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FLORENCE V. BRITTINGHAM.

A second lover came ambling by-
A timid lad with frightened eye

And a color mantling highly.
He muttered the errand on which he'd come
Then only chuckled and bit his tongue,

And simpered, simpered shyly. “No," said the maiden, “go your way; You dare but think what a man would say,

Yet dare to come a-suing; I've time to lose and power to choose; 'Tis not so much the gallant who woos,

As the gallant's way of wooing.”

A third rode up at a startling pace-
A suitor poor, with a homely face-

No doubts appeared to bind him.
He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist,
And off he rode with the maiden placed

On a pillion safe behind him.
And she heard the suitor bold confide
This golden hint to the priest who tied

The knot there's no undoing: “With pretty young maidens who can choose, 'Tis not so much the gallant who woos,

As the gallant's way of wooing."

SING FOR THE GARISH EYE.

IN
N the beautiful and picturesque valley of the

South Branch of the Potomac, in the little town of Moorefield, W. Va., on the 15th of November, 1856, there came into the home of Philip G. and Susan M. Shearer, a dear baby daughter, whose tiny frame seemed almost too diminutive and frail to hold the beautiful soul that was to find a dwelling place within it for nearly thirty-five years. The home influence and the surroundings of Florence Virginia Shearer's early years were of a nature well calculated to develop all her innate gifts and graces. From both parents she inherited sterling qualities and superior mental ability. Her father, born in the town of Winchester, Va., is of well-connected German and English stock, as is his wife, Susan M. Harness, who was born near Moorefield.

There is little to record of Mrs. Brittingham's childhood until at the age of fourteen, she became a pupil in Mrs. Letitia Tyler Semple's school, Baltimore, Md. Here she remained three years, when, having finished the course with high honors, she returned to her valley home. The work of selfimprovement, however, was kept up through all her future life. Her love of learning was an unquenchable thirst and her energy in the pursuit of knowledge was a marvel to those who knew how much she accomplished in her quiet, unostentatious way. When in 1882 she became the happy wife of one in every way fitted to win her wifely devotion, the Rev. Jacob Brittingham, her life became one of almost entire consecration to Christian work. After a year of married life spent in Parkersburg, W. Va. Mr. Brittingham accepted a call to Christ Church Clarksburg, W. Va., and here for six years Mrs. Brittingham labored faithfully at the many things which her busy hands found to do. Her literary work, which she quietly carried on during this period, was her avocation—her recreation; but that she could find time for it at all would seem surprising in view of the fact that in addition to the care of her home and infant son, she had charge of the choir, for which she was organist, and conducted an afternoon Bible class every Sunday, worked in the mission school, taught classes in French and Literature, and was always ready to go wherever there was anything to be done for another's welfare. Some of her poems and short stories written at that time were published in different papers and periodicals, but the greater number have been published by her husband, since her death, in the volume entitled "Verse and Story” (Buffalo, 1892). Mrs. Brittingham's death occurred April 26, 1891, at St. Luke's rectory, Wheeling, W. Va., to which place Mr. Brittingham had moved in 1889. N. E.

Sing for the garish eye,

When moonless brandlings cling; Let the froddering crooner cry,

And the braddled sapster sing. For never, and never again,

Will the tottering beechlings play, For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,

And the throngers croon in May.

The wracking globe unstrung,

Unstrung in the frittering light Of a moon that knows no day,

Of a day that knows no night; Diving away in the crowd

Of sparkling frets in spray, The bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,

And the throngers croon in May.

Hasten, O hapful blue,

Blue, of the shimmering brow, Hasten the deed to do

That shall roddle the welkin now; For never again shall a cloud

Out-tribble the babbling day, When bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,

And the throngers croon in May.

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HELEN MARR HURD.

The aureole of good deeds, touched by one ray

From Source Divine, Transformed, becomes a glorious crown,

which shall Forever shine.

HE

GAUDEAMUS IGITUR.

THERE are those who grow prosaic

‘Mid this fleeting life of ours, As they trace a dull mosaic

Unrelieved by glint of flowers.

I, mayhap, some gleesome spirit,

Dowered with a brighter range, Do but pass their path, or near it;

From without the fret and change

Of the bounding life around them,

They will stop to snear and frown, And from favored heights beyond them

Seek to drag the blest one down.

ELEN MARR HURD was born in Harmony,

Me., February 2nd, 1839. Her father, Isaiah Hurd, was the son of Jeremiah and Nancy Hurd, who went from New Hampshire, and settled in Harmony at the time of its incorporation. When Isaiah grew to manhood, he married Mary, daughter of John and Hannah Page, and settled in that town. Helen Marr was their fifth child. As soon as she could read she manifested a love for poetry and when eleven years of age, had written many disconnected bits of rhyme. On her thirteenth birthday she wrote a little poem, which was soon followed by others. Between the age of thirteen and eighteen years she composed two stories in verse and several other short poems, which are not in print. A great impediment to her studies was severe myopia. Her father died when she was sixteen years old, leaving her mother, who was in feeble health, with the care of a large family, and threw Helen upon her own resources for further advancement in her studies beyond the common school. Her perserverance overcame her difficulties to such an extent as to make her studies and readings quite ample, and in the normal class she prepared for teaching. The trouble with her eyes had made teaching impossible, and thus poem after poem followed in quick succession. Miss Hurd had hoarded her rhymes, making no effort to appear before the public, until one plan after another of her life having failed, she began to believe that she could not bury her talent. Once when asked why she had not put her works before the world sooner, she answered, “There are two reasons; the one, dread of the public; the other, hope of producing something more worthy.” She has published a volume, “Poetical Works” (Boston, 1887) illustrated by Miss Allie Collins, and has ready for publication another volume of poems, a novel, and a history of Hallowell.

Miss Hurd has taken an active interest in the temperance cause and other movements in the interests of humanity. Her home is now in Athens, Maine.

G. A. B.

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IN THE COTTON FIELDS.

A SHROUDED Fear came to my gate and knocked;
I bade him enter, trembling though I was,
Then stood on guard to grapple the dread guest.
But when in clearer light I scanned him o'er
I saw a conquered foe, slain yester-night,
In combat which, my heart's best blood had drawn.
I told him what he had not known before;
For him there is no resurrection power,
Nor can he touch again my healed heart;
Then driving him afar into the dark,
I stood once more, a Freeman, doubly free,
A victor over e'en the phantom Fear.

The long and heavy hours of cloudless, sultry

day Succeed the sultry hours of cloudless, starlit

night; And tawny sunlight pours amain its molten ray

Upon the cotton fields ripened to snowy white.

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