"and how well it read, too!" But the prize he had won was withheld. Three times he visited the editor's office, and on each occasion he was put off. Waxing wroth under such treatment, he insisted on having satisfaction, and as a last resort he accepted a dollar and a half, which the impecunious editor offered him in lieu of the book. Then he went back to farming, and then became a schoolmaster. But his heart was set on literature, and when he was only nineteen he started for New York with the intention of supporting himself by his pen. It was bread and cheese and an attic for a long time, and even the cheese was scarce now and then. But the haughty and capricious dame, Fame, discovered him at last, and alighting from her carriage one day, she dragged him down stairs from his sky parlor into the sunshine of the street. Trowbridge's work has been divided between verse and pure fiction. As a writer of prose he will be remembered by two or three novels, a group of extremely clever short stories and for more admirable books for boys. There is little danger of contradiction in describing him as the most popular boys' author in America. The natural critic finds him at his best in his poems, in which are blended loftiness of thought, catholicity of sympathy and lyrical simplicity. W. H. R.

Crowds out the native virtues,

And soon usurps the breast.

Better the endless endeavor,

The strong deed rushing on, And Happiness that, ere we know her And name her, smiles and is gone!

III.

We wait for the welling of waters
That never pass the brink;
We pour our lives in the fountain,
But cannot stay to drink.

"To-morrow," says Youthful Ardor,

Twining the vine and the rose,

"I will couch in these braided bowers, As blithe as the breeze that blows."

'To-morrow," says earnest Manhood,

Yet adding land to land,

"I will walk in the alleys of leisure, And rest from the work of my hand."

"To-morrow," says Age, still training
The vine to the trembling wall,
Till the Dark sweeps down upon us,
And the Shadow that swallows all.

THE SEEKING.

I.

By ways of dreaming and doing,
Man seeks the bourn of the blest;
Youth yearns for the Fortunate Islands,
Age pines for the haven of rest.

And we say to ourselves, "Oh! surely,
Beneath some bluer skies,
Just over our bleak horizon,

The land of our longing lies."

Each seeks some favored pathway,
Secure to him alone;
But every pathway thither

With broken hearts is strown.
II.

The Giver of Sleep breathed also,
Into our clay, the breath
And fire of unrest, to save us
From indolent life in death.

Fair is the opening rose-bud,

And fair the full-blown rose; And sweet, after rest, is action, And, after action, repose. But indolence, like the cow-bird,

That's hatched in an alien nest,

IV.

Ebb-tide chased by the flood-tide, Night by the dawn pursued, And ever contentment hounded By fresh inquietude!

Not what we have done avails us,
But what we do and are;

We turn from the deed that is setting,
And steer for the rising star.

We may wreck our hearts in the voyage;
But never shall sail or oar,

Nor wind of enchantment, waft us
Nearer the longed-for shore.

In vain each past attainment;

No sooner the port appears Than the spirit, ever aspiring, Spreads sail for untried spheres.

Whatever region entices,

Whatever siren sings,

Still onward beckons the phantom

Of unaccomplished things.

EVENING AT THE FARM.

OVER the hill the farm-boy goes.
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;-
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,

Cheerily calling.

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow
The cooling dews are falling;--

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,

His cattle calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray,
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes,
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling;-
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,

And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes.
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.