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RS. E. V. WILSON, whose maiden name was Jane Delaplane, was born in Hamilton, O., and educated at the young ladies academy then in existence at that place. Married very early in life to E. V. Wilson, a rising young lawyer, she removed with him to Southeast Missouri, where she has since resided. Her home is in Edina. Her husband rose rapidly in his profession, and the name of Judge Wilson soon became a familiar one throughout his judicial district. His amiable wife was no less favorably known. Her home duties-numerous and always faithfully performed-required much of her time. Society had its claims upon her, hence leisure hours for the cultivation of a literary taste were few. This fondness for literary pursuits she developed in childhood, and wrote verses and stories at school for the usual "composition." Amid home and social duties much reading was done, and occasional writing, but a poem, finished and read, having served its purpose, was often destroyed.

About ten years ago Mrs. Wilson began contributing poems and short stories to various magazines and papers under the nom de plume of "Mrs. Lawrence." This name, however, she used but a short time, and has since written under her husband's initials. Mrs. Wilson's prose writings are marked by that strongest characteristic of American womanhood-common sense. Her style is natural, and her pictures of western life are vivid and correct. Some of her poems have been widely circulated by the press. MRS. E. J. B.

HIS MOTHER'S SONGS. BENEATH the hot midsummer sun The men had marched all day, And now beside a rippling stream Upon the grass they lay.

Tiring of games and idle jests,

As swept the hours along,
They called to one who mused apart,
"Come, friend, give us a song."

He answered, "Nay, I cannot please;
The only songs I know
Are those my mother used to sing
At home, long years ago."

"Sing one of those," a rough voice cried, "We all are true men here,

And to each mother's son of us

A mother's songs are dear."

Then sweetly sang the strong, clear voice Amid unwonted calm:

"Am I a soldier of the cross,

A follower of the lamb."

The trees hushed all their whispering leaves, The very stream was stilled,

And hearts that never throbbed with fear With tender memories thrilled.

Ended the song, the singer said,
As to his feet he rose,

"Thanks to you all; good night my friends, God grant you sweet repose."

Out spoke the captain: "Sing one more." The soldier bent his head,

Then smiling as he glanced around, "You'll join with me," he said.

"In singing this familiar air, Sweet as a bugle-call,

'All hail the power of Jesus' name, Let angels prostrate fall'."

Wondrous the spell the old tune wrought; As on and on he sang,

Man after man fell into line,

And loud their voices rang.

The night winds bore the grand refrain
Above the tree-tops tall,

The "everlasting hills" called back,
In answer "Lord of all."

The songs are done, the camp is still, Naught but the stream is heard, But ah! the depth of every soul

By those old hymns was stirred.

And up from many a bearded lip
Rises, in murmurs low,

The prayer the mother taught her boy
At home long years ago.


I THINK of all the disciples,
Who sat at the Master's feet,
Impetuous, loving Peter

Is the one I would rather meet.

I mind how the sturdy fisher
On storm-tossed Galilee,
When he saw the dear Lord coming,
Sprang into the raging sea.

I know how his spirit fainted

When he felt the yielding wave, And I know whose hand was ready, The sinning soul to save.

I know on that last, sad evening When the Master prayed and wept, He with the other disciples,

Instead of watching, slept.

But oh! when "they all forsook Him," Even dearly beloved John,

It was Peter who "followed afar off,"
To see where his Lord had gone.

I know that he denied Him
With a coward, lying tongue,
But I also know the anguish

With which his heart was wrung.

And I think the tender Savior,
Who knows our worst and best,
Loved reckless, headstrong Peter
As much as he did the rest.
And reading how he questiond

And talked with Peter apart,

I think the weakest who love Him
Is nearest the Master's heart.

So of all the dear disciples

Who gathered about his feet,
Poor, sinning, repenting Peter
Is the one I would rather meet.


THE day is gone, alas! the lovely day,
That came among us, as a blushing bride
Led by her lover, the enamored sun,

Whose golden largess fell on every side.
All nature greeted her with rapturous joy,
The forest birds broke forth in sweetest song,
And dainty buds, awaking from their sleep,
Burst into blossoms as she passed along.
And everywhere the children welcomed her,
In country lanes, and in the city street,
The music of their laughter kept glad time
To the swift measure of her flying feet.
The restless sick man tossing on his couch
Beheld her, and awhile forgot his pain;
Her presence cheered the laborer at his toil,
And brought to wrinkled age his youth again.

And, as she smiling hurried on her way,

Even sad mothers, weeping o'er their dead, Looked upward to her clear blue skies and felt, Somehow, their aching hearts were comforted.

But now, alas! the day herself is dead;
Before us, pallid in the dim twilight,
She lies, forsaken by the fickle sun,

And o'er her bends the dusky sexton, night,
Covering her slowly with his sable pall,
While the pale, trembling stars look sadly on,
And Nature's tears are falling silently,
For the sweet day that is forever gone.


How much of grief one word can tell! Ah me! my poor heart knoweth well. And in the elm tree by the gate Sitteth a bird disconsolate.

I hear him calling mournfully, "Phebe! Phebe!"

I know he calls his absent mate: "Phebe! Phebe!"

Alas! I too am desolate.

How much of joy one word can tell!
Ah me! my poor heart knoweth well.
And in the elin tree by the gate
Sitteth a bird with heart elate.
I hear him murmuring joyfully,
"Phebe! Phebe!"

I know beside him is his mate:
"Phebe! Phebe!"

Alas! I yet am desolate.


WHAT are these you ask? these delicate things
With petals as airy as fancy's wings,

And daintily pink as a maiden's cheek
When she thinks of the love she cannot speak.
Why, these I'll whisper a secret to you.

Nature is dreaming of flowers. It's true,

These are her dreams. When she wakens and shows

Her marvelous lily, her perfect rose,

Do you think such thrills to our hearts they'll bring

As these little dream-flowers found in spring?


MAD with despair a wretched woman stands
Lifting to heaven weak, imploring hands,
Her children flee her, forced by famine's frown,
Or staying, starve, clutching her ragged gown.
Men pass with silent scorn or jeering cry,
And white-souled women go unseeing by.
A queen discrowned, a mother desolate,
O Innisfall! how piteous thy fate!



MRS. JEFFERY, who is of English parent per

was born in Waukegan, Illinois, where her parents resided for a time, though for many years their home was in Chicago, where her father had extensive business interests. In a letter to a friend Mrs. Jeffery says: "Those who knew my sainted parents will accentuate the utmost words of praise a loving daughter's heart could prompt. Noble and true in every possible relation, their record in life is a priceless inheritance to their children. They made a perfect home for fifty years, and when mother was taken suddenly away in 1878, father, then a hale and hearty man of unshaken intellect, said he couldn't live without her, and died within the year. No briefest notice of me would seem anything to me that contained no reference to the parents who were my confidants in all things up to the day of their departure."

Although having written and published ever since girlhood, over twenty years, for a large number of papers and periodicals, Mrs. Jeffery has never published a book. She writes for the joy of it, and should do so always, if there never was a dollar's return therefrom.

Upwards of eleven years ago she was married to Mr. W. J. Jeffery, then superintendent of the American District Telegraph and Telephone Service, Chicago, Ill. One morning about two years after their marriage, while driving to business, he was run over in the tunnel by a run-away team, and brought home to a time of suffering, precluding any active life for three years. When he finally began to get about on crutches the faithful wife, who had watched and waited beside him so long, accepted the responsible position of stenographer in the office of the Chicago Advance, which she occupied for nearly six years, to the praise and satisfaction of all concerned.

The home of Mr. and Mrs. Jeffery is a childless one, though both are intensely fond of children. But it is a place that one man and woman find the happiest spot on earth.



LIFE hath its barren years, When blossoms fall untimely down; When ripened fruitage fails to crown The summer toil; when nature's frown Looks only on our tears.

E. M. S.

Life hath its faithless days;
The golden promise of a morn,

That seemed for light and gladness born,
Meant only noontide wreck and scorn,
Hushed harp instead of praise.

Life hath its valleys, too,
Where we must walk with vain regret,
With mourning clothed, with wild rain wet,
Toward sunlit hopes that soon may set,
All quenched in pitying dew.


Life hath its harvest moons,


Its tasseled corn and purple-weighted vine;
Its gathered sheaves of grain, the blessed sign
Of plenteous reaping, bread and pure rich wine;
Full heart for harvest tunes.

Life hath its hopes fulfilled;

Its glad fruitions, its blest answered prayer, Sweeter for waiting long, whose holy air Indrawn to silent souls breathes forth its rare, Grand speech by joy distilled.

Life hath its Tabor heights,

Its lofty mounts of heavenly recognition
Whose unveiled glories flash to earth munition
Of love and truth and clearer intuition.
Hail, mount of all delights!


"At eventide it shall be light."

My little, one-life power in the great sum of things Makes its small pause-a broken day, whose

zenith sun

Climbs not in earthly skies. No finished offerings My altars hold; and yet, my half-day's work

seems done.

Through all my soul a hush holds me with mighty hand;

With gates ajar to'ard every possible delight, My silent, darkened sick-room grows enchanted


And yet, a helpless waif, I lie upon the night.

I cannot reach or open wide one unlocked gate;
I cannot stand upon the strangely-lighted floor;

I only float on wondrous waves of thought, and wait,

And send a voiceless yearning toward the inner


Hushed on this night of sharp, of almost conq'ring


Just on the unlit edge of vast realms unexplored, Both quiv'ring flesh and unillumined brain

Make darkness, where the tangling shadows wait a sword

Whose name is Dawn! What shall the patient watcher see?

A rosy East look down where one shall slowly rise, And yet go forth to useful years? Or shall it be The all sufficing day of God shall light these eyes? The dripping ice that on my burning forehead lies Is not more grateful to the parched and aching


Than these soul-ministrings I faintly recognize, Striving to fill an inner thirst still more intense. Once let me feel the pressure of those shad'wy lips, Once let me, groping, find the dear, magnetic hand, Avant-couriers of heav'nly-sweet companionships, Flying from Heart, Home, Temple of the Better Land.

My head, so tired, thought-tangled with the warring creeds,

Here rests! I only know and feel that God is just

With pow'r omnipotent to fill all human needs, Our needs, the only things that sometimes are not "dust."

Who is that other watcher waiting in my room?
I feel him, but I cannot see his shrouded face;
Is it the strange, mysterious one they miscall


The only earthly one maligned of all our race? So wise, so patient, Death, who, who so unreplying, Who with such grand appeal to the event sublime?

Death can be tender, too; if aught like this were dying,

'Tis passing sweet where 'er Eternity nears Time.


WE meet each other, fellow-princes in disguise, Pass coldly, with averted, unbelieving eyes— Ah me! king's children all,

Despite the Eden fall,

A Father within call!

And yet, our Father's image question so, the while His royal road we measure with our daily mile.

We live upon the plain, there tend our flocks and herds,

Walk well-worn paths to daily ends, speak trivial words.

But, oh, a smile divine

Bends o'er each human shrine,

A presence, without sign

To outward sense, a something that makes all things sweet;

Leaves each day hallowed ground for busiest earthly feet.

No life is common life, what seems so is because We see not deep, far, high enough. Great nature's laws

Fulfill divine behests.

Each life or law hath crests

Where eagles build their nests.

Most solid crag is but a point of poise for flight. Not home! Outcome of act or law is beyond sight.

The elements of all to each of right belong, The power to love, see beauty, hear the poet's song,

The soul that can adore,

And toward its maker soar
Forever and forevermore-

This is the blessed wondrous being that we sing
Uncrowned Immortal, with thy pinioned wing. '


A hidden thought,

That's fraught
With value to mankind,
In some prophetic mind
May wait.

It knows neither fear, nor haste,
It can nothing lose or waste.

Yet nature holds no surer thing

Than that such thought shall live and grow,
The waiting thought mates unfledged wing,
Than that truth's wing strong flight shall know.
Brood silently, O waiting Thought,

A human soul, thy God-built nest!
Supremest love for both hath wrought
To teach thee of thy best.

And when, some gracious morn,
Is born

The thought to living speech,
What gospels it shall preach,
And teach.

Such apostles vindicate
Truth's long waiting at Life's gate.

Out on life's transition seas,
Bearers of "sealed orders" these.

-A Song of Wings.

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