THE ORIGIN OF BIRDS.

THE Indians of the Shasta Mountains tell

A legend strange and beautiful. They say That the Great Spirit stepped from cloud to cloud, In the primeval day,

And first upon the dome of Shasta stood,

The spotless face of new-born earth to see, And everywhere He touched the land, upsprang A green, luxuriant tree.

Pleased with the sight, the splendor of His smile Melted the snows and made the rivers run, And soon the branches tossed their leafy plumes And blossomed in the sun.

Day after day while that first summer shone

He watched with fresh delight the growing trees; But autumn came, and fast the bright leaves fell, Swept by the keener breeze.

Yet were they radiant now, in every hue

Of red and gold which could with sunset vie; Looking on them He loved them, they were still Too beautiful to die!

Thrilled by His quickening gaze, each leaf renewed
Its life, and floated buoyantly along;
Its beauty put forth wings, and as it soared
Its gladness grew to song.

Thus from the red-stained oak the robin came,
The cardinal-bird the maple's splendors bore,
The yellow-bird the willow's faded gold

In living plumage wore.

Even the pale-brown leaves the pageant joined,
Sparrow and lark awakened to rejoice,
And though they were less fair, He gave to them
The more melodious voice.

Since then the birds close kinship with the trees
Have ever kept, and build the yearly nest
Beneath the fragrant shelter of the boughs,
As on a mother's breast.

Beyond the moons that beam, the suns that blaze, Past fields of ether, crimson, violet, rose,

The vast star-garden of eternity,

Behold! it shines with white, immaculate rays,
The home of peace, the haven of repose,
The lotus-flower of heaven, Alcyone.

II.

It is the place where life's long dream comes true:
On many another swift and radiant star
Gather the flaming hosts of those who war
With powers of Darkness; those strong seraphs too
Who hasten forth God's ministries to do;
But here no sounds of eager trumpets mar
The subtler spell which calls the soul from far,
Its wasted springs of gladness to renew.

It is the morning land of the Ideal,
Where smiles, transfigured to the raptured sight,
The joy whose flitting semblance now we see;
Where we shall know as visible and real
Our life's deep aspiration, old yet new
In the sky splendor of Alcyone.

III.

What lies beyond we ask not. In that hour
When first our feet that shore of beauty press,
It is enough of heaven, its sweet success,
To find our own. Not yet we crave the dower
Of grander action and sublimer power;
We are content that life's long loneliness
Finds in love's welcoming its rich redress,
And hopes, deep hidden, burst in perfect flower.
Wait for me there, O loved of many days!
Though with warm beams some beckoning planet

glows,

Its dawning triumphs keep, to share with me;
For soon, far winging through the starry maze,
Past fields of ether, crimson, violet, rose,
I follow, follow, to Alcyone!

ALCYONE. I.

AMONG the thousand, thousand spheres that roll,
Wheel within wheel, through never-ending space,
A mighty and interminable race,
Yet held by some invisible control,
And led as to a sure and shining goal,
One star alone with still, unchanging face,
Looks out from her perpetual dwelling-place,
Of these swift orbs the centre and the soul.

RAINBOW.

Bridge of enchantment! for a moment hung Between the tears of earth and smiles of heaven -The Rainbow.

AUTUMN.

Is it that Nature calls us

Her service of peace to share, -

After the song the silence,

After the praise the prayer?

-The Vigil of the Year.

NIGHT.

Earth yields her beauty to the morning light, But heaven itself is opened to the night.

-Mount Hamilton.

THOMAS C. HARBAUGH. 'HOMAS CHALMERS HARBAUGH was born

on the scene of the battle of South Mountain. His parents came to Piqua, Miami County, Ohio, two years later, and in the early boyhood of the poet removed to the little hamlet of Casstown, in the same county, which place has ever since been his home. He received his education in the country schools and made the most of his disadvantages; He has not been surrounded by stirring scenes, nor has he lived among people of literary tastes; his companions from childhood have been the plain farmer people of Ohio, his books, and the fields and streams of the Miami valley. How he began to write verse he can not tell, but as early as 1861 we find him thinking in rhyme and it is not unjust to him to say that his productions at that time were not an earnest of his work to-day. But he was deeply stirred by the spirit of the war and i. turned his reading to war stories and history which tinged. and shaped his poetry in a marked degree.

He has written voluminously of the soldiers living and dead, and for many years has prepared and delivered a poem on Decoration Day. He is in great demand at regimental re-unions and at Grand Army gatherings, and never fails to produce something pleasing, being particularly happy in putting the thought of any occasion into verse. An announcement that "Tom Harbaugh" is to recite a poem insures an audience. He is slender, short of stature and is afflicted with a stoppage in his speech, but when reciting his poems his voice rings clear and the words flow on until his hearers respond in cheers or tears.

His life as the world goes has been an uneventful one. He is unmarried. He is very methodical in his work. He goes to his study at 8 A. M. and writes two hours, also two hours in the afternoon. In many leisure hours he rambles in the fields, very often with rod or gun. Mr. Harbaugh published "Maple Leaves," a volume of poems, in 1883, and has printed much prose and poetry since. In the near future he will issue another volume containing his poems of the last five years, which are by far the best work he has done. A. F. B.

FOR DISTURBIN' OF THE CHOIR. 'TWAS a stylish congregation, that of Theophratus Brown,

And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town,

And the chorus-all the papers favorably com

mended on it,

For 'twas said each female member had a fortydollar bonnet.

Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer,

Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir.

He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his hair as snow was white,

And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might.

His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords,

And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words

Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind,

And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind.

The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow,

And then he used the tunes in vogue an hundred years ago;

At last the storm-cloud bursted, and the church was told, in fine,

That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign.

Then the pastor called together in the vestry-room one day

Seven influential members who subscribe more

than they pay,

And having asked God's guidance in a printed pray'r or two,

They put their heads together to determine what to do.

They debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York,"

Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork,

Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer,

And proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir."

Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile,

And we'll sell it if we can not worship in the latest style;

Our Philadelphy tenor tells me, 'tis the hardest thing

For to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing.

"We've got the biggest organ, the dressiest choir

in town,

We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown;

But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old

If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold."

Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four,

With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door;

And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb,

As they crossed the humble portal, took good care to miss the jamb.

They found the church's trouble sitting in his old arm chair,

And the Summer's golden sunbeam lit his brow and snowy hair;

He was singing "Rock of Ages" in discordant voice and low,

But the angels understood him, it was all he cared to know.

Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation,

To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation;"

"And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge,

And the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge.

It was the understandin' when we bargained for the chorus,

That it was to relieve us- that is, do the singin' for us;

If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother,

It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another.

We don't want any singin' exceptin' what we've

bought!

The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught;

And so we've all decided-are you list'nin', Brother Eyer?

That you'll have to stop your singin', for it flurytates the choir."

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear,

And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear;

His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the driven snow,

As he answered the committee in a voice both meek and low: