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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!
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.
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.
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
And stooped to kiss the sunny curls,
Changed all the world completely-
I knew her thought, I knew her heart,
A sudden passion filled my soul,
Though I was dreaming, maybe-
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
Outside, the winds were fierce and rough
And humming insects everywhere,
To find the place, I took the book,
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,
It finds the shadow of the mill.
But there it tarries in its course
For there no more with cheerful strength
Flow on, your work is done, bright stream!
No more! The smoke has floated far
The master rests, while weird and still,
TO MY DAUGHTER'S LIPS.
Has any one done a good deed
Speak never a word that shall blame him.
Has any one tenderly stopped
To comfort the weak and the wounded?
Hush, hush, lest another should hear it!
A THRIFTY and most economical dame
And madam, the hen, had a musical way
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,
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
"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,
I can't help a-wishin' that Becky could see
An', yit, I don't think 'twould 'ave entered her head,
If 'twan't fer some things that her family said;
An' so it ain't strange 'at she sometimes 'ud say
I know'd she'd git over it after a spell,
Fer alwuz I give her what money she earned
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
I paid her the int'res', as all her folks knows,
An', so I incouraged and helped her along,
What Becky'd a-done I am sure I don't know
When Becky wuz married I wouldn't a-dreamed
But sense she is dead I have done what I could
There ain't any hantsomer nowheres around,
But when I am gone it 'll answer fer two.
I can't help a-wishin' that Becky could see
Disappointed and vexed then I turned,
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;
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
And so again, with heart elate,
I wrote in cloudy phrase and coarse,
Behold! of praise and other pay,
The papers now quote all I say,
And send my spelling round the earth;
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,
EPITAPH ON A LAWYER.
THIS lawyer died! How brief is life!