properly and with effect be employed in the practical, philanthropic, and often necessary, work of exposing social shams, correcting abuses and unmasking the evils of the Pecksniffs whose detestable hypocrisies here and there fester upon the body politic. That Dr. McCourt is impressed with this view is evidenced by more than one of his poems. He cultivates the satiric muse to good purpose, and, although every conceivable vein of metrical composition receives attention at his hands, his favorite literary pastime is the puncturing of society's frivolities and the ridiculing of moral foibles in inspiring, caustic verse. His humor is always rich, bright and healthful. David William McCourt was born in the town of Waukesha, Wisconsin, October 4, 1859. Both his parents are Scotch, and from them he inherits many of the sterling qualities of the Scottish race. At the age of sixteen he entered a denominational college at Battle Creek, Michigan, where he qualified himself for the profession of teaching. After spending three years as instructor in various Wisconsin and Nebraska schools, however, he became dissatisfied with teaching and studied dentistry with gratifying results. In 1884 he removed to St. Paul, Minn., where he is in the enjoyment of a lucrative practice. In 1880 he married an estimable young lady, and his is a sunny home. Dr. McCourt is the very embodiment of good nature and contented cheerfulness. Dark haired, tall and of elegant figure, he would attract attention even in a company of notables, and as one looks into his soft, honest, blue-gray eyes, one can forget for a moment that such things as duplicity and selfishness exist in this world. Dr. McCourt is soon to bring out a volume of poems whose popularity is assured in advance. J. T. 'TIS THE HOUR WHEN DEWS DESCENDING. 'Tis the hour when dews, descending, Softly chimes the close of day, In the shadows of the vines, Leafy vine and shadow, screen us 'Mid the fragrance of these flowers, Hour of bliss so quickly over; Morn may cheer the sorrowing heart, But the twilight brings the lover. MINNEHAHA. DANCING on, through shade and sun, Makes the hanging branches quiver; On the pebbly shallows chattering, Banks of nodding flowers bespattering, Breaks the silence with her ah, ha, Laughing, singing Minnehaha! Now she nears the rocky ledge, Hastens from her leafy cover, Then goes leaping wildly over; From the foamy pool emerging, Hastens on her way to meet him, And the echoes, still replying, Whisper faint her smothered ha, ha! THE POPULAR CREED. WE live too much by line and rule; Through selfish hopes our faith grows strong; Our hearts are steeled with hate and pride In vain some nobler impulse cries We deem our lives are broad and good; We bow before the shrine of pelf; The light of the celestial shore Oh! could we learn our lives to school In noble, charitable arts; Put self and pride from out our hearts, And let the good within us rule! THE WOMAN IN THE CASE. WHEN erring man from Eden fell, And plunged in sin the human race, And since that first misfortune came When wise men err or good men stray, In social quarrel, or family jar, The cause the gossips quick place; For Helen still engenders war The modern woman in the case. When bankers' clerks aspire to shine, We learn, when they have crossed the line, Our friends, the Mormons, break our laws- If there's a saint without a stain The devil hopes to win from grace, He seldom tempts by power or gain, But puts a woman in the case. For murder, duel, suicide, The daily papers find much space, And other news must stand aside To show the woman in the case. Thus it would seem the subtle charm Is held the cause of all our harm, And named, "The woman in the case." Life, though with blessings it abounds, Would still be like an empty vase Were man compelled to plod its rounds Without a woman in the case. THE PATRIOT'S REWARD. PROUD is his step as one who knows His glance upon his foes, who stand EMELIE TRACY Y. SWETT. EMELIE TRACY Y. SWETT was born in San Francisco, March 9, 1863. Her father, the Hon. John Swett, is known as "the father of Pacific Coast education," and he is also the author of many excellent works in that field. His books are not only used in every normal school in the United States, but have been translated into other languages, and are in use in England, France, Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Australia. From both father and mother Miss Swett-now Mrs. John W. Parkhurst has inherited her literary talent, and her grandfather, Frederick Palmer Tracy, was well known during Lincoln's administration as a writer and an orator of marked repute. Miss Swett's education was partly received in the public schools, and partly at home with various tutors in modern and ancient languages, literature, music and mathematics. Her first published story, written when she was sixteen, won the first prize of a gold watch, offered by the San Francisco Chronicle for the best short story contributed by boys and girls. Miss Swett was at one time a successful and loved teacher in the kindergarten schools of San Francisco. She afterwards taught vocal and instrumental music, Greek, French and German in a young ladies' college. She left there to go abroad in search of health, and while away acted as correspondent to several eastern and western papers. The first earnest literary work done by her consisted of translations of French and German scientific works and historical novels for a New York firm which has now passed out of existence. Later, at the urgent request of the editor of The Overland Monthly, then Charles Howard Shinn, she wrote a number of short stories, which were very favorably received. Verse writing, which so often comes first to a writer, came as a later gift to Miss Swett. She says she owes what success she may have gained to the kind encouragement of James T. White, the New York publisher; to Charles H. Shinn, at one time editor of The Overland; to George R. Cathcart, of New York, and to W. C. Bartlett, of the San Francisco Bulletin. During the past two years Miss Swett's work has embraced the editing of a large book on the mineral springs of California for one of the leading physicians of that state; the dramatization for opera of "Ramona," Helen Hunt Jackson's great novel; a biography in both French and English of Charles Edouard De Villers, to be brought out simultaneously in London and Paris; a work embracing short, chatty biographical sketches of and selec tions from the works of the women writers of the Pacific Coast; and, lastly, a series of portfolio sketches, for the use of botanists and artists, of the wild flowers of the Pacific Coast. Miss Swett is the manager of a literary bureau which she established last year, and which now handles the work of more than six hundred writers. The principal work of the bureau is to write, or have written, finely illustrated out-door articles for the eastern and London magazines. Miss Swett is a constant contributor to The Overland Monthly, the American Home Journal, the San Francisco Call, San Francisco Bulletin, Philadelphia Times, Outing, Popular Science News, Golden State Catholic, Pacific States, and is an occasional contributor to other periodicals. Miss Swett has lived in many of the large cities in America and Europe, and has met and entertained many of the prominent men and women of the day. She was married in 1889 to Mr. John W. Parkhurst, of the Bank of California, a cultivated and agreeable gentleman, who fully sympathizes with the literary attainments of his gifted young wife. Miss Swett-she retains her maiden name in writing is of medium height, slender, and with a sweet womanly face, lovely in the soul that shines through sad eyes of changing hues; a woman who lives for something higher than the mere conventional forms and empty aims, a true friend and an C. B. M. enthusiastic and sympathetic helper. A CHRISTMAS CHIME FROM THE OLD MISSION DOLORES. THERE stands the Mission Dolores, but the reverent hands of its builders Lie buried beneath the adobe; buried, but never forgotten. Somber and bare seems the chapel, to one who is luxury-sated; Beautiful then it appeared to the eyes by the wilderness wearied. Tolling and chiming to-day, the Mission bells tell us a story Of the fathers from Spain who came hither, allured by the legends of plenty Enduring privations and hardships, in making the wearisome journey Over the grim Cordilleras, till the goal burst upon them in beauty. Still stands the Mission Dolores; what a change to the massive cathedral That the sun of to-day illumines in a golden and crimson-hued glory. Rude was the first low adobe; to-day there are fairy-like mansions Crowding the one on the other, like bees in a prosperous bee-hive. Perilous then were the pathways, with red men and beasts of the forests; To-day there are broad winding roadways, shad owed by tall eucalypti. Song birds and brooklets then; in place of the woods of sequoia Cities and towns and homesteads throb in their once virgin bosom. The Mission bells still keep a-chiming a heartiest holiday greeting To all the poor wandering souls from every land under the heavens. "Welcome, thrice welcome," they ring, "to this country of freedom unfettered A cordial December salute to this land of abundance unstinted!" Still stands the old Mission Dolores, its rusty bells pealing forth sweetly Of Charity, Love and Compassion, the first song their infant lips uttered. Ay, Charity, Love and Compassion! Let them sing on forever unhindered, Till God in his wisdom shall hush them with the seal of a silence unending. THE COUNTRY WORKSHOP. THE crisp and fragrant shavings fall from 'neath the singing plane; The sawdust to the ground descends in ceaseless, noiseless rain; A swallow beats the air with steady wing, as through the door It swerves and curves its nest to find beneath the hay-loft floor. Bees hum without, and on the window-ledge the sleepy flies Lie in a sluggish drowse, while in the murmuring woods the cries Of quail and thrush and mourning-dove the song of life complete. A full content the world imbues, in action, in retreat; The men who work, the men who rest, the birds, and e'en the flowers, All breathe the spirit of that peace that sanctifies the hours Of country life, where Time rebels against the rushing pace Of crowded towns-the home of vice and sorrowand the race Of passions that corrode. Here in the workshop's quiet realm The buzzing saws caress the ear; the odorous planks of elm And pine and cedar fill the air with dreams of wood and glen, Where hearts are pure, and men become in truth life's noblemen. BETWEEN TWO WALLS. A NARROW strip of green between two city walls; A beam of morning sun one hour therein that glows; An English sparrow hopping 'round, who soitly calls Unto his timid mate; while through the garden blows A gale of dust and dirt; old papers flit and flirtThe thirsty leaflets droop for one wee drop of rain. Yet to a sweet, young girl, through accident once hurt, So that of all the world naught scarcely doth remain Save this one strip of green between two city walls, This seems a paradise; she sees not dirt and dust, Nor dreams of lovelier flowers, nor sweeter birds recalls. She greets her flowers each day, and O, our God is just! No bloom to her like hers; no birds with tenderer voice; No sun so bright and gay; no nest so warm as hers Between two city walls. How few would thus rejoice At such a home as this-yet thankfulness is hers. A GUEST UNBIDDEN. ACROSS the shadowed valleys of the night Your spirit reaches forth in greetings tender; Your eyes' sad depths with fond regret grow bright, And strengthen me with comfort they engender. I fain would blind my weeping eyes to dreams me, For when my yearning arms reach out, it seems As if the spirits only come to flaunt me. Can spirit reach to spirit over space? Are dreams a solemn surety of the real? And every dream that shows your loving face, Tell me, dear heart, is not this faith's ideal? |