No weakling girl, who would surrender will
And life and reason, with her loving heart,
To her possessor; no soft, clinging thing
Who would find breath alone within the arms
Of a strong master, and obediently
Wait on his will as in slavish carefulness;
No fawning, cringing spaniel to attend
His royal pleasure, and account herself
Rewarded by his pats and pretty words,
But a sound woman, who, with insight keen
Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well
Her womanhood; had spread before her feet
A fine philosophy to guide her steps;
Had won a faith to which her life was brought
In strict adjustment-brain and heart meanwhile
Working in conscious harmony and rhythm
With the great scheme of God's great universe,
On toward her being's end.

GIRLHOOD.

O eyes of blue!

O lily throat and cheeks of faintest rose!

-Ibid.

O brow serene, enthroned in holy thought!
O soft brown sweeps of hair! O shapely grace
Of maidenhood, enrobed in virgin white!

There's a bird's nest up there in the oak,
On the bough that hangs over the stream,
And last night the mother-bird broke
Into song in her dream.

This morning she woke, and was still;
For she thought of the frail little things
That needed her motherly bill,

Waiting under her wings.

And busily all the day long,

She hunted and carried their food,
And forgot both herself and her song
In her care for her brood.

I sang in my dream, and you heard;
I woke, and you wonder I'm still;
But a mother is always a bird
With a fly in its bill!

-Song and Silence.

-Ibid.

SUNSET.

And now the red sun flings his kiss
Across its waves from finger-tips
That pause, and grudgingly dismiss
The one he loves to closer lips,
And moonlight's quiet hour of bliss.
-The Mistress of the Manse.

MORNING.

The bright night brightened into dawn;
The shadows down the mountain passed;
The tree and shrub and sloping lawn,
With bending, beaded beauty glassed
In myriad suns the sun that shone!

Το

DAVID WILLIAM MCCOURT.

delight and instruct does not constitute the sole mission of poetry. The gift of song may properly and with effect be employed in the practical, philanthropic, and often necessary, work of exposing social shams, correcting abuses and unmasking the evils of the Pecksniffs whose detestable hypocrisies here and there fester upon the body politic. That Dr. McCourt is impressed with this view is evidenced by more than one of his poems. He cultivates the satiric muse to good purpose, and, although every conceivable vein of metrical composition receives attention at his hands, his favorite literary pastime is the puncturing of society's frivolities and the ridiculing of moral foibles in inspiring, caustic verse. His humor is always rich, bright and healthful.

David William McCourt was born in the town of Waukesha, Wisconsin, October 4, 1859. Both his parents are Scotch, and from them he inherits many of the sterling qualities of the Scottish race. At the age of sixteen he entered a denominational college at Battle Creek, Michigan, where he qualified himself for the profession of teaching. After spending three years as instructor in various Wisconsin and Nebraska schools, however, he became dissatisfied with teaching and studied dentistry with gratifying results. In 1884 he removed to St. Paul, Minn., where he is in the enjoyment of a lucrative practice. In 1880 he married an estimable young lady, and his is a sunny home. Dr. McCourt is the very embodiment of good nature and contented cheerfulness. Dark haired, tall and of elegant figure, he would attract attention even in a company of notables, and as one looks into his soft, honest, blue-gray eyes, one can forget for a moment that such things as duplicity and selfishness exist in this world. Dr. McCourt is soon to bring out a volume of poems whose popularity is assured in advance.

J. T.

'TIS THE HOUR WHEN DEWS DESCENDING.

"TIs the hour when dews, descending,
Fall to sleep on flower and tree,

And bright Hesperus is lending
Rays to light my steps to thee;
While the far cathedral bell

Softly chimes the close of day,
Keeping love's dear promise well,
To renewed delights I stray.

In the shadows of the vines,
Sweet the welcome that discloses
Where expectant love reclines,
Hidden in her bower of roses;

Leafy vine and shadow, screen us
From unfriendly prying eyes!
Guard us well love's mother, Venus,
In the dusk of evening skies!
Softly pause here, fleeting Time,

'Mid the fragrance of these flowers, Lovers deem it quite a crime

When you steal their precious hours. All too soon you bid us part,

Hour of bliss so quickly over; Morn may cheer the sorrowing heart, But the twilight brings the lover.

MINNEHAHA.

DANCING on, through shade and sun,
Comes the rippling laughing river,
Leaps the boulders one by one,

Makes the hanging branches quiver;
Whirls its eddies in the pool,
Lingers in the shadows cool,

On the pebbly shallows chattering,
Banks of nodding flowers bespattering,
Breaks the silence with her ah, ha,
Laughing, singing Minnehaha!
Now she nears the rocky ledge,

Hastens from her leafy cover,
Trembles on the boulder's edge,
Then goes leaping wildly over;
Gleaming in the summer air
Like a maiden's golden hair;

Chatters on the rocks beneath,
Weaves a rainbow for a wreath,
Wakes the echoes with her ha, ha!
Noisy, mirthful Minnehaha!

From the foamy pool emerging,
Singing, on again she rushes,
Through the narrow channel surging,
Gleaming through the clustered bushes,
Till she hears the waters falling,
Hears the Mississippi calling;

Hastens on her way to meet him,
Sends a rippling laugh to greet him,
Falls upon his bosom sighing,

And the echoes, still replying,

Whisper faint her smothered ha, ha!
Wild, coquettish Minnehaha!

THE POPULAR CREED. WE live too much by line and rule; Too much by cold and studied art, And narrow down the generous heart By lessons in self's sordid school.

449

Through selfish hopes our faith grows strong;
We worship where we think we gain
A thornless pathway free from pain-
A road to heaven built on song.

Our hearts are steeled with hate and pride
Against life's purer sympathies;

In vain some nobler impulse cries
To feelings self stands forth to chide.

We deem our lives are broad and good;
We show no love for meaner things;
We plainer hear when church bell rings
Than when the beggar asks for food.
We see afar some purpose grand,
Yet overlook life's duties near;
We cannot see the heathen here,
But only in a foreign land.

We bow before the shrine of pelf;

The light of the celestial shore
We catch a glimpse of-nothing more—
Over the growing mountain, self.

Oh! could we learn our lives to school

In noble, charitable arts;

Put self and pride from out our hearts, And let the good within us rule!

THE WOMAN IN THE CASE. WHEN erring man from Eden fell,

And plunged in sin the human race,
He laid the blame, as you know well,
Upon the woman in the case.

And since that first misfortune came
Our wrongs and evil luck we trace,
And like the first man, lay the blame
Upon the woman in the case.

When wise men err or good men stray,
'Tis the old tale-a pretty face;
And no one slips but people say:
"There was a woman in the case."

In social quarrel, or family jar,

The cause the gossips quick place; For Helen still engenders war

The modern woman in the case.

When bankers' clerks aspire to shine,
And live at quite a rapid pace,

We learn, when they have crossed the line,
There was a woman in the case.

Our friends, the Mormons, break our laws-
'Tis sad religion is so base-
While juries find the stumbling cause
Is still the woman in the case.

If there's a saint without a stain The devil hopes to win from grace, He seldom tempts by power or gain, But puts a woman in the case.

For murder, duel, suicide,

The daily papers find much space, And other news must stand aside To show the woman in the case.

Thus it would seem the subtle charm
Of pretty form in silk and lace

Is held the cause of all our harm,

And named, "The woman in the case."

Life, though with blessings it abounds, Would still be like an empty vase Were man compelled to plod its rounds Without a woman in the case.

THE PATRIOT'S REWARD.

PROUD is his step as one who knows
The noble purpose of his life,
The justice of his cause in strife,
The hate and weakness of his foes.
His flashing eye with pride surveys
The hills where liberty was born,
And will return in after days,

With mightier arms her standards raise,
And for her fallen heroes mourn;
Then turns with noble hate and scorn

His glance upon his foes, who stand
With sword at side and gun in hand
To execute the base command
Of tyrants who his land had torn.

Oh! could the hero's blood atone
For what the tyrant's sword had done!
If from the blood-bought soil would rise,
Engendered by the sanguine stream,
The tree of liberty, the dreamn
Of sages realms might realize.
If to the luckless warrior's son
The birthright of a freeman fell,
Then had the sacrifice been well,
Although the meed were dearly won;
Then might his life-blood wash away
The curses of the tyrant's sway,
And hallow to his name the sod
By future freemen proudly trod;
Nor shall the darkness of the tomb
Obscure the ray that will illume
The name of him who gave his hand,
His heart, his life to save his land.
But valor all too oft has won,
Its portion at the block or gun.