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This garden lone. Ah, would one might forget, beneath its spicery

And sweet moist shadows hid, the grave of Dorothy.

Methinks these should be birds to mount within the blue,

That loitering beside this trim-kept garden wall, Lean idly, clanking, merry spurs-these larkspurs tall.

Daffodil, wan and gray,

Phantom like, slipped away

Ere April morns were dead. (Ah, but old days were sweet).

Why, here's allysum, too, thick clustered at my feet,

And myrrh still grows in the self-same spot; and look, between

The canterbury bells, her mildewed eglantine!
Heigh, ho! four-o'-clocks wise,

Open your sleep-brimmed eyes!

O dragon fly, atilt 'mong bending jasmin sprays, Rover through distant realms, bide but a space with me;

For thee day-dawn yet waiteth in calm garden ways;

For me, for me, only the grave of Dorothy.

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A

MRS. GEORGE ARCHIBALD.

PHYSICALLY slight and delicate woman, with

a profusion of brown hair, large blue eyes that are of the kind called "talking eyes;" an interesting, if not a beautiful face, active but not restless manners, like quicksilver in tin-foil, as though the spirit within was stronger than that which contains it, and you have what your eyes will tell you of Mrs. George Archibald Palmer, born Annie Campbell, and known so well to the reading world by the first two names of her husband.

Of course she is of Scotch ancestry; her name tells that. She has all the earnestness and intensity of purpose of that race, and their humor, enlivened and quickened by an infusion of Irish and Yankee blood. She was born in Elmira, N. Y., about thirty years ago, and with the exception of four years spent in the neighboring city of Ithaca during her childhood, she has always lived in the beautiful Chemung valley. Her literary life is but a reflection of her own every-day life, and one could almost build up the one from the other. Her first printed effort was achieved at the age of ten years, appearing in the Ithaca Journal, and receiving the commendation of the editor of that newspaper. Mrs. Archibald was an orphan at fourteen, and it is probable that her passionate love of children and tender care for them makes a large portion of her literary work arise from this lack of parental care and fondness in her own childhood. This deprivation led her naturally directly toward the care of children, and at sixteen she became a teacher in the public schools of Elmira, an avocation that she followed with the utmost success for ten years. Mrs. Archibald was married in September, 1883, and is the mother of two bright girls, of whom she is passionately fond, and who absorb a great share of her attention. The family live quietly but pleasantly, Mrs. Archibald's literary labors giving her little time to indulge in social amenities that await her at every turn could she accept them.

Mrs. Archibald has been an industrious worker. Disliking publicity, she wrote constantly under a great number of nom de plumes, adopting a new one when she began to be identified. Sometimes she had intervals of complete silence, distrustful of her powers and displeased with her efforts. On her marriage, however, she assumed the pen name, now so well known, and with it has won her place in the world of letters.

Mrs. Archibald has published "The Summerville Prize," a book for girls, and a charming little brochure, "Verses From a Mother's Corner," and another work is in prepartion of a similar character,

There is a sincere religious vein running through Mrs. Archibald's character that influences strongly her life and her works. Her only inheritance was a Scotch stiffness of purpose, and her gentle mother's influence, whose last words to her were the simple ones: "Be a good girl." The aspiration has been literally obeyed. Early in her girlhood Mrs. Archibald became a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and has ever continued active in its work and consistent with its teachings in her life.

A VISION.

PERCHANCE my thought was wide awake, Or I was dreaming, may be,

As I sat rocking to and fro,

My arms around my baby.

I felt along my cheek and throat
Her rosy fingers playing,

And stooped to kiss the sunny curls,
About her forehead straying.
The foolish rhymes of Mother Goose
In tune and time came springing
To lips, not made for song-and yet
My children like my singing.
And as I sang a mystic spell

Changed all the world completely-
Another woman singing sat,
And rocked her baby sweetly.
The woman's face-a look it wore
Like mine, and yet the rather,
'Twas like my baby's larger grown,
'Twas like my baby's father.
And as she, swaying, softly sang,
I saw some tear-drops falling;

I knew her thought, I knew her heart,
Her heart to mother calling.

A sudden passion filled my soul,
I longed to soothe the weeping;
My baby stirred upon my breast,
My baby gently sleeping!
The vision fled, yet well I know-

Though I was dreaming, maybe-
Far down the future sits my child
And rocks my baby's baby.

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A. T.

The prayer, the anthem and the psalm, And gently, on my spirit fell

The sweetness of the Sunday calm; Till, at the reading of the hymn, With sudden tears my eyes were dim.

That old, old hymn! Its sacred lines
Had fallen on my childish ears;
My life turned back, unhindered by
The stretch of intervening years;
Near me my little daughter smiled,
And yet I was again a child.

Outside, the winds were fierce and rough
The winter's chill was in the air;
But I could hear the bonny birds,

And humming insects everywhere,
And feel, in spite of frost and snow,
A summer breeze from long ago.

To find the place, I took the book,
And held it with a woman's hand,
While all my soul was moved with thrills
No other soul could understand;
For quite unseen, with love divine,
My mother's fingers folded mine.

And not because the music rose

Exultingly, I held my breath, Lest I should lose its sweet delightUpon her lips the hush of death For years has lain!—and yet I heard My mother's voice in every word. Full well I know the dead are dead, But sometimes at a look or tone, With short relenting will the past One moment, give us back our own; Oh, happy pain! too quickly doneAs swiftly ended as begun.

THE OLD MILL.

WHERE blossoms bend and grasses sway,
A silver stream comes singing down,
Along a wild and wooded way,
That shuns the tumult of the town,
Nor pauses as it runs until

It finds the shadow of the mill.

But there it tarries in its course
With slow and slower sweep, as though
It longed to lend its shining force
Once more to make the old mill go;
But swift or slow beneath the hill,
It cannot move that silent mill.

For there no more with cheerful strength
Comes busy labor, day by day,
To guide along the shivering length
Of log and plank the saw's rough way.
Henceforth no trembling sounds shall thrill
To swift response the throbbing mill.

Flow on, your work is done, bright stream!
Like his, the master standing by
Ofttimes, to view your water's gleam
With wistful, retrospective eye;
This strong and secret wish, to fill
Again with life the lifeless mill.

No more! The smoke has floated far
That curled a-cloud above your sheen;
The trees no woodmen's axes mar;
No toiler hastens to the scene;

The master rests, while weird and still,
Deserted stands the ruined mill.

TO MY DAUGHTER'S LIPS.

Has any one done a good deed
To any; if you know about it,
That others may know of it too,
Go tell it, go sing it, go shout it!
Has any one yielded to wrong?
However the world may defame him,
O young and O red little lips,

Speak never a word that shall blame him.

Has any one tenderly stopped

To comfort the weak and the wounded?
Then let the sweet story of love
Be swiftly and cheerily sounded.
Have any been spiteful to you?

Hush, hush, lest another should hear it!
Be sure that the wicked can hurt
But slightly the generous spirit.
The knowledge of sin or disgrace,
Within your own bosom conceal it;
The shame of your bitterest foe,
O never, O never reveal it.
But anything sunny and glad,
Or gentle, if you know about it,
That others may know of it too,
Go tell it, go sing it, go shout it!

TRUE ECONOMY.

A THRIFTY and most economical dame
Owned a pair of fine fowls whose fair qualities came
Through a line of fine fowls of an eggsellent fame.

And madam, the hen, had a musical way
Of duly announcing an egg every day,
While Sir Cockolorum would join in the lay.

And, once on a time, in the cold of the year, When eggs they were scarce and when eggs they were dear,

Still daily their cackle was truthful and clear.

And ere their commendable labors did cease,
A bountiful basketful showed the increase,
All fresh and all fair and worth four cents apiece.

Since eggs they were scarce and since eggs they were high,

The thrifty old dame, with a natural sigh, (For she liked a good egg) put the basketful by.

"In the list of my sins," with decision, said she, ·“The sin of eggstravagance never shall be— Such eating is quite too eggspensive for me."

It chanced when the far-away farmers had heard The price of good eggs, that their spirits were stirred

To send in by car-loads the fruit of the bird.

And long ere their efforts for profit did cease
An overstocked market had felt the increase,
And eggs, they were selling for one cent apiece.
The thrifty old dame, with a heart that was gay,
Brought forth her full basket without a delay,
From where she so lately had stowed it away.

"The price has come down while the eggs are yet sweet,"

She said, "which will give me a plenty to eat, At twelve cents a dozen they're cheaper than meat."

AN APPRECIATIVE WIDOWER.

THE monnуment's up, and it's offen my mind,
As hantsome a stone as you'll commonly find;
What an ornyment 'tis to the berrial lot,
But Becky deserved one-as good as she's got.

I can't help a-wishin' that Becky could see
It, standin' above her, as tall as a tree;
Fer sometimes she us't, when a-livin', to err,
Consatin' I didn't appreciate her.

An', yit, I don't think 'twould 'ave entered her head,

If 'twan't fer some things that her family said;
But all of her folks was unfriendly to work,
And meddled with Becky to git her to shirk.

An' so it ain't strange 'at she sometimes 'ud say
Some things, in a fretful and womanish way,
That life it wan't nothin' but workin' to save,
An woman wa'n't nothin' but only a slave.
They's one thing I'm glad of: that is, as a rule,
I never sassed back, but kep' quiet an' cool;

I know'd she'd git over it after a spell,
An' sense that I used her uncommonly well.

Fer alwuz I give her what money she earned
From chickens she raised or from butter she

churned,

An' urged an' advised her to lay it away

In case of bad luck or a fewcher wet day.

An', anxious she shouldn't be caught by the banks
That fail, without leavin' you even their thanks,
I took what she got, jest as fast as it come,
An' give her my personal note for the sum.

I paid her the int'res', as all her folks knows,
Fer housekeepin' things, an' to keep her in clo'es,
An' told her how rich she wuz gettin' to be
By havin' a forehanded husbun' like me.

An', so I incouraged and helped her along,
An' pullin' together we pulled purty strong,
An' prospered unusual in all that we tried,
Exceptin' the children, that most of 'em, died.

What Becky'd a-done I am sure I don't know
If twan't for her workin'-she grieved for 'em so;
An' knowin' their weak constitutions, of course,
Wuz owin' to her, must a-made her feel worse..

When Becky wuz married I wouldn't a-dreamed
She wa'n't jest as strong as she allwuz had seemed,
Or that she would be-as the preacher 'ud say-
In the midst of her usefulness taken away.

But sense she is dead I have done what I could
To show how I mourn fer a creacher so good;
An' most of the money she labored to save
I've spent fer a stone to the head of her grave.

There ain't any hantsomer nowheres around,
It shows from all parts of the berrying ground.
They's some would a-thought that a cheaper 'ud
do,

But when I am gone it 'll answer fer two.

I can't help a-wishin' that Becky could see
It, standin' above her, as tall as a tree;
Fer sometimes she us't, when a-livin', to err,
Consatin' I didn't appreciate her.

Disappointed and vexed then I turned,
Unwilling to lose it, and sought
With a diligence worthy reward,

Up and down through the chambers of thought,

'Mid countless forgotten resolves Of every kind and degree; Intentions I've never fulfilled,

And other and kindred debris.

'Tis gone-such a matchless conceit, So airy, so fairy, so brightJust ready to spring from my pen And carry my name in its flight. 'Tis gone-yet its laughter and song Still linger coquettishly near, With echoes elusive to tease

The yearnings of Memory's ear.

A MODERN SUCCESS.

THE editor returned my verse

And told me it was commonplace;
"The thing you say has been remarked
Full many times with better grace;
Also, my friend, the thing you say
Is far from clever, anyway."

But being a persistent soul,

All undismayed, with judgment shrewd,

I hit upon a little plan

To circumvent my censor rude;

For well I knew he'd not object
To lack of worth in dialect.

And so again, with heart elate,

I wrote in cloudy phrase and coarse,
With such gymnastic spelling as
Disguised the want of mental force,
The self-same thoughts, if thoughts they be,
So curtly posted back to me.

Behold! of praise and other pay,
Henceforth I have not any dearth;

The papers now quote all I say,

And send my spelling round the earth;
For sudden fame, with due respect,
Has writ my name-in dialect.

THE IDEA.

I HAD it a minute ago,

An idea, brilliant and new, 1 hastened for paper and pen,

Determined to write it for you.

But when, all equipped for the work,

I sat here, rejoiced and alone,

I found, to my utter dismay,
The beautiful fancy had flown.

EPITAPH ON A LAWYER.

THIS lawyer died! How brief is life!
And with a solemn face,
The undertaker gravely said:
"Lie still and try my case."

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