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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.
'T WAS long ago!
W. R. C.
And though I beat and beat against the rocks,
Love, 't was but yesterday
You held me in strong, loving arms,
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!
How gaily it rides on the glassy waves
Sleep soft, my bird, within your nest,
Our hearts and hopes with the ship are at rest!
Be gay, my baby, brave and gay!
By-low, my baby! Hush, my child!
Hear'st thou the wind's loud, angry roar?
Sleep sweet, my bird, while clouds droop low,.
Awake, my baby! Lift thy head
IN A LILY'S CUP.
A LONG, green stem creeps out from the brown
And broad leaves, coarsely veined, come with its birth;
But at its topmost end a sheath of white
I'll read you there a rhyme this dreary day,
Hear how the mad, weird March winds rave and roar!
See the surf beating on the rock-crowned shore!
Its white walls of pure influence close you round.
Look from your window, where your lilies bloom,
And prompts the tear that from its eyelids start;
That to the lily never entered in.
The world is sinful, you may say; and yet
JOHN BRAYSHAW KAYE.
OHN BRAYSHAW KAYE was born in York
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 went to Nevada in 1863, crossing the plains in 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.
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.
Sweet little cloud of vibration!
Bright little feathery fay!
Sipping the dew from the blue-bells,
Culling the sweets from the rose,
Hid from the dull sight of mortals,
Now at the thistle's red tassel,
Probing with needle-like bill, Drinking a sweet dreamy wassail, Humming thy melody still.
In the bright region of blossoms
Where the gay butterfly flaunts,
Where the wild honey-bee hovers
AFTER THE SLEET.
AFTER the sleet, and the sun is beaming,
Icicles now from the eaves are pending,
And the fences are grated with crystal bars,
And the loud, harsh note of the saucy jay,
Out in the barn-yard, kine are lowing
And locking horns in half-playful mood, And the champion barn-fowl loudly crowing, With pompous, vanity o'erflowing, Struts back and forth, advice bestowing
On all the barn-yard brood;
And in the door-yard now there sing
And the seeds in the wild flowers growing.
From a great-trunked oak, all branchless standing,
IN THE DEEP, TANGLED FOREST. IN THE deep, tangled forest I roamed when a boy, Absorbed and enchanted by solitude's spell, Till I grew a young hermit and found sweetest joy Where Nature, untrammeled, primeval, did dwell.
The shy, woodland denizens all seemed my friends, And with cautious timidity oft would draw near, Urged on by the power curiosity lends,
In confidence partly, and partly in fear.
The coo of the pigeon, the morning dove's note Were sounds that delighted my too pensive ear; And the pheasant's wild tattoo, loud beaten by rote To the song of the thrush, full of music and cheer.
The whispering branches, when stirred by the breeze, Related a story addressed to my soul;
And the autumn's sere leaves, as they fell from the trees,
Awakened strange feelings I scarce could control.
'T was a pleasure to climb up the steep, jutting cliff, And stray 'long the smooth, pebbly beach of the lake;
To launch on the waters the miniature skiff,
Or thread the wild maze of the vine-tangled brake.
To gaze from the bluff on the clear, placid bay, Where wild water-fowls swam, in such proud grace, along,
For naught seemed so free and so happy as they, Whose flight was a poem, whose floating a song.