as the brooks by which he sported.” It was his intention early in life, an intention which may yet reach fruition, to take the profession of medicine, but the way was not opened; one of a large family of children, his help was needed on the farm. An accident happened to him at the age of twenty by which his back was injured from a fall on the ice. He slowly regained his strength, but not wholly, so that a few years ago, deeming it advisable for his health, he sought out a pleasant home among the fruitful farms of the Aroostook, in the northern part of the State, where he has since married and is living with his devoted wife. The accident of the fall on the ice, though apparently a loss to him, was a blessing in disguise. It led his mind to a world of thought and fancy, and during the years that he was unable to do manual labor he wrote many sweet and sad, but hopeful songs. During the past ten years he has written more extensively on various subjects for different publications.

W. W. P.

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A NOOK.

I KNOW a nook, a sunny nook,

That hides in a dark old wood, Where fern fronds saucily nod to the brook, And the rabbit pauses with timid look,

And strut the partridge's brood.

Then he pursed up his lips and a whistle came out That brought down the North Wind with rollick

ing rout; And the trees heard with fear his mad laughter and

shout, And bent their heads low as he passed them. Right onward he rushed in most terrible glee, Till, unsatisfied still with his maudlin spree, Chimneys, steeples and gables in his arms gathered

he, And down to the earth rudely cast them.

And I love it well when violets wake;

For the merry thrushes then Their rarest notes in the soft air shake, And the swelling buds into leafage break,

When the violets wake again.

once more

In his bed the good man turned uneasily o'er,

WILLIAM EDWARD VASSER. While his wife, sore affrighted, concluding her

snore, First prayed, and then scolded, and then prayed WL

ILLIAM EDWARD VASSER is thirty-seven

years of age, having been born in 1855 in To all the known saints for protection.

the quiet, highly respectable little town of Athens, All, roused from their slumbers, in fear looking

Ala. Reared in an elegant, refined home, and posforth,

sessing instinctive culture of mind, Mr. Vasser is Exclaimed: "'Tis the wicked Old Man from the a type of the free-hearted, honorable, southern genNorth!

tleman. Aside from the refining influences of the And little our lives and our homes are worth

home, and his early fondness for wholesome readWith the North Wind at his mad direction." ing, his school advantages were the very best, his

parents placing him, in 1870 at the age of fifteen in The droll little man, when the North Wind grew the Virginia Military Institute, where he remained still,

for four years. Thence he went to the University Blew a breath that froze hard every babbling rill, of Virginia and matriculated for the session of And fastened the wheel of the old village mill 1874-75. Returning to his native town he spent the

Which for months had been merrily turning; next few years in reading, occasionally scribbling Then he chuckled and said: “This will do for verse and indulging in social ease which a competo-night;

tency enabled him to enjoy. The summer of 1878 What a lark there will be when each sluggardly was spent in Paris. During this short residence wight,

abroad his keen observation served to enrich his With staring eyes greets the old town's sorry plight mind with much of useful and pleasurable knowlAnd groans, each mad caper discerning!"

edge. In 1881-82 he edited the Alabama Courier,

In 1883 he left the office and undertook to farm, but, Ere morn, like a youth with cheeks rosy and red,

finding the employment uncongenial, or unprofitable, The day up the steeps of the orient led,

abandoned it after one year and embarked in a bookEre slumber arose from her sensuous bed,

store enterprise in Athens which he conducted for O'er the rim in the faint starlight glancing, two years. In the fall of 1885 he was elected by the And up the cold slopes of the Northland, there Democratic party to the Lower House of the Ala

bama Legislature, where he made an able and acA queer little man, with a voice like the blast,

ceptable representative. Though a new member And a reindeer team dashing so gaily and fast- he was at once selected as chairman of the ComAway through the night gaily prancing

mittee on Education, an especially important com

mittee at that time, the Blair Bill for National Aid THREE SCORE.

to Education being a prominent measure before the

various Legislatures of the country. Although a ABOVE the drowsy hum of bees,

zealous advocate of the education of the masses, That rove amid the garden's bloom,

believing that a Republic can only safely rest on an A clear, young voice comes on the breeze, enlightened suffrage, yet his political faith led him As glad and sweet as if no gloom

to oppose the proposed national scheme as threatHung o'er the dreary world to-day;

ening the autonomy of the States. He, however, And listening to the quaint old lay,

favored as large state appropriations for educaA melody my childhood knew,

tional purposes as the people were able to bear, and I half forget that I am gray,

vigorously defended the Normal Schools, against And softly hum the measures through.

much opposition. As an earnest of their apprecia

tion of his faithfulness and capacity as a represenOh! it does seem so long since then,

tative, he was strongly urged by his friends to anWhen, like this artless boy I sang!

nounce himself as a candidate for the State Senate And three-score cannot sing as ten;

for the ensuing term, but he persistantly refused to For silver bells which sweetly sang

come forward, having no inclination to enter For joyous youth are silent now;

political life. So if I sink, it must be low;

Mr. Vasser's poetical work has not been great in But oh, how gladly would I fing

amount, he having never devoted himself assiduAside the spoil of years, to go

ously to poetry, which has been a past-time with And with this careless urchin sing!

him rather than an occupation. Only one volume

passed

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