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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.


I KNOW a land all rich with purple bloom,
Where waters sleep, agleam with opal's fire,
And white-winged sea-gulls dip, and never tire,
Into the sea's great, fruitful, yielding womb.
Here rose-blue mists, like sunlit thistles, loom
Upon their mother's breast, disdaining sire,
Yet, like the immortal soul, rise ever higher,
Or sink into that passion-heaving tomb.

Here sap runs riot in the proud fir's veins
And banks of tender green slope to the sea;
Willows and wild rose-bushes burst to leaf,
And western birds peal forth their glad refrains;
Here is no snow, no frost, no frozen lea;

This is the sunset land-sweet past belief.


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,
Fling opalescent drops from wings and breast:
From cool, marsh-meadows, where lies dim the

Soft-toned frogs make sweet the solemn night
And violet-scented morn; and ebbs and flows
The tide forever, with its joys and woes.


THERE is within a western wood a place

Where spring doth wanton as she dallies by, With many a warm, voluptuous kiss and sigh; Her bare soft arms she twines with nameless grace About the fir's strong throat. In his embrace,

With yielding bosom, she doth strive to lie,With wiles the passion of his life to buy. At her soft touch hot saps do leap and race Along his swelling veins; his strong limbs thrill Beneath the force of her seductive will; 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.


Down thro' the field in the fading light,
The milkmaid goes with her tin pails bright;
Stoops by the spring underneath the pines,
And pushing aside the clustering vines,
Plunges them into the bubbling pool,

And holds them, waiting, till drenched and cool;

Then rises and goes thro' the long, wet, grass,
By the narrow path where the cattle pass,
Cheerily calling, strong and free,
"So-ook-e! So-ook-e! So-ook-e-e!”

Over the hill where the dying sun
Lingers a moment when the day is done,
And flushes the west with a flood of light,
The plowboy goes into the fragrant night;
Singing and whistling right merrily,

For his heart is clean and his soul is free:
Switching the flowers and taking no heed
How far in the distance the horses feed;
And they sidle away with a long, slow lope,
When he calls, “Co`p, Fan! Co`p, Bill ! Co`p! Co`p!”

Out to the barnyard the farmer goes,

Where the stream steals thro' and sings as it flows,
Wearily plodding with soil-worn feet,

He yet finds something vaguely sweet
In the low, soft murmur of myriad frogs,
And the noisy welcome of well-kept hogs;
He counts them-and one is away or lost!
So quick in the trough the food is tossed,
While the farmer calls loudly and anxiously,
"Po-oo-e! Po-oo-e! Po-oo-e-e!”

Out to the orchard the housewife goes,
Where the dews fall thickly on pansy and rose,
Chases the chickens from roost on the trees,
And invites them into their coops, if they please;
Counts and re-counts them, but one is gone,
She searches the orchard, the garden, the lawn,
Even in the grass that is deep and wet,
She looks for the place where "Speckle "has "set;”
Rattling the wheat, she calls, coaxingly,

"Ch-uck-e! Ch-uck-e! Ch-uck-e-e!”

In a little white chamber where all is still,
And the roses peep in at their own sweet will,
The young mother sits with a child at her breast,
Tenderly trying to lull it to rest;

Dimpled hands fondle her bosom of snow,
And wet lips press kisses-while she sings low,
"O-hush thee, darling,-and go to sleep,
There's time enough-time, dearie-left to weep;
O-hush thee-hush"-she croons dreamily-
Hush thee-Hush thee-Hush thee-e-e!"


THE devil he stood at the gates of hell
And yearned for an angel above,

And he sighed:—“Come down, sweet siren, and learn

The lesson of passion and love!"

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Too well I know that an angel you are,"

The devil with cunning, replied:

"And that is the reason I covet you,

For a safe-guard at my side.

"You'll find the atmosphere balmy and warm,
And a heart that is wholly thine;

Here are red, red roses, and passionate bliss,
And kisses, and maddening wine.

"O, come! angel, come! I'll stretch out my arms, And draw you to infinite rest,

And all the delights of this beautiful hell,
Asleep, you shall drink on my breast!"

The angel she leaned from the gates of gold,
And she clasped him with arms of snow;
But the while she was striving to draw him up,
The lower she seemed to go.

"Don't struggle, sweet angel,” the devil he cried,
As he bore her on passion's swell;
"When an angel's arms have embraced me but once,
She belongs to the devil-and hell."

("Sin is no worse in woman than in man.")

IT may be; yet I would not have it so:
There are thoughts and passions in the heart of


That I would not have in hers; for I know Woman forgives each day what no man can.

It may be; yet I feel it is not so;

Man loathes in her the sins he calls his own. And I believe that each man lives to know That one pure woman holds his heart alone. And still they say: "It may be!"-yet I know, That man may sin, and rise to honors great; While God's unwritten law has made it so, That she who sins forever yields to fate.

Ten thousand furies rise to crush to earth,
Her hope of reformation in its birth;
And this is why I think it is God's will,
That she who yields must suffer and be still.


THIS thought my fancy doth impart,

As birds strange music troll;

The blossom is the thistle's heart,
And the white down is its soul.


As one may breathe without a sigh,
Yet cannot sigh without a breath,
So Love may life to passion be,
While Passion unto Love is-death.


A SPIRIT, looking backward, sighed,
"How strange that now you find no flaw
In one whose faults, alone, you saw,
Before she died."


I THOUнGT I did not care till you had gone,
And I heard the wind grieving through the leaves,
And the plaintive rhythm of the soft rain drops,
As they dripped, dripped, dripped from the time-

worn eaves.

The while I danced with tireless feet, and light, You held no place within my care-free mind; Nor when, upon my dappled mare, I raced, Flushed, triumphant, buoyant, with the wind.

For then, my very soul was full of life

That throbbed and pulsed and raced my being through;

And I was all-sufficient to myself,

And gave no lightest thought or care to you.

But when I crossed a field, one winter's day,
And heard a little brook go singing by;
When a pale, wet crocus bloom looked up at me,
Some vague remembrance moved my heart to


And when I hear the restless, wind-vex'd leaves, And the soft rhythm of the winter rain, Through all my being thrills the vain desire

That I might have you here with me again.


HE subject of this sketch was born November


22, 1862, at Richmond, Va., his father being stationed there at that time as a surgeon in the Confederate hospital. Mrs. Coleman is a niece of John Randolph, of Roanoke, and daughter of Judge Beverley Tucker, sometime professor of law at William and Mary College, an eminent man, distinguished alike as jurist and litterateur. Judge Tucker's father was no less well and favorably known as author and jurist than his son, and fought gallantly in the Revolution, attaining the rank of Colonel, and was afterwards Judge of the United States Court. The Colemans and the Tuckers had, from the first, lived in or near Williamsburg, Va., that quaint old town at which for many years the social, literary and political life of the Old Dominion centered.


Reared in a highly cultured family, it is no wonder that young Coleman should promise to shine as brightly among his co-laborers in the new Southern literature as did his talented ancestors in Southern politics. Mr. Coleman's first effort was the natural result of his environment and ancestry. In 1881, while rummaging among some old papers, he came across letters written by his great grandfather, St. George Tucker. The letters addressed to the Colonel's wife, and, along with sparkling bon-mots, jests and bits of doggerel, contained much valuable historic information concerning the events just preceding the surrender at Yorktown. These were put together into a perfect whole, forwarded to The Magazine of American History and were accepted. Even at this early period the seventeen-year-old boy showed he had inherited the poetic talent of the Tuckers.

The next year Mr. Coleman went to the University of Virginia, remaining there three years, and in the meantime contributing to the University Magazine and, less frequently, to The Century and other periodicals. He studied law at the same institution, and since his return to Williamsburg he has devoted much time to literary work, contributing to all the prominent periodicals.

Harper's Magazine for May, 1887, contained an article by Mr. Coleman entitled "The Recent Movement in Southern Literature," which attracted much attention all over the country. The only unfair part of the article consisted in the fact that Mr. Coleman's writing it prevented his name from being placed along with those of the other rising young southern writers, among whom he is prominent as a poet.

Although Mr. Coleman has produced some highly creditable prose, his talent, and a most decided talent it is, is in the field of poetry. H. S. B.


He came alone, the pale singer,

'Long the dusty road to the town; His feet were worn and his heart was torn, His eyes were wide and brown.

He paused in the street of the city,
And hope sprang up amain:

To the surging throng that hurried along
He sang a plaintive strain.

But some had to buy in the market,

And others to sell in the shop,
And many to play, and a few to pray,
And none had time to stop.

So they did not hear the music,

They did not turn to look,
Save a woman worn, and a lover lorn,
And a student over his book.

Men had no time to listen,

And he no heart to wait; So he hushed his song and passed along Out through the city gate.

He went alone, the pale singer,

'Long the dusty road from the town; His cheeks were thin and tears stood in His eyes so wide and brown.

And the woman's lip was trembling,

As she turned from her work to look;
The lover lorn forgot to mourn,

And the student closed his book.
When the sunset gates were opened,
And the western skies aflame,
From over the hill to the city still
A magical music came.

Men cried, "Do you hear the music?"

(They were resting after the day),— “That singer sweet to our city street

Shall come and dwell for aye!"

Far over the land they sought him,

Sought till the night grew late;
But the weary feet of the singer sweet
Had passed the sunset gate.

Then back to the streets of the city,
Back to its tire, they came;
And eyes were wet with a vain regret,
As they spoke the singer's fame.

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Love lies a-sleeping; let the branches part
So that the breeze may lightly to him sing
A lullaby-the changeful breeze that goes
A-whisp'ring through the grass, where'er it rose,
Where'er it listeth bound, a wilful thing,
Low murmuring sweets from an inconstant heart.

Love lies a-sleeping; press the pulsing heart
That beats against thy bosom; stand apart
And stay thine eager breath, lest anything
Should mar his rest-the songs that lovers sing,
The tale the butterfly tells to the rose,
The low wind to the grass, and onward goes.

Love lies a-sleeping; ah, how swiftly goes

The sweet delusion he hath taught thy heart, Fair maiden, pressing to thy breast the rose Whose sun-kissed petals sadly fall apart

With thy quick breath. That rhyme wouldst hear him sing

Which yesterday seemed such a foolish thing?

Love lies a-sleeping; nay, for such a thing

Break not his slumber. See how sweetly goes That smile across his lips, that will not sing For very wilfulness. Love hath no heart! If he should wake, those red-ripe lips would part In laughter low to see this ravish'd rose.

Love lies a-sleeping; so the full-blown rose
Falls to the earth, a dead unpitied thing;

The grasses 'neath the breeze deep-sighing part And sway; and as thy warm breath comes and goes

In motion with the red tides of thy heart, The song is hushed which Love was wont to sing.

Love lies a-sleeping; thus in dreams he goes; Strive not to waken him, but tell thy heart, "Love lies a-sleeping, and he may not sing."


THE revelry that fill'd the night is done; Hushed is the patter of once dancing feet, The rustle of rich fabrics, laughter sweet; The music still'd and morning, newly born, Hears but its echo.

One poor bruised rose,

Let fall upon the floor from some fair breast, Is all that tells it was no cunning jest Wrought by the deft romancer of repose; The music, laughter, all a fitful gleam, Press'd from the pillow of a broken dream.


O LOVER bird, haste to thy wooing,
Break forth into bloom, red rose;

For the east doth flush with an eager blush
And June thro' the garden goes.

She is white like the tall white lilies

That sicken the air with sweet,
And the yellow hair o'er her bosom bare
Fails down to her sandal'd feet.

Her eyes are as deep as the ocean,
And calm as a forest pool;
Her breath is as free as the sea winds be
And her lips with the dew are cool.

She comes from the daisied meadows,
By tender winds o'erblown;
For May, the child who erst ran wild,
Is now to a woman grown.
Behold! like a queen she cometh,
So stately and fair and meek;
And the lilies swoon in their own perfume
To touch her fairer cheek.

O birds, be no cease to your singing;
Break forth into bloom, red rose;
For day's high-priest cometh out of the east,
And June thro' the garden goes.

Her eyelids droop with the passion
Her trembling lips would own;
And the kiss of the sun her brow upon
A rose in her cheek has blown.

Her long white arms to her lover

She lifts, and her parted lips
Drink the light of his kiss, as a bee, I wis,
The sweet of a lily sips.

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