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'Twas very quaint, 'twas very strange,
Extremely strange, you must allow.
Dear me how modes and customs change!
It could not happen now.

And as for him, that foolish lad,
He'd hardly close an eye,
And look so woe-begone and sad,

He'd make his mother cry.

"He goes," she'd say, "from bad to worse! My boy so blithe and brave,

Last night I found him writing verse

About a lonely grave!"

And lo! next day her nerves he'd shock
With laugh, and song, and caper;
And there!-she'd find a golden lock
Wrapped up in tissue paper.

Our boys are wiser now.

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-Good Words.


ERE country ways had turned to street,
And long ere we were born,

A lad and lass would chance to meet,
And often she'd neglect her task,
The willows bowed to nudge the brook,
The cowslips nodded gay,

And he would look, and she would look,
And both would look away.

Yet each and this is so absurd -
Would dream about the other,

And she would never breathe a word
To that good dame her mother.
Our girls are wiser now.
'Twas very quaint, 'twas very strange,

Extremely strange, you must allow;
Dear me! how modes and customs change!
It could not happen now.

Next day that idle, naughty lass
Would rearrange her hair,
And ponder long before the glass
Which bow she ought to wear;
"Why do you blush like that?"
And seldom care to chat,

And make her mother frown, and ask, "Why do you blush like that?"

And now she'd haunt with footsteps slow
That mead with cowslips yellow,
Down which she'd met a week ago
That stupid, staring fellow.

Our girls are wiser now.


I CAME between the glad green hills,
Whereon the summer sunshine lay,
And all the world was young that day,
As when the Spring's soft laughter thrills
The pulses of the waking May:
You were alive; yet scarce I knew
The world was glad, because of you.

I came between the sad green hills,
Whereon the summer twilight lay,
And all the world was old that day,
And hoary age forgets the thrills

That woke the pulse of the May:
And you were dead - how well I knew
The world was sad because of you.

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON -Scribner's Magazine, January, 1889.


IF any one can tell you
How my song is wrought
And my melodies are caught,

I will give, not sell you,
The secret, if there be one
(For I could never see one),

How my songs are wrought. Like the blowing of the wind,

Or the flowing of the stream, Is the music in my mind,

And the voice in my dream,Where many things appear, The dimple, the tear,

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And the pageant of the Year,

But nothing that is clear,

At Even and Morn

Where sadness is gladness

And sorrow unforlorn,

For there Song is born.


-The Century Magazine, December, 1888.


THE spare Professor, grave and bald,
Began his paper. It was called,

I think, "A Brief Historic Glance
At Russia, Germany and France."
A glance, but to my best belief
'Twas almost anything but brief -
A wide survey, in which the earth
Was seen before mankind had birth;
Strange monsters basked them in the sun,
Behemoth, armored glyptodon,
And in the dawn's unpracticed ray
The transient dodo winged its way;
Then, by degrees, through slit and slough,
We reached Berlin - I don't know how.
The good professor's monotone
Had turned me into senseless stone
Instanter, but that near me sat
Hypatia in her new spring hat,
Blue-eyed, intent, with lips whose bloom
Lighted the heavy-curtained room.
Hypatia ah, what lovely things
Are fashioned out of eighteen springs –
At first, in sums of this amount,
The eighteen winters do not count.
Just as my eyes were growing dim
With heaviness, I saw that slim,
Erect, elastic figure there,
Like a pond-lily taking air.

She looked so fresh, so wise, so neat,

So altogether crisp and sweet,

I quite forgot what Bismarck said,
And why the Emperor shook his head,
And how it was Von Moltke's frown
Cost France another frontier town.
The only facts I took away

From the Professor's theme that day
Were these: a forehead broad and low,
Such as the antique sculptures show;
A chin to Greek perfection true;
Eyes of Astarté's tender blue;
A high complexion without fleck
Or flaw, and curls about her neck.
-Harper's Magazine, December, 1888.

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ant corrections were made in the text in each edition.

HOUGHTON. "Courage" was originally published in Scribner's Magazine.

IBID. Mr. Houghton recently resigned the editorship of The Hub, to accept a like position in connection with Varnish, published monthly in New York.

MARTIN. In a letter to a friend Mr. Martin says: "During an autumn walk in South Wales, I no ticed a leafless thorn in a hedge by the roadside made gay with the berries of the briony, and I composed the little song during my walk. I wrote " Apple Blossoms" with perhaps greater rapidity than any poem of mine. I was staying at a farm-house in Herefordshire in the spring, surrounded with apple-orchards. My hostess told me that in the previous spring her daughter had been married, and she described the freedom with which they used apple blossoms for the decoration and adornment of the bride and the bridesmaids the church and the wedding-table. I was greatly pleased, and thought it most fitting and proper in an apple county like Herefordshire. The next morning when I entered the breakfast room, I found the table decorated with apple blossoms, a large old-fashioned China punch-bowl standing in the centre piled up with the most delicious blossoms. The sun was shining into the room, the orchard, ablaze with color, could be seen in the distance; the subtle sweet odor surrounded me. I took a sheet of paper, and during my pleasant meal wrote the little poem as you find it, and my breakfast and it were finished together."

O'REILLY. Many of the " Seas," were republished in Ballads."


Songs of the Southern Songs, Legends and

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BURROUGHS. 'Waiting" is the only poem by John Burroughs in print. It was written in 1862, and printed in the old Knickerbocker Magazine during the brief revival under the management of a Mr. Cornwallis. The poem seems to have attracted no attention until Whittier put it in his collection of Songs of Three Centuries," since which time it has been included in many collections published in this country and in England.

LATHROP. The authorship of "A Woman's Answer to a Man's Question" is often attributed to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and also to Adelaide Proctor. To a correspondent the author says: "I am surprised at the interest in my little poem written originally as a pat amusement to a real valentine, written to a real girl friend, by a real bachelor. All the parties are still alive, and that the poem is mine is beyond a chance of doubt. It was not written for publication, and it did not see the light for several years after its writing. It was first published in the Washington, Arkansas, Post, my brother, Colonel James Torrans, then being owner and editor of the paper. From that time it has often gone through the papers, rarely with proper credit. The title under which I published it was. "A Woman's Answer to a Man's Question," not "A Woman's Question."

BRINE. "Somebody's Mother" was conceived while the author was riding on a Brooklyn streetcar one very snowy day, some few years ago, when she saw an old and poor woman at a street crossing. The woman was afraid to stir owing to the ice and the carts and crowd. A number of boys passing at the time laughed at her, and went on without offering to assist her. It was first published


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CRAWFORD. The song, “The Drunkard's Raggit Wean," is not a great poetical effort by any means, but it secured a favor with the public, which more elaborate works of art seldom achieve. It is curious to know that the song was composed inside a city U. P. Church one Sunday afternoon, in the September of 1855. It was certainly a daring act of the poet-this sacrifice of a Sunday sermon at the shrine of Poesy; but the words of the sermon very probably fell still-born from the pulpit, while the song, winged with music, has, for a quarter of a century, inculcated lessons of morality in thousands of human hearts, in view of which, the Recording Angel very probably has long since cancelled the poet's neglect of the parson's sermon, by a conclusive per contra of — Fully Paid! A. C. M.


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BANKS. It was at Harrogate, over the breakfast table, that Mr. Banks wrote his celebrated poem, What I Live For." It went into the Family Herald first, then into his next volume, Peals from the Belfry" (1853), and since has gone the world over. Dr. Guthrie, Dr. Raleigh, and others have tagged sermons and speeches with a stanza from it, the Chevalier de Chatelain published a French translation, and The Panama Star and Herald adopted the three concluding lines as its motto. E. B.

CHESTER. "The Tapestry Weavers" was originally published in The Century Magazine. It has been set to music by Rev. T. B. Stephenson of London, England.

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sermon, of what life and death ought to be, to a large audience. It has been included, also, in several compilations of religious rhyme, and has been repeatedly quoted in obituary columns, with special reference -a touching memorial of fruitful age.

A. A. H. PEACOCK. "Helen of Troy" was originally published in the London Spectator.

MCCLELLAND. Eminent among the literary workers of her state stands Miss Minnie G. McClelland. That she was born out of the ordinary groove, was made plain in her early childhood. The old ancestral home stood for common-school and college in the education of the growing girl. There it began, and there it is still going on, self-directed, broadening, and deepening. She is an intense student, cherishing a keen interest in every department of learning, and has shown a surprising mastery of fresh intellectual gains, by the way in which she weaves them into the fabric of her stories. Long before the publication of "Oblivion" she wrote magazine stories and dialect poems, which compare favorably with the work of her maturer pen. The first of these was written, when very young, under the inspiration of a realistic situation. A chicken-fight over a worm, occurred in her presence one summer morning, as she sat in the yard of the old homestead engaged in the domestic employment of churning. Seizing pencil and paper from a folio beside her, she jotted down with one hand, while continuing her homely Occupation with the other, the notes of a negro dialect poem. In addition to her fine intellectual gifts, Miss McClelland possesses a God-given love of humanity. From her youth, she has stood for the defense of the weak and helpless. Sacrifice of personal pleasure for the benefit of others, to her is a privilege rather than a duty. She is a genuine child of nature, cherishing a vehement indignation against all forms of injustice and oppression. With self-forgetful magnanimity she gives her hand to those on the lower step of life's ladder. Socially Miss McClelland has great attractions. Her conversational powers are decidedly fine. Her manner possesses unaffected freshness and charm. She is unconventional to a degree, and wholly devoid of self-consciousness. Like her own Myra Yorke in · Madame Silva," she is "enthusiastic, emotional, intense." In person she is rather tall and slender. When in repose, the expression of her face, as delineated in her picture, becomes introspective and tenderly eloquent of unspoken thought, silencing at once all intrusive remark, which might disturb some beautiful mental creation. W. R L. S.


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Poem in Songs and Sonnets. Fourth edition. New
York: The Century Co., 1887. 12mo, pp. 103.
IBID. The Celestial Passion. New York: The
Century Co., 1887. 12mo, pp. 76.

IBID. Lyrics. Second edition. New York: The Century Co., 1887. 12mo, pp. 136.

HOUGHTON, GEORGE W. W. Songs from Over the Sea. New York: No title page, S. W. Green, printer, 1874. 12mo, pp. 24.

IBID. Album Leaves. Boston: Estes and Lauriat, 1878. 12mo, pp. 34.

IBID. Drift from York-Harbor Maine. Boston: A. Williams and Co., 1879. 12mo, pp. 48. IBID. The Legend of St. Olaf's Kirk. Boston: Estes and Lauriat, 1880. 12mo, pp. 64. IBID. The Same. Second edition, revised. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1881. 16m0, PP. 92.

IBID. Boston: Niagara and Other Poems. Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1882. 16mo, pp. 130. WHITMAN, WALT. Leaves of Grass. Philadelphia: David McKay, 1882. 12m0, pp. 382.

IBID. November Boughs. McKay, 1888. 8vo, pp. 140.

Philadelphia: David

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SYLVA, CARMEN. Songs of Toil, by Carmen Sylva, Queen of Rumania. Translated by John Eliot Bowen. With an Introductory Sketch. New York: Frederick A. Stokes and Brother, 1888. 16m0, pp. 143.

CONVERSE, HARRIET MAXWELL. Sheaves, a Collection of Poems. Second edition. New York and London: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1885. 12mo, pp. 8 and 217.

IBID. Miscellaneous Poems.

MARTIN, WILLIAM WILSEY. By Solent and Danube, Poems and Ballads. London: Trübner and Co., 1885. 12m0, pp. 11 and 171.

IBID. Miscellaneous poems from QUERIES, and unpublished poems.

GILFILLAN, ROBERT. The Scottish Minstrel. The Songs of Scotland Subsequent to Burns, with Mem

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