Puslapio vaizdai

When through soft aisles of misty green
Made sweet and cool with shadows,
Came gleams of yellow blooms between
From distant, sunny meadows.

Oh, Summer days! sweet Summer days!
When over fields of clover,
We loitered by the shady ways,

Or walked the green paths over;
When by the river's silver sheen

The lilies red were burning,
Like scarlet flames against the green
That Summer winds were turning.

Oh, Summer days! lost Summer days!
Too soon the purple gloaming
Came down and hid with dreamy haze
The path where we were roaming;
For in the mists that lingered long
O'er meadow, wood and river,
We stilled the passion of Love's song,
And said good-bye forever.


ALL day against my window blurred and dim
The rain had dripped with dreary monotone,
And leaning mists, that hurrying winds had blown
From o'er the distant mountain's purple rim,
Made twilight pale within the leafless woods.
There, in those bleak and dismal solitudes
No bud made bright the branches dull and gray,
Nor bloom shone on the withered vines that shed
Their broken stems along the winding way.

"The spring will come no more, no more," I said "Unto my life made sad with loss and pain!" When, lo! across the clouds of driving rain The sunlight broke with splendor sweet and mild, And from the faded turf the first blue violet smiled!


Was it the echo dim of hidden mountain brooks Pouring their frosty streams along the misty vale,

Or but a withered weed that rustled 'neath my feet?

I only know a sound, sad as the beat of rain On long-forgotten graves, moved my heart's depths with sweet

And mournful longings, deeper far than pain; And o'er the wasted years-swift as the swallows' flight,

My thoughts sped back across the bleak, drear night,

O love, to home and thee!
-A Fragment.



HE name of Julie M. Lippmann is to be included in that band of younger writers, men and women, who in this country are doing earnest and artistic work in poetry, and who are slowly but surely earning for themselves substantial reputation.

Miss Lippmann, though born of German parents, is thoroughly American, having lived almost her entire life in Brooklyn, which is her present home. Her education has been somewhat eclectic, so far as definite and protracted courses of study are concerned; but a discriminating taste in reading, a steady and high purpose, and perhaps more than all else the influences of a cultured home, have resulted in a development which the schools sometimes fail to produce. Besides her devotion to literature, the cultivation of which she looks upon as her serious life-work, Miss Lippmann is an enthusiast in music and an amateur pianist of no mean ability.

For some years this poet has been a favored contributor to the children's department of that unique publication, the Youth's Companion, and her child-poems have also appeared in such magazines and papers as St. Nicholas, Harper's Young People, and many others. She has been, therefore, most distinctively known as a writer of child-verse. More recently, however, work bearing her name and addressed to children of a larger growth has crept into The Century, The Atlantic, The Overland Monthly, The Independent, and similar high-class journals and periodicals, and has shown conclusively that her field is not to be thus restricted. "My Lady Jacqueminot," which appeared several years ago in The Independent, has been copied far and wide in this country and in Canada, and is one of the most perfect and dainty examples of her lighter vein, though not bearing comparison with deeper and later work. A recent poem in The Atlantic, entitled "It Seems But Yesterday," may be referred to as one of those productions which cause the most captious critic to lay down the scalpel and resign himself to the luxury of unalloyed approval.

In addition to her poetical productions, Miss Lippmann has turned her attention to prose and written several stories, long and short, which are likely to be heard from at an early day. At the age of twenty-five her health is quite uncertain, and she is obliged to pursue her studies and develop her gift under limitations fitted to discourage and silence one possessing less of will, indomitable pluck and singleness of purpose. That

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est of the people is Rev. Minot Judson Savage, at present pastor of the Church of the Unity, Boston, Mass. In a letter to a friend, Mr. Savage writes: "There was no time in my boyhood when I did not intend to become a minister." It would, therefore, appear that his writings were made secondary to or dependent upon his profession.

Mr. Savage was born June 10, 1841, at Norridgewock, Me. The greater part of his life was passed there until he had attained manhood. At thirteen he became a member of the Congregational Church, in which belief he was raised. He became dissatisfied with that doctrine and has filled a Unitarian pulpit since 1873. It was Mr. Savage's intention to enter Bowdoin College, but ill health prevented, and he was, therefore, compelled to take a theological course at the Bangor Seminary. Prof. Harris was at that time connected with the school, and Mr. Savage has never forgotten his strengthening influence. Mr. Savage graduated from the seminary in 1869, and in September of that year left his home to settle in San Mateo, Cal., having received a commission from the American Home Missionary Society of New York. One and a half years later he was assigned to a church in Grass Valley, Cal., preaching there eighteen months. His duty to his parents called him home at this time. Shortly after returning east, a call to a church in Framingham was given and accepted. After staying there two years a call was received from Hannibal, Mo., and another from Indianapolis, Ind. Owing to its close proximity to a brother, located at Jacksonville, Ill., he decided to accept the church at Hannibal. He remained there three and a half years, and it was during this time he experienced his theological change. He determined to leave the orthodox faith and embrace Unitarianism. Mr. Savage next assumed the pastorate of the Third Unitarian Church of Chicago. In the spring of 1874 he went to Boston to attend the May meetings, and, having a Sunday at his disposal, he supplied the pulpit of the Church of the Unity. After his return to Chicago a call was given him from that church, and in September, 1874, he began his work there, where he has since remained. During these years of clerical labor Mr. Savage's pen has not been idle. He has contributed to different periodicals throughout the country, and has published numerous volumes, chiefly prose. A book of poems appeared in 1882. This volume does not comprise all the poems he has written, as

Evolution," "Talks About Jesus," "Man, Woman and Child," "Christianity the Science of Manhood," "The Religion of Evolution," and "Life Questions." N. L. M.


THERE's never an always cloudless sky,
There's never a vale so fair,
But over it sometimes shadows lie
In a chill and songless air.

But never a cloud o'erhung the day,
And flung its shadows down,
But on its heaven-side gleamed some ray,
Forming a sunshine crown.

It is dark on only the downward side:
Though rage the tempest loud,
And scatter its terrors far and wide,
There's light upon the cloud.

And often when it traileth low,

Shutting the landscape out, And only the chilly east winds blow From the foggy seas of doubt, There 'll come a time, near the setting sun, When the joys of life seem few,

A rift will break in the evening dun,

And the golden light stream through.

And the soul a glorious bridge will make
Out of the golden bars,

And all its priceless treasures take
Where shine the eternal stars.


I KNOW it is coming, my absent ship,
Out somewhere over the seas unknown,
Though it wander afar where the oceans dip

Below the round world's edge sloping down.

I have never seen it except in dreams,
Or, like a mirage, in the misty air;
And yet it is coming, and often it seems
To be rounding the point over there.
It is loaded down to the water's edge

With all that the heart of man desires:
Rich robes and fine gold in many a wedge,

And jewels that flash with their hidden fires.

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