M

MRS. JOHN CRAWFORD.

RS. JOHN CRAWFORD was born near Syracuse, N. Y. She is of German descent, her | maiden name being Quackenbush. At an early age her family moved to Canada, and for several years resided at Consecon, Ont., where the subject of this sketch attended grammar school. Quick to learn, at the age of twelve she stood at the head of her classes, but had never written a composition. Gifted with an active and retentive memory, each bit of poetry perused, the air and words of each song once heard, were remembered, and when but a child she recited at one time the whole of Goldsmith's "Deserted Village." She lived in Michigan for some time, and while there she was engaged in teaching. It was at this time that she commenced to contribute to the literary press. In 1868 she returned to Canada, locating at Newtonville, Ont. Writing for various Canadian and American newspapers was here a pleasant pastime. In 1870 she married John Crawford, of Clarke, Mich. For a few years her literary efforts were rather desultory, owing to domestic cares. She has two children, a boy and girl. Three years ago an entire summer's illness afforded leisure for literary work, and since that time more or less writing for the press has been indulged in, but always under the assumed title, "Maude Moore." A quantity of fiction has been written.

BUT YESTERDAY.

"T WAS long ago!

No, no,

Love, 't was but yesterday!

And yet, so far away it seems,

W. R. C.

So dimly comes to me in dreams, That ages might have come and gone Since last you left me here, alone!

You loved me, then?
Ah, when?

Love, 't was but yesterday!

Loved? Now you love no more! Hark! Hear the lake's loud roar! 'Tis the surf madly beating The rocks, and then retreating. Do the rocks yield? Ah, never! Rocks are but rocks, forever!

Dost seek to wound?
No sound!

Love, 't was but yesterday,
But love has wings and flies,
And the heart wounded dies;

And though I beat and beat against the rocks,
My heart alone can feel the cruel shocks!
The dream was sweet,
Though fleet.

Love, 't was but yesterday

You held me in strong, loving arms,
And, smiling, kissed away alarms,
And soothed my fears, and dried my tears.
Oh, the joy of the long-vanished years!
Can I forget?

Not yet!

Love, 't was but yesterday,

So sweet the dreams yet hold,
More precious than fine gold,

You wooed me and you won me! Vain regret!
Had you not won me, you had wooed me yet!

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

BY-LOW, my baby, by-low-by!
Thy father's ship 's at anchor nigh.

How gaily it rides on the glassy waves
That covers so many poor sailors' graves!
His heart is at anchor, his hopes are stayed
On his home and thee, my little maid.

Sleep soft, my bird, within your nest,
Our hearts and hopes with the ship are at rest!

Be gay, my baby, brave and gay!
Your father's ship sails away to-day,
And he must not see a saddened face,
For that 's to a sailor's wife disgrace.
The sea he loves, and the ship so trim,
But, oh, my baby, we'll pray for him!
That he may come back to us some day,
And so we will both be brave and gay!

By-low, my baby! Hush, my child!
Why start with terror, sudden, wild?

Hear'st thou the wind's loud, angry roar?
The breaker thundering on the shore?
O, wifely heart, oppressed with care,
Seek refuge now in God, in prayer!

Sleep sweet, my bird, while clouds droop low, And requiem winds wail sad and low.

Awake, my baby! Lift thy head
From off thy dainty, white-robed bed!
Thy father's safe, my nestling dear!
It is but joy that brings this tear;
His clasp is holding mother, child!
What care I though the waves roll wild?
Now slumber softly, sigh no more,
Our heart's wild storm of anguish o'er!

IN A LILY'S CUP.

227

A LONG, green stem creeps out from the brown

earth,

And broad leaves, coarsely veined, come with its . birth;

But at its topmost end a sheath of white
Unfolding shows a bud of beauty bright.
Fair, pure and stainless, fed by warmth and glow
Within, though all without be draped with snow.
A hothouse flower, preserved from storm or cold,
It grows, lives, blossoms and then waxes old.
Its life is brief, but beautiful. Look deep
Within its calyx as it lies asleep;

I'll read you there a rhyme this dreary day,
But whether "song or sermon" you shall say.

JOHN BRAYSHAW KAYE.

JOHN BRAYSHAW KAYE was born in York

JOHN

shire, England, June 10, 1841, the fourth son of a family of fourteen children, all yet living. He came to America with his parents in 1842, landing at Baltimore, Md. The family afterward moved to Pennsylvania, and went west in 1848, settling on a farm near Lake Geneva, Wis. There he passed the years of his youth. There his mind appeared to receive remarkable impressions from the witchery and beauty of the lake, and the splendid scenery which formed part of its associations. To him it was a rich source of physical and mental recreation. He received his education in the common and high schools of his native county. He

See the surf beating on the rock-crowned shore!
You can not feel the cruel, biting blast;
It shakes your windows as it hurries past,
But you are housed and fed, and safe within
A lily's cup, stainless and free from sin.

Its white walls of pure influence close you round.
Within its sheltered heart you love have found;
And "passion's host that never brooked control,"
Ne'er storms the citadel of saintly soul.

You have felt pain, and who that lives has not?
Such pain as Nature renders common lot,
But sorrow for lost hopes, lost loves or sin,
Has ne'er your lily portals entered in.
Sorrow for others, for a world sin-cursed,
Such of all sorrows seems to you the worst.

Look from your window, where your lilies bloom,
And hyacinth and heliotrope scent the room,
And rags and wretchedness may smite the eye
That lights alone for beauty. You may sigh,
For purest pity pearls the lily's heart,

And prompts the tear that from its eyelids start;
But ne'er those eyes can weep such tears as flow
From those who know the depths of want and woe;
And ne'er the heart can comprehend the sin

That to the lily never entered in.

The world is sinful, you may say; and yet
O'er far-off heathen you may sigh and fret,
But do not know or can not understand,
That there are worse than heathen in the land.
"Unto the pure all things are pure"; and so
The lily's cup is pure as unsunned snow.
Its heart's sweet innocence, its home of love,
Its likeness here below to Heaven above,
Safe from rude winds, its sweetness folded up,
Best of all dwellings is a lily's cup.

a wagon, arriving at Virginia City, and for a time was employed in the famous Ophir mine on the Comstock Lode. After four years of varied experiences, when, as it might be said, every man carried his bed on his back, he returned to his home. In 1869 he again went to Nevada, the attraction being the White Pine silver mining excitement of that period. After two years, satisfied with six years of roughing it, he returned to Wisconsin and commenced reading law with the Hon. John A. Smith, of Lake Geneva. Prior to this he had studied law in his hours of leisure. In 1872 he married and removed to Decorah, Iowa, and was admitted to the bar. Shortly after this he moved to Calmar, Iowa, and engaged in the usual practice of his profession. He was mayor of Calmar one or two years, and recorder many years. In 1886 he was elected county attorney, and was re-elected in 1888. As a lawyer he is as remarkable for his honesty as for his ability. His position, once taken, is held; there is no retreat, no compromise. His first book was published in 1874, and was called "Facts and Fancies." His second collection was entitled "Songs of Lake Geneva," He has in preparation two volumes, which will be published at an early day. F. L. G.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.
RARE little bird of the bower!
Bird of the musical wing,
While hiding thy head in some flower,
Softly thy green pinions sing;

Sing like the harp of .Eolus,

Hum out each murmuring note With a charm having power to control us, As we watch thee suspended afloat.