Then rolling out with the undertow,

Swept backward and forward the livelong day.

With murmuring tones from hidden deeps,

When the song of life in her bosom wells, The sea sang soft to our listening hearts The rhythmic story she ever tells,

Of the life we live in the heart of God,
Of infinite Love, of infinite Hope;
For our souls forever at one with His will,
Are limitless in their scope.

The sea sang soft and low that day

Of a new, fair life that should waken soon; And our hearts beat glad to the sweet refrain Of the waves' bright promise that afternoon.

TO MY FRIEND.

From all sweet, warm and loving human hearts,
From all pure, lofty souls and royal minds,
My own has singled thine, O friend, so dear;
It sets thee high above its trivial loves,
And pays its homage with devotion true,
To all that's sweetest, noblest, best,
And only asks to be allowed its worship;
Asks thy benignant smile and kindly glance,
Thy hand in peaceful benediction raised.
Seems it so strange to thee, thou spirit meek,
That one should seek such influence from thee,
Whose footsteps oft have faltered in the way,
Whose heart has felt its dire distress and need,
Its love unsatisfied, disappointment's cross
Press with its heaviest weight on shoulders
Burdened to their utmost with the strain?
I'll tell thee, dear, the secret; 'tis because
Beneath all this I see unconquered good
Still reigning in thy soul, unconquered kindness
Thrilling all thy words. I know that Wisdom
Can not claim her throne until she shares with Love
Each laurel leaf; dips his arrow points for pens
Into the ink with which she issues edicts;
And when she speaks through thee, my hope is
strong,

My trust more patient, my desires grow pure;
An undertone through all thy utterance swells,
By which my spirit learns that Love and Wisdom
Are at one within thy heart. And if thy feet
Keep not their perfect tread, through human weak-
ness,

My homage shall not fail; for I've not given
My fealty to the clay, that needs must crumble,
But to the soul that shapes its destiny
And makes it for a time a monarch's throne.

H. H.

IN MEMORIAM.

OH! Spirit, sweet and gracious, have you learned,
In your new Home, how dear you were to Earth?
Can you look now into our hearts to find
How we loved you, we women left behind
To miss your wholesome cheer? Have you dis-
cerned

The loneliness we feel, as reverently

We take your gifts to us? Do you know how
Your Christmas Symphony its music swells
Within our souls, to lift them up toward
"That great tideless stream, where all our voices
Meet and melt into the solemn silence?"
Have you sought out your New, Old Friends,
Whose far-off worship earth-like never told?
Do you know how your courage lent us strength
To meet and overcome a threatening fate?
Thou Queen of Loving Hearts! to whom the rich
And poor alike were known, is there a tribute
Dearer paid thy worth on Heaven's fair shore,
Where shining ones lead thee triumphant on
From joy to joy, than this our lonely hearts
Are offering now to thee, whose rounded life
Enriched the name of Woman? "She loved us!"
Through the marble door, beyond the stairway,
And the high walls that shut us out from thee,
We may not glance to see if thou dost smile,
To hear the echo of thy words; but if thou dost,
Then smile again, great soul, to hear us add
Our own refrain, Oh, Woman, we loved Thee!

UNAVAILING.

ONE day up toward a shelving shore
A careless wave at flood-tide crept,
Laughing and rippling more and more,
As near and nearer the waiting shore,
With dance and glitter and sparkle it swept.

At last with a touch like a kiss

The shore and the little wave met; Then the wave leapt back to the ocean's breast With a pain in its heart and strange unrest,

And the rugged shore as with tears was wet.

O, fain would the bright little wave

Have lingered to sport with the shore; With its low happy murmur to woo it, With its clatter and sparkle to sue it, And play in delight at its side evermore.

But the little wave sobs and sighs

For the shore that it kissed and left;

And though hidden deep in the ocean's breast, It never, no never'll be quite at rest,

And the shore is sad, of its smile bereft.

And echoing still, that moan of pain

Is ever heard by the patient shore,

That surf-beaten, storm-lashed, or still and lone Listens for one low murmuring tone,

And waits the return of the wave evermore.

TO-DAY.

Now is the fullness of the perfect season!
This is the day holding all days in one.
The present hour enfolds both faith and reason
In its embrace, claiming a victory won.

The ache of hearts to-day is spent in healing;
The joys of life increase as it holds sway;
The times which hitherto seemed void of feeling
Are throbbing as a human pulse to-day.

The life which wraps the earth, a crimson ocean,
With ebb and flow, laps it on every side,
And surges with its ever-restless motion,
Claiming its own, with its own to abide.

Each noble deed to-day bears on its bosom
Was yesterday a yearning in some breast,
Responding to that longing for the fusion

Of good with good, throughout all life possessed.

To-day has clouds, but who would miss the wonder?

The sunshine colors them with rosy light. To-day has storms; the snow-flake, or the thunder, Awakens us to visions of God's might.

That hearts have ached, must ache, e'er reason teaches

Its lessons of the best, the highest skill
To-day has learned, and in its turn it preaches
A quick submission to a Mighty Will.

To-day, to-day a gladdening earth rejoices

And Life drinks deeper of the crimson flood; While what seemed ill in yesterday, all voices Within its soul to-day declare was good.

The glorious Past sends all its beams to brighten The radiant splendor of this peerless shine; And the fair Sun of Righteousness shall lighten The East and West with Reason's rays divine.

A

ESTHER T. HOUSH.

mong the many women-workers for temperance and humanity there is none more devoted or earnest in the strife than Mrs. Housh. Although she has written for many years, yet it was about 1877, the date of her connection with "Woman at Work," published in Louisville, Ky., that Mrs. Housh first became known to the public at large. Five years later the publication was removed to Brattleboro, Vt., and re-christened "The Woman's Magazine," and in 1891 was suspended, Mrs. Housh taking an editorial position on the "Household" of Boston. While in Brattleboro, editing "The Woman's Magazine," she was called to the superintendency of the National Press Work for the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, a position she filled most acceptably for five years. For several years she was president of the Vermont Woman's Christian Temperance Union, having previously served as recording secretary for the same organization. Mrs. Housh's writings are acceptable to both old and young readers, but it is said of her that she loves most to please the children. She is a native of Ross county, Ohio, and was married to Mr. Housh at her grandfather's home, near Champaign, Ill., more than thirty years ago. Her son, Frank, has been associated with her in her work, having been the publisher of "Woman at Work." H. M.