M

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.

BUT YESTERDAY.

'T WAS long ago!

No, no,

W. R. C.

And though I beat and beat against the rocks,
My heart alone can feel the cruel shocks!
The dream was sweet,
Though fleet.

Love, 't was but yesterday

You held me in strong, loving arms,
And, smiling, kissed away alarms,
And soothed my fears, and dried my tears.
Oh, the joy of the long-vanished years!
Can I forget?

Not yet!

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!
Thy father's ship 's at anchor nigh.

How gaily it rides on the glassy waves
That covers so many poor sailors' graves!
His heart is at anchor, his hopes are stayed
On his home and thee, my little maid.

Sleep soft, my bird, within your nest,

Our hearts and hopes with the ship are at rest!

Be gay, my baby, brave and gay!
Your father's ship sails away to-day,
And he must not see a saddened face,
For that 's to a sailor's wife disgrace.
The sea he loves, and the ship so trim,
But, oh, my baby, we'll pray for him!
That he may come back to us some day,
And so we will both be brave and gay!

By-low, my baby! Hush, my child!
Why start with terror, sudden, wild?

Hear'st thou the wind's loud, angry roar?
The breaker thundering on the shore?
O, wifely heart, oppressed with care,
Seek refuge now in God, in prayer!

Sleep sweet, my bird, while clouds droop low,.
And requiem winds wail sad and low.

Awake, my baby! Lift thy head
From off thy dainty, white-robed bed!
Thy father's safe, my nestling dear!
It is but joy that brings this tear;
His clasp is holding mother, child!
What care I though the waves roll wild?
Now slumber softly, sigh no more,
Our heart's wild storm of anguish o'er!

IN A LILY'S CUP.

A LONG, green stem creeps out from the brown

earth,

And broad leaves, coarsely veined, come with its birth;

But at its topmost end a sheath of white
Unfolding shows a bud of beauty bright.
Fair, pure and stainless, fed by warmth and glow
Within, though all without be draped with snow.
A hothouse flower, preserved from storm or cold,
It grows, lives, blossoms and then waxes old.
Its life is brief, but beautiful. Look deep
Within its calyx as it lies asleep;

I'll read you there a rhyme this dreary day,
But whether "song or sermon" you shall say.

Hear how the mad, weird March winds rave and roar!

See the surf beating on the rock-crowned shore!
You can not feel the cruel, biting blast;
It shakes your windows as it hurries past,
But you are housed and fed, and safe within
A lily's cup, stainless and free from sin.

Its white walls of pure influence close you round.
Within its sheltered heart you love have found;
And "passion's host that never brooked control,"
Ne'er storms the citadel of saintly soul.
You have felt pain, and who that lives has not?
Such pain as Nature renders common lot,
But sorrow for lost hopes, lost loves or sin,
Has ne'er your lily portals entered in.
Sorrow for others, for a world sin-cursed,
Such of all sorrows seems to you the worst.

Look from your window, where your lilies bloom,
And hyacinth and heliotrope scent the room,
And rags and wretchedness may smite the eye
That lights alone for beauty. You may sigh,
For purest pity pearls the lily's heart,

And prompts the tear that from its eyelids start;
But ne'er those eyes can weep such tears as flow
From those who know the depths of want and woe;
And ne'er the heart can comprehend the sin

That to the lily never entered in.

The world is sinful, you may say; and yet
O'er far-off heathen you may sigh and fret,
But do not know or can not understand,
That there are worse than heathen in the land.
"Unto the pure all things are pure"; and so
The lily's cup is pure as unsunned snow.
Its heart's sweet innocence, its home of love,
Its likeness here below to Heaven above,
Safe from rude winds, its sweetness folded up,
Best of all dwellings is a lily's cup.

JOHN BRAYSHAW KAYE.

OHN BRAYSHAW KAYE was born in York

JOHN

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.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.
RARE little bird of the bower!
Bird of the musical wing,
While hiding thy head in some flower,
Softly thy green pinions sing;

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!
Wee rainbow-hued animation,
Humming the long hours away!

Sipping the dew from the blue-bells,

Culling the sweets from the rose,
Whose heart, pearly-pink, like the sea-shell's,
Yields purest ambrosia that grows.

Hid from the dull sight of mortals,
Out of the reach of the bee,
Down through the lily's white portals
Nectar's distilling for thee.

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 Nature her beauty unbosoms,
These are thy favorite haunts.

Where the wild honey-bee hovers
In the perfume-laden air,
Whither stray light-hearted lovers,
Often they meet with thee there.
Always thou dwellest 'mid beauty,
Bird of melodious wing,
To seek it's thy life's only duty,
And bask in perpetual spring.

AFTER THE SLEET.

AFTER the sleet, and the sun is beaming,
And winter is wearing a brilliant smile;
While the trees, in their icy armor gleaming,
Are steel-clad knights in their martial seeming;
And like silvery plumes from their helmets streaming
Are the drooping boughs meanwhile.
While the graceful shrubs in fringe arrayed,
And bugles and lace of the finest grade,
Stand motionless, their charms displayed,
Like youthful maidens dreaming.

Icicles now from the eaves are pending,

And the fences are grated with crystal bars,
While the flashing grove in the maze seems blending
Of silver, and gold, and light contending
With glittering shafts, their rays outsending
Like a myriad fallen stars;

And the loud, harsh note of the saucy jay,
In his shrill, discordant roundelay,
Is the only sound that comes to-day
From the grove's still bowers wending.

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
Meek little snow-birds, twittering
In whispers soft of the far-off spring,

And the seeds in the wild flowers growing.

From a great-trunked oak, all branchless standing,
Standing dead where it sprung and grew,
Like a wooden Memnon, a knoll commanding,
Or a watch-tower, reared near an unsafe landing,
To warn of shoals or the chance of stranding,
Comes the idol's voice in a long tattoo;
"Tis a woodpecker tapping the sounding wood!
In his cutaway coat and crimson hood,
Drumming for meat, and a home so good
In the old oak's heart demanding.

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.