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“REDERICK W. PANGBORN, son of Zabina K. and Hattie W. Pangborn, was born at St. Albans, Vermont, March 7, 1855. His father, a graduate of the Vermont University, and afterwards a Vermont editor, entered the army at the beginning of the Civil War. When at the close of the war he returned to the North with the rank of major, he was induced to establish a Republican paper in Jersey City. In that city, at Hasbrouck Institute, Frederic was fitted for Yale College, where he entered in 1872. His literary ability was early shown in college and led to his election as one of the editors of the Yale Courant. After graduation he married Mary C. Clark, of Jersey City, and engaged in joint editorship with his father in the Evening Journal, in the interests of which he has since been identified. As secretary of the Republican State Committee he was early introduced to the world of politics, and his management of the leading newspaper of New Jersey has been a powerful factor in the advancement of Republican ideas in that state.

But it is Mr. Pangborn's poetry that we have to consider. The happy domestic surroundings of his life are favorable to the development of a talent which he modestly denies, but which friends and utter strangers recognize. From time to time he has ventured to print some of his pieces, and whether in his own publications, or in others, they have been widely copied. It is only the odd moments of his life that he can give to the muse, as the demands of practical journalism require his first and best efforts.

Mr. Pangborn has written two novels and published one. His first, "Alice," has had a reasonable success as a first effort. It is a truism, no doubt, to say that one's literary work is a reflection of the writer's experiences; this is especially true in the case of Mr. Pangborn, whose poetic efforts, even as a boy, reflect his surroundings.

With a warm heart, developed by a congenial home; a mind naturally alert and well-trained; a love for music, cultivated from boyhood, and with all the keenest appreciation of true humor, we have the elements which together make the man and poet. H. C. W.


GOD bless thee, gentle sleeper,
Thy lover's instinct knows
What dreams beguile the hours
That mark thy soft repose.

Upon thy precious tresses my folded hands I lay, Praying that God may keep thee from grief and pain alway.

Thine eyes, soft-slumber laden,

Though veiled from sight of mine,
Yet feel the passion in the gaze

Now yearning unto thine.

Soft on their marble portals my lightest kiss I lay, Grateful that Heaven doth keep them honest and pure alway.

Sweet wife, thy gentle bosom

Deep heaving, true doth tell
For whom thy breast is waiting,
Whose image there doth dwell.

Kneeling beside thy throbbing heart, my thankful soul doth pray,

Knowing that thou wilt keep it tender and true alway.

Soul of my soul, dear All in all,

It seemeth not mete this life

Should some day part the truly wed,

The husband and the wife;

God grant that, in the gloaming of earth's ephemeral day,

Our souls go forth together, one love, one life alway.

God bless thee, gentle slumberer,

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When, in her simple, truth-expectant tone, She plainly puts an honest question forth, And, for an answer, seeks a truthful one! Shall I make answer that "God sent it down;" Or say, the Doctor" or "Old Granny Boone Went out and got a baby in a sack, And brought it on a broomstick from the moon?" Or, shall I tell her, that the baby came, Like drifting snowflake falling from the sky; Shall I, with silly falsehoods, half believed, Evade, and lie again to blind the lie?

Yet, such is common custom. And, alas,

The little one, all doubting still, soon grows To learn from lips less holy, souls less pure, What mamma will not tell, but really knows.

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SOFTLY the Dream God to rest is beguiling,
Softly the stars at my darling are smiling,
Softly the twilight to slumber is wiling,

Rest, little happy heart, rest.

Close the white portals, and shut out the light, Visions will enter them by the dream light, Keeping sweet company all the long night

Visions than day-dreams more blest. Mother will sit with the angels, and keep Loving watch over thee; so in thy sleep, Angel-face, Mother-face,

These and none other face,

Thou shalt behold, and by these be caressed;

Angels and Mother, dear,
These and none other near,
Rest, little happy heart, rest.


OH mother-heart, bowed down by sorrow's load,
Gaze not so blankly on this baby face;
Think not, like one condemned for willful sin,
There is not, even here, some meed of grace.

But yester-year I knelt, like thee, in woe,
Beside an infant's coffin, like to thine;
With dripping eyes my blinded sight was dim;
I loved that baby, for it had been mine,—
And was mine still, though then I knew it not,
For hearts thus hurt are not to reason given;
It seemed that it could never more be mine,
That I was all of earth and it of heaven.

And thus I mourned, nor aught of comfort found,
Till, like a gentle shower from heaven above,
There came the thought: though taken from my

Death cannot take my baby from my love.

I cannot feel his snowy, dimpled arms
Soft-pressed about my neck, nor see his face.

But still, forever, in my secret heart,
This baby fills a loye and has a place.

There is no sentiment in human soul,

Save one, which does not sometime find a death; Love only will outlive the longest life;

Love is not measured by the lease of breath.

And so 't will be when Time hath wrought his work,
When Nature's solemn law hath had its will;
The tender memory will yet be mine;

In death's last hour, I'll love my baby still.

Oh, little face, oh, calmly pallid brow!

So full of rest, from trouble's touch so free!
There have been times, when, in this life of mine,
My soul has yearned that it might rest like thee.
Sweet rest the kindliest boon of all our good,
The only state unmarred by any blight;
It comes to all, but when to such as thou,
We see it in its full, most perfect light.

See, mother-heart, how perfect is this rest,
How like a lily folded by Death's kiss;
No past, no present, naught but perfect peace,
And answer: could you give him rest like this?

Behold what justice, see what equity,

The blessings even of this great sorrow prove; Rest for the tender nursling of your heart, For you a pure, undying holy love.


THERE sat beneath a church-yard tree
Three idlers in the shade,
Three youths, discoursing cheerily
Of love, and man, and maid.

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"I think," said Harold, waxing warm,

"That love to be the best,

Which gives its all, and asks for naught,
Contented so to rest."

"Thou'rt wrong," cried Hubert; "Love is best When, like a valiant knight,

It seizes hotly its desires,

Nor cares for wrong or right!"

"To me," said Gerald, "of all loves,

That love most sweet would seem, Which gives and takes in ignorant bliss, The phantoms of Love's dream."

Up rose the aged rector then,

And, with extended hand:

"These be not Love at all," he said; "Love is to Understand."


(On receiving a present of a Turkish pipe.)
COMMUNING with my Hookah, "Fool!" I cried,
"To be enthralled by fair Belinda's smile;
Knowest thou not Narghileh doth suffice
The soul with perfumed phantoms to beguile?
Visions of houris, sensuous storms, fair calms
It giveth thee-and yet it seemeth true,
That fact and phantasy should well combine,
Like taste and odor in a savory wine,

Solution sweet-so, without more ado,
I'll love the Hookah and Belinda too."

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A child fell overboard into the sea,
A sailor plunging from the prow
Saved its life. They gave him gold,
And with laurels decked his brow.
But no one thought of the silent man,
Who, lashed at the helm all night,
Had saved the lives of all on board,
As he watched at the binnacle light
And steadily guided the vessel's course,
Through the sleet which blurred his sight.
-As Seen of Men.


LLA A. GILES was born at a rural home near

E Madison, Wisconsin, in 1851, and early gave


such promise of musical ability that the famous instructor Hans Balatka gladly received her as a pupil, and predicted for her a brilliant success as a vocalist. Just as her voice had reached the zenith of its power, health failed, and the would-be songstress was compelled to abandon all hope of the expected career in music. During the isolation illness rendered necessary she wrote a romance entitled "Bachelor Ben." Hastily produced, and almost immediately published, the venture, as whole, seemed immature; but the favor with which it was received gave much encouragement to the young author, and two other novels, "Out From the Shadows," and "Maiden Rachel," followed the first volume" in far too rapid succession," to quote their author's words. An interval of rest then ensued, after which Miss Giles accepted the position of librarian in the public library of Madison. She held this position five years, but was again fettered by failing strength from further service in this direction. Then it was that she turned to poetry as the safe refuge for the fanciful brain and overflowing heart; and with the publication of the graceful, charming idyls came friends in such numbers as to form from her home a resort for the literary people of the age.

Feeling great interest in religious thought she attended a course of lectures at the Meadville Theological School, and after the conclusion of a long session there, quietly entered the lecture-field. Shortly afterward she turned her attention to journalism, and here, perhaps, is found her greatest success. She has been a special correspondent of the Chicago Times, The Home Journal, The M. L. B. Post, The Nation, and other papers.


Он, уe beauteous hills of Frankfort,

Wist ye why to-day we sigh? Gentle hills that sit and listen

To the tender, leaning sky.

Shadowed hills, enlaced with sunshine,
Mist embosomed, silence clad,
Do ye feel our yearning homage,
Know why we no more are glad?

'Tis because, amid your forests,
In the hush of "Arnold's wold,"
Walks a bard who speaks your language.
One to whom ye oft have told

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