It was a treasure. "Happy he who claimed it," And went to Hannah with the new-found treasure, 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 ELLA HIGGINSON. 399 Nearer now, we're drawing near, 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! Lo! a shower of golden rain! Runs the river toward the main, Now the broader waters gleam- Will the ibis fly again? Boatman, boatman, oft I hear One sweet voice that once was dear; Ibis, thou wilt fly again, 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, Here sap runs riot in the proud fir's veins 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, Soft-toned frogs make sweet the solemn night HER WAY. THERE is within a western wood a place With yielding bosom, she doth strive to lie,— 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, And holds them, waiting, till drenched and cool; Then rises and goes thro' the long, wet, grass, Over the hill where the dying sun Out to the barnyard the farmer goes, Where the stream steals thro' and sings as it flows, He yet finds something vaguely sweet Out to the orchard the housewife goes, "Ch-uck-e! Ch-uck-e! Ch-uck-e-e!" In a little white chamber where all is still, Dimpled hands fondle her bosom of snow, THE ANGEL IN HELL. THE devil he stood at the gates of hell And he sighed:-"Come down, sweet siren, and learn The lesson of passion and love!" |