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MRS. E. V. WILSON.
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,
He answered, "Nay, I cannot please;
"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,
"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
The "everlasting hills" called back,
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
The prayer the mother taught her boy
THE ONE I WOULD RATHER MEET.
I THINK of all the disciples,
Is the one I would rather meet.
I mind how the sturdy fisher
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,"
I know that he denied Him
With which his heart was wrung.
And I think the tender Savior,
And talked with Peter apart,
I think the weakest who love Him
So of all the dear disciples
Who gathered about his feet,
THE day is gone, alas! the lovely day,
Whose golden largess fell on every side.
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;
And o'er her bends the dusky sexton, night,
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!
I know beside him is his mate:
Alas! I yet am desolate.
WHAT are these you ask? these delicate things
And daintily pink as a maiden's cheek
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
MRS. ISADOre gilberT JEFFERY.
MRS. ISADORE GILBERT JEFFERY.
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.
THE CHRISTIAN LIFE.
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;
That seemed for light and gladness born,
Life hath its valleys, too,
Life hath its harvest moons,
Its tasseled corn and purple-weighted vine;
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
"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
Climbs not in earthly skies. No finished offerings My altars hold; and yet, my half-day's work
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 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?
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
This is the blessed wondrous being that we sing
A hidden thought,
It knows neither fear, nor haste,
Yet nature holds no surer thing
Than that such thought shall live and grow,
A human soul, thy God-built nest!
And when, some gracious morn,
The thought to living speech,
Such apostles vindicate
Out on life's transition seas,
-A Song of Wings.