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society, there and at home, and sorrow that follows the death of those dear almost as life, has had a chastening yet quickening influence upon Mrs. Springer's genius and character, and throughout her poems one sees and feels the touch and pulse alike of the power and tenderness, created not only by genius, but

"In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering:

In the faith that looks through death;
In years that bring the philosophic mind."

W. H. M.

THE WEARY PILGRIM.

In the shadows I'm sitting, all lonely and dreary,
My garments are travel-stained, dusty and worn;
Of struggling and toiling alone I am weary,
So here in the darkness I wait for the morn.
Strong hearts have been near me, to comfort and
bless me,

Fond arms have upheld me in days that are gone;
Warm lips, full of blessings were wont to caress me,
Yet here in the darkness I'm watching alone.

The sunlight of life, hill and valley adorning,
Once flooded my path, but its radiance is o'er;
I'll find it no more, till some glorious morning
'T will burst on my gaze from eternity's shore.
Life's way is so lonely, and toilsome, and dreary,
The night-time is gathering about me so fast,
I'll rest by the wayside, my steps are so weary,
And dream of the morn, till the darkness is past.

GROWING OLD TOGETHER.

WE are growing old together-
Time has touched our locks with gray,
And the roseate hues of morning,
From our life have passed away.
But we do not heed the shadows,
Though they lengthen where we stand,
For we closely walk together

Holding each the other's hand.
Oft we count the years together
Since our pathways joined in one;
Part in sunshine, part in shadow,
Have the mingled courses run;
But no shadow, howe'er sombre,

Can a lengthened gloom impart,
When the sunlight softly lingers,

Shed by love, within the heart.

When we've reached life's mountain summit
Down its western slope we'll start,
With a thousand sacred memories,
Nestling softly in each heart.

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LIFE'S morning lies behind; its noon is past;
Its evening comes apace; and we, at last,
Weary and footsore, by the way sit down
And think in sorrow of our lost renown.
Sadly we grieve that in our life hath been
No grand and noble deeds—but all unseen
Our lowly toil. Then some sweet voice chants low,
'Wait till Time's angel shall thy record show,
The patient toil; the suffering meekly borne;
The kind word spoken to the sinking heart;
The cup of water in His name to one
Fainting and desolate; the cruel smart
We seek in other suffering hearts to ease

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By earnest deeds of love; Oh! faint heart, these These are the deeds He counts as labor done, And binds into the sheaf our toil hath won."

SEA.

How like our mortal life is to the sea!

Its tranquil hours, its storms, its mystery.
Its breaking waves, that ceaseless beat the shore,
Like breaking hearts, that hope till hope is o'er.
Its flitting sails, that meet upon the main
Like hearts that love an hour, then part again.
Its hidden graves o'er which the waters flow,
Hiding the skeletons that sleep below;
Its drifting sands that kindly cover o'er-

Like passing years- the wrecks that line the shore.
-The Wreck on the Strand.

WI

WILLIAM S. LORD.

ILLIAM S. LORD was born in Sycamore, Illinois, August 24, 1863,-the eldest child of Dr. Frederick A. Lord and Emily Bull Lord. The Lord family traces its descent in this country from one Thomas Lord, who settled in Hartford, Connecticut, in the year 1636, he being one of the founders of that town. The great-grandmother of our poet, Mrs. Phoebe Hinsdale Brown,-was quite celebrated in her time as a writer of devotional verse, many of her hymns being still sung in the churches. Mr. Lord's parents settled in Chicago at the close of the War, where his father acquired considerable reputation in his profession; but just as he was about to reap the rewards of his toil, he died, leaving the subject of this sketch, then ten years of age and with but three years of schooling, dependent upon his own exertions for a livelihood. He commenced the struggle manfully and has carried it on successfully. has given himself an education without the aid of schools, and has become managing partner of the leading dry-goods firm in Evanston, Illinois. Mr. Lord was united in marriage with Miss Nellie Rowland, of Chicago, in the year 1884.

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What literary skill Mr. Lord is possessed of is wholly due to his own efforts, and his love for poetry has developed in spite of adverse environSince 1880 he has contributed frequently to various periodicals and newspapers and has published two volumes of poetry-the first, entitled "Verses," was issued in 1883; and the second, "Beads of Morning," in 1888,-the latter title being taken from Wordsworth's lines in "The Hermit," beads of morning strung on slender blades of grass," and better describes the modesty of the poet than the value of his verse. Of this latter volume Mr. Eugene Field, of the Chicago Daily News, says: "It affords us pleasure to testify sincerely both to the merits of Mr. Lord's poetical work and to the artistic style in which this work is now presented to the public. We do not understand that Mr. Lord's claims are at all pretentious; in fact we do not know that this dainty little volume has been put forth with any claim whatsoever. Yet Mr. Lord's verse is all of the better order and we like it particularly for its simplicity, its delicacy and its evident earnestness." This the writer thinks is just and merited praise and fully shows the character of Mr. Lord's work. J. C. E.

A PURITAN MAIDEN. A DEW-DROP in a lily's cup, Before the sun hath kissed it up, That softly trembles as it lies Reflecting June's serenest skies,

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