It was a treasure. "Happy he who claimed it,"
A maiden said, "'tis worthy of a bride."
Another maid "the ocean's dowery" named it;
But gently Alice, weeping, turned aside,-
Sad Bay Chaleur!-

And went to Hannah with the new-found treasure,
And stood again beside the old arm-chair;

The maidens stood around her, radiant with pleasure,

And playful wove the gentians in her hair. Then Hannah said, her feelings ill dissembling, "Some sailor-lad this treasure once possessed; And now, perhaps," she added, pale and trembling, "His form lies sleeping 'neath the ocean's breast, In Bay Chaleur!"

Now on her knee the open box she places,

Her trembling hand falls helpless on her breast; Into her face look up two pictured faces,

The faces that her sailor-boy loved best. One picture bears the written words, "My mother,"

Old Hannah drops her wrinkled face in pain; "Alice," sweet name, is writ beneath the otherOld Hannah's tears fall over it like rain. Dark Bay Chaleur!

The spring will come, the purple swallows bringing, The green leaves glitter where the gold leaves fell;

But nevermore the time of flowers and singing
Will hope revive in her poor heart to dwell.
Life ne'er had brought to her so dark a chalice,
But from her lips escaped no bitter moan;
They, 'mid the gentians, made the grave of Alice,
And Hannah lives in her old cot alone,
By Bay Chaleur.

399

Nearer now, we're drawing near,
Naught but cypresses appear.
Hark! what song is that I hear!
'Tis a bird that love elates-
Some sweet bird beyond the gates
Of the Ocklawaha.

Slowly-awful shades are these! Seas of mosses, seas of trees! Currents viewless as the breeze; Half the boat is in the straits, Half is through the Cypress Gates Of the Ocklawaha.

On-the sunlight drops a ray!
On-the current knows the way!
On-the bird still sings its lay,
And a sun-flood fills the straits;-
Shadows-shadows-were the gates
Of the Ocklawaha.

Lo! a shower of golden rain!
Lo! the ibis flies again!

Runs the river toward the main,
Fades the dark air, fade the straits,
Fade the unlocked Cypress Gates
Of the Ocklawaha.

Now the broader waters gleam-
Seems my voyage upon the stream
Like a semblance of a dream,
And the dream my soul elates;
Life flows through the Cypress Gates
Like the Ocklawaha.

Will the ibis fly again?
Will the ring-dove sigh again?
Sunsets fall in golden rain?
Boatman, boatman, what awaits
Us beyond the Cypress Gates
Of Life's Ocklawaha?

Boatman, boatman, oft I hear
Falling, falling, on my ear,

One sweet voice that once was dear;
And I think God's love awaits
My poor faith beyond the gates
Of the Ocklawaha.

Ibis, thou wilt fly again,
Ring-dove, thou wilt sigh again,
Jessamines bloom in golden rain;
And a loving song-bird waits
Me beyond the Cypress Gates
Of the 'Ocklawaha.

ELLA

ELLA HIGGINSON.

LLA RHOADS HIGGINSON was born near Council Grove, Kansas, in the beautiful valley of the Neosho, in the year 1862. Her birth-place was the typical log-cabin prairie home of those days, with morning glories blooming about its humble door, and miles of waving, flower-lit prairie -Nature's own lawn-stretching further than her baby-eyes could reach. When she was two years of age her parents joined the westward-flowing tide of emigration, and thus the far-off land" where rolls the Oregon" came to be the home of her girlhood. The early development of a poetic temperament found vent in short stories of romance, written in a desultory fashion, at the fitful dictation of girlish fancy, many of which were published in various Pacific Coast periodicals, long before she dreamed of achieving a literary career. Humble birth and surroundings and imperfect educational advantages were obstacles that should not be overlooked when considering the literary achievements of Ella Higginson. After her marriage, in 1882, to Russell C. Higginson, and prior to June, 1888, she had written but little poetry; but about that date she wrote one or two strikingly beautiful poems that, when published in an eastern journal, at once attracted favorable notice, and thenceforth she gave herself up to the sway of the rhythmic Muse. In the brief space of two years she has written more than one hundred poems, which have appeared in all parts of the United States, and have been widely copied and read.

Whatever of success has come, or is destined yet to come, to Ella Higginson has been won by her own unaided efforts. With few to encourage and but little to inspire her, she has worked on, and by sheer force of will has overcome obstacles and risen above failures beneath which many a woman would have sunk, disheartened. She has nobly earned the rewards she is now gathering, and that, perchance, makes them doubly welcome.

Her present home is at Sehome, on the shores of Puget Sound, which fair land has been fitly described in her sonnet, "Winter on Puget Sound." C. B. M.

WINTER ON PUGET SOUND.

I KNOW a land all rich with purple bloom,
Where waters sleep, agleam with opal's fire,
And white-winged sea-gulls dip, and never tire,
Into the sea's great, fruitful, yielding womb.
Here rose-blue mists, like sunlit thistles, loom
Upon their mother's breast, disdaining sire,
Yet, like the immortal soul, rise ever higher,
Or sink into that passion-heaving tomb.

Here sap runs riot in the proud fir's veins
And banks of tender green slope to the sea;
Willows and wild rose-bushes burst to leaf,
And western birds peal forth their glad refrains;
Here is no snow, no frost, no frozen lea;

This is the sunset land-sweet past belief.

BELLINGHAM BAY.

ONE broad, blue sweep of dancing, sunlit sea, Fleck'd here and there with blown sails, white as foam.

Here, warm lights die and restless sea-gulls roam, And winds steal in from ocean wantonly. Southward, the chaste Olympics, snow-washed, free,

Gleam through the purple mist; eastward, the dome

Of all the Cascades guards our western home. Here, wild birds pour their souls out, mad with glee,

And, downward dipping in the blue wave's crest,
Fling opalescent drops from wings and breast;
From cool, marsh-meadows, where lies dim the
light,

Soft-toned frogs make sweet the solemn night
And violet-scented morn; and ebbs and flows
The tide forever, with its joys and woes.

HER WAY.

THERE is within a western wood a place
Where spring doth wanton as she dallies by,
With many a warm, voluptuous kiss and sigh;
Her bare soft arms she twines with nameless grace
About the fir's strong throat. In his embrace,

With yielding bosom, she doth strive to lie,—
With wiles the passion of his life to buy.
At her soft touch hot saps do leap and race
Along his swelling veins; his strong limbs thrill
Beneath the force of her seductive will;

At first he but submits to her caress,

As one might smile at some sweet child at play: Then, passions, bursting into bloom, confess His will is her's-Spring has regained her sway.

MIDSUMMER NIGHT.

Down thro' the field in the fading light,
The milkmaid goes with her tin pails bright;
Stoops by the spring underneath the pines,
And pushing aside the clustering vines,
Plunges them into the bubbling pool,

And holds them, waiting, till drenched and cool;

Then rises and goes thro' the long, wet, grass,
By the narrow path where the cattle pass,
Cheerily calling, strong and free,
"So-ook-e! So-ook-e! So-ook-e-e!"

Over the hill where the dying sun
Lingers a moment when the day is done,
And flushes the west with a flood of light,
The plowboy goes into the fragrant night;
Singing and whistling right merrily,
For his heart is clean and his soul is free;
Switching the flowers and taking no heed
How far in the distance the horses feed;
And they sidle away with a long, slow lope,
When he calls, "Co'p, Fan! Co'p, Bill! Co'p! Co'p!"

Out to the barnyard the farmer goes,

Where the stream steals thro' and sings as it flows,
Wearily plodding with soil-worn feet,

He yet finds something vaguely sweet
In the low, soft murmur of myriad frogs,
And the noisy welcome of well-kept hogs;
He counts them-and one is away or lost!
So quick in the trough the food is tossed,
While the farmer calls loudly and anxiously,
"Po-oo-e! Po-oo-e! Po-oo-e-e!"

Out to the orchard the housewife goes,
Where the dews fall thickly on pansy and rose,
Chases the chickens from roost on the trees,
And invites them into their coops, if they please;
Counts and re-counts them, but one is gone,
She searches the orchard, the garden, the lawn,
Even in the grass that is deep and wet,
She looks for the place where "Speckle "has "set;"
Rattling the wheat, she calls, coaxingly,

"Ch-uck-e! Ch-uck-e! Ch-uck-e-e!"

In a little white chamber where all is still,
And the roses peep in at their own sweet will,
The young mother sits with a child at her breast,
Tenderly trying to lull it to rest;

Dimpled hands fondle her bosom of snow,
And wet lips press kisses-while she sings low,
"O-hush thee, darling,-and go to sleep,
There's time enough-time, dearie-left to weep;
O-hush thee-hush"-she croons dreamily-
"Hush thee-Hush thee-Hush thee-e-e!"

THE ANGEL IN HELL.

THE devil he stood at the gates of hell
And yearned for an angel above,

And he sighed:-"Come down, sweet siren, and learn

The lesson of passion and love!"