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Is heard the clashing of the ferns,

Jostling each other in the breeze; The sharp tongue of the locust breaks

Monotony of whispering trees.

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RS. WALSWORTH comes of one of the

M Rearliest families to settle in western Penn

Where whirred the beetle through the night,

Rises the morerain's plaintive woe;
And in its lonesome hiding-place

Pulses the cricket's tremulo;
But at the broad'ning day's advance

The brooklet seems to laugh and sing;
And fills the valley and the wood

With fuller voice of everything;

*Then suddenly from leafy screen

Out darts the joyous bobolink, And sparkling drops of melody

In bubbling measures rise and sink;

And from the screens of fern and leaf,

Afar and near, and all about, In answer from the merry throats

The diamond songs come gushing out;

sylvania, whose line of descent has given many persons to literary and professional pursuits. Her grandfather, John L. Gow, of Washington, Pa., was a writer of both prose and verse. Her father, Alex M. Gow, was well known in Pennsylvania and Indiana as an educator and editor. He was the author of “Good Morals and Gentle Manners," a book used in public schools.

Before Minnie Gow was ten years of age, her poetic productions were quite numerous, and although those productions were enjoyed and treasured by her friends, no encouragement was given her to publish until her judgment and taste were matured by experience and study. She was graduated from the Washington Female Seminary. On December 4th, 1891, she was married to Edgar Douglass Walsworth, of Fontenelle, Iowa, to which place Miss Gow had removed with her family a few years previous. Mrs. Walsworth has contributed to the New York Independent, Interior, St. Nicholas, Wide-Awake, Presbyterian Banner, Literary Life and several other periodicals. “Luaine,” a poem, contains her most mature and careful work.

J. M. G.

Music seems into jewels turned,

Sparkling and dancing on the glow Of tawny sunlight o'er the hill,

Which floods with gold the vales below.

Still swells the fuller voice of day

From air and wave, from branch and sod, ”Till nature's perfect harmony

Rolls forth in rich accord.



Upon the branches serpents lie;

“Wheel the cicala and the bat;" 'Within the jungles morerains cry,

"And fiercely screams the forest cat."

A SUMMER's day, and summer's ripe perfection Clothed earth, and air, and sky, and August

wood, A rare sweet day, as in earth's primal beauty, When God declared his finished work was


Alive the marsh is with complaint;

The she-wolf's lair is in the brake; And sullied by the dropping taint

Of poisonous weed expands the lake.


From where a throng in simple recreation

Had gathered, each to play him Nature's guest, And from her hand drink draughts of health and

pleasure, Two wandered all unmindful of the rest.

Up springs the wildcat from the bough;

Out darts the she-wolf from her den; - And deadly fogs from bog and slough

Unite with blistering dews of fen.

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“Oh gift of God! oh perfect day!" he murmured,

And in the love of Nature, poet-wise, With many a grace of speech, he told of secrets But half concealed in flowers, and rocks, and



“A doubting soul, with tome and staff,

Comes down across the gurgling brook,
And slowly up the rugged hill,
Pondering the texts within his book.

- The Two Voices.

And she who listened, fair, demure and thoughtful, Upreaching in her thought, his thoughts to

meet, Beneath the conversation heard, or fancied,

She heard a strain of music, low and sweet.

O winds, that whispered benedictions o'er them,

'Tis long since on her cheek ye spent your breath, And years, O flowers, that woke to life that

morning, Since at her hands ye met a willing death.

And the child-eyes, meeting the old eyes, dim,
Knows that her thoughts are not for him.
But he hears, with a wonder undefined,
And a gentle awe in the baby-mind.
But soon he had gone, the street door closed,
And grandma, over her knitting, dozed.

But vague and tender as the flowers' awak’ning,

There came, that day, new life within her heart; Her pulses beat in unison with Nature's,

Her joy but to the day belonged a part. Ah, yes; perhaps yet, ʼmid the summer's beauty,

The words come back and mem'ries sweet arise, “Oh gift of God! oh perfect day!” she murmurs,

But tears well up to dim her wistful eyes.


Oh, what was that night but unbroken joy
To the waking mind of the little boy!
And his world of men and sights and sounds
Must stretch away unto broader bounds.
He ate his berries with glad content,
And fond eyes watched him as he went
From vestry floor to gallery seat,
With beaming face and tireless feet.
At last it was over; the time had come
When auntie suggested the going home.
The white-haired minister chanced that way,
And paused a moment, a word to say.
His smile was kind and his manner bland,
The pressure warm of his friendly hand,
While a pleasant word, as he passed along,
Was given to each of all the throng.
A groping thought-a glad surprise-
A question lighted the boy's bright eyes,
And he said, with a reverent tone and word,
“Is this his house, and is he the Lord ?"

Into the gloom of the summer night,
Through flower-like panes, a shower of light
Dripped through the upturned, dream-hushed

A shimmering flood from a thousand eaves-
An invitation, gracious, sweet,
It fell on the throng of a city street,
Where the temple new in its beauty stood,
Awaiting the gathering multitude;
A supper and fair, where good things greet
The eye and palate of all who will eat.
Alas! that the pleas are oft in vain
In the cause of the Lord, to heart and brain,
But to pay his dues while he eats, man owns
Is a slaughter of birds with a saving of stones.


AUNT Nellie has fashioned a dainty thing,

Of hamburg and ribbon and lace, And mamma had said, as she settled it 'round

Our beautiful baby's face, Where the dimples play and the laughter lies

Like sunbeams hid in her violet eyes: “If the day is pleasant and baby is good,

She may go to church and wear her new hood."

From a house as "snug as a robin's nest,”
A bird-of-a-boy in his Sunday-best,
Of kilted suit and hair fresh-curled,
To-night goes forth to see the world.
Grandma acts as his valet, true,
Wields the sponge and buttons the shoe;
But, strange to say, she omits to-night
The fairy-tale—the small boy's right-
And talks, with a joy in her every word,
Of the new and beautiful house of the Lord.
Then, more to herself than the child, perhaps,
As her thoughts run back and the years elapse,
As mem'ries rise and press and crowd,
They escape her lips—she thinks aloud,
And tells of a time when a sainted few,
With godly minds and a purpose true,
The log-house, old and cold and bare,
Had used as the meeting-place of prayer.
But the good seed sown the Lord hath blessed,
And to-night he welcomes each glad guest
To his beautiful house-fit monument
Of all the blessings his love has sent.

Then Ben, aged six, began to tell,

In elder-brotherly way,
How very, very good she must be

If she went to church next day.
He told of the church, the choir and the crowd,
And the man up in front who talked so loud,
But she must not talk, nor laugh, nor sing,
But just sit as quiet as anything.

And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May,

When the fruit-buds burst into flowers, (There wasn't a blossom on bush or tree

So fair as this blossom of ours), All in her white dress, dainty and new, Our baby sat in the family pew. The grand, sweet music, the reverent air, The solemn hush and the voice of prayer,

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