CARRIE RENFREW. ARRIE RENFREW resides in Hastings, Neb. though rapid, if not phenomenal, is evidently but the mere promise of what she is yet to accomplish, for she is still in the very morning of life, surrounded by every earthly comfort, a beloved member of a well-born, harmonious and happy family, who sympathize with her aspirations and rejoice in her success. Her mother, a rare and excellent woman, several sisters and a brother are still living, but her father, the late honored Silvester Renfrew, one of the early pioneers of Hastings, died during the past year. Miss Renfrew was from childhood a thinker, dreamer and philosopher, but not, like most poets, an early rhymster. Her lack of training in the art of rhyming, while plainly visible in some of her first attempts, has its compensation in the higher and more essential qualities that characterize nearly all her recent efforts. It is scarcely more than five years since the advent of her first poems in the Inter-Ocean, Woman's Tribune and other western papers. In temperament Miss Renfrew is a harmonious blending of the brunette and blonde types. She is of about medium size, has a graceful figure, an attractive manner and appearance, and a magnetic presence, and does not on acquaintance disappoint those who have learned to love and admire her through her poetry. She has already endeared herself to a host of personal friends and to thousands who knew her only through her work. The world at large will know her better in the near future. J. G. C. POETRY. THE bloom of thought kissing eternity; LIFE. I LOVE thee, love thee, life! ⚫ I fain would dwell with thee, thy much-loved guest. I love thee, love thee, life! Oh, hold me closer in thy strong embrace, Uplift me, bear me onward in thy race; Impart to me thy soul's exulting power To be my heritage forevermore. I love thee, love thee, life! I fain would wear thy brightness in my face! "MISSING." MISSING! A voice! Its impassioned refrain And I listen in vain. Its music has vanished afar from me Somewhere in the lonely mystery. Missing! A smile! And the sunshine of home My heaven of joy has lost a star, Missing! A face! And the fireside of love Is lone is lone. The lack of a something dear to me Missing! Ah me! The strange silence around Enflamed through the darksome mystery Missing! Ah me! And I listen in vain To catch one note Of a tender refrain. But yet, pitying Hope sings low to me Sometime, ay, somewhere in that mystery. BEFORE A MUMMY. AMID the ghastly relics of dead time A shaft of sunlight fell in careless play, It spied an ancient mummy as it fell, CARRIE RENFREW. 201 And this small, hideous, brown thing was once The ghastly remnant of a joy and woe, And gave life's fairness to this lump of clay? Ah, where? It has departed as the flame Into invisible and soundless Nay. Our questionings do haunt the voiceless deep Like homeless, storm-tossed birds seeking for rest. And still 'tis nature's cruelty that blows Them quivering, too, upon their hopeless quest. The bird of faith is but a weakling bird, It can not soar mid sepulchers of doubt; Its pinions falter in the charnel air, The Nay of silence shadows it about. Oh, man! how poor, how limited thy light! Though whirled above a precipice of night. 'Tis well! The present owns some little warmth; So bask within the pleasure of the known. Circean Life with kisses offers thee Her flaming draught and bids thee drink the boon. Drink, deeply drink, Life will not tarry long. Too soon thou'lt see the fair one vanishing, And from the blackness of the great abyss The Sphinx of Death will rise with soundless wing. Relentless, cruel in its voicelessness, "Twill bear thee, shrinking, on its loveless breast Into the Whither where no ripple stirs To whisper us the manner of thy rest. But Love hath flung the rainbow of its hope The flower of immortality's To Know Illusion of illusion it may be, But still this fleeting life, Time's parasite, And see the glimmering of being's Yea. Thou withered mummy of a once fair life, Nay! ours the light by which we're perfected, That makes us something more than time's plaything, Not dew-drops lost in the eternal sea, But conscious parts of infinite To Know, The quenchless beams of immortality. A REFRAIN. DYING, dying, dying! Hearken to the solemn measure, Piercing inward like a knife Through our spirit's inmost pleasure, Under-currrent of all life. Hearken, hearken! Oh, the achings On our wakings, On our wakings, aye, and sleepings, Dying, dying, dying! Oh, the dark that lies behind it When the dying ones are dead! Seeking light, we can not find it; Deeper dark is ours instead. And we listen For some echo To out-glisten On the Mecca Of our hot desire's upbuilding, But there's only that one sighing, Dying, dying, dying! Is there not some truer measure Heaven's blisses Drifting soundward, Bending downward. Sing, oh, soul, thy song immortal, Sing thy hope through all this dying, H HARRY CHARLES FAULKNER. ARRY CHARLES FAULKNER was born in Boston, November 27, 1863. His mother was a daughter of Josiah Abbott, Esq., of Boston, and his paternal grandfather was Augustus Faulkner, of Walpole, N. H., at one time governor of New Hampshire. The blood of the Puritans is almost undiluted in his veins. For eight generations his ancestors have been New England people, direct descendants of the "Mayflower" pilgrims, and the earliest settlers of Massachusetts Bay Colony in Boston and also in Andover. It is somewhat odd, in view of these facts, the direction his principal literary work has taken. Nothing could be farther removed from the firm, austere and solemn New Engiand manner than the gayety and lightness of his touch. His parents moved to New York City when he was about four years old, and the metropolis has been his home ever since. His education began at five in the public schools, and at fourteen he entered the College of the City of New York, graduating in the year 1882, the youngest Bachelor of Arts ever sent out from its halls. After graduation he was associated with Colonel C. L. Norton, for some time editor of The Continent, and in 1884 he became managing editor of the Domestic Monthly, which position he still occupies. It is difficult to say when his literary work began. All through the college periodicals are scattered his verses. Since 1883 his poems have been frequently seen in the leading journals. In 1884 he published a valuable little book, "Dictionary of Synonyms," upon an entirely new plan. In 1885 a "Classical and Mythological Dictionary" edited by him was issued, and at present he is busy with an important work for which he is particularly well equipped. His range of work has not been great, but within his limits the result is brilliant. Vers de Société is his field, and he stands in the front rank of the few Americans who have followed successfully where Herrick and Prior, Praed and Thackeray, Dobson and Lang have led. Mr. Faulkner is nearly six feet in height, slender, but muscular, and in his college days excelled in athletic sports such as running, foot-ball, etc. He still retains the elastic step and quickness of the athlete, but a slight droop in his shoulders is the penalty of his devotion to his desk. His eyes are blue, his nose large and prominent, and his hair curls away from his forehead, and is brushed back without a parting. He is unmarried. His health has not been good for several years, and trips |