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I know just how the little room,
That once was mine, appears,

The room that knew my sweetest joys,

And saw my girlish tears; The dormer windows, queer and small, The pleasant lane in view; Ah! when that peaceful home was mine, Few were the cares I knew.

My heart was filled with light and joy,
My life a golden glow;
Such light and careless days for me
Can come no more,
I know.
And yet I know-Oh, sweeter yet,
A haven far more blest;
Where I can find, in joy or woe,
A sure and happy rest,

A home where I shall ever reign,
Of its dear self a part;
Where prying eyes can never gaze;

Dear love, within thy heart. Sweet were those happy, girlish days, The present sweeter far;

My life is now bright as the sun, 'T was then a little star.

For as each year steals swiftly by,
I learn thy goodness more;

Some gentle trait, some loving thought,
I had not known before.

Dear love, true heart, dear kindly face;
Thank God for that glad day,
When angels gave me this new life
And put the old way.


Some lives are clad with darkness, ·
Through long and weary years;
Some eyes have lost their brightness,
In unavailing tears,

But clouds and tears shall vanish

In radiant light above,

Where souls that see more clearly,
Shall know that "God is love."


Life lies before her blank and cold,
A sunless sky, a roadway dreary;
Already travel-worn and faint,
With aching limbs and feet a-weary.
-On the Ferry.




born in Cambridge, Mass., December 22, 1823. He graduated at Harvard College in 1841, and at the divinity school in 1847.

Mr. Higginson was first settled over a church in Newburyport in 1847, but preached himself out of that pulpit within three years by his vigorous championship of the anti-slavery cause. In the same year-1850-he was, through no desire of his own, the candidate of the Free Soil party for Congress from the third Massachusetts district.

From 1852 to 1858 Mr. Higginson was in charge of the Free Church in Worcester. His people were in hearty accord with the anti-slavery faith and works of their pastor. The originator of the plan to save Burns, Martin Stowell, was one of the faithful abolitionist circle in Worcester. Mr. Higginson, with Wendell Phillips and Theodore Parker, were indicted for murder shortly after the Burns episode, on account of the rather mysterious death of one of the defenders within the court house during the melee, but the case was never brought to trial.

In 1856 this free pastor of a free church worked energetically in organizing parties of northern emigrants to aid in securing political control of Kansas, spent some time in the new state, and served on the staff of James H. Låne in the civil war which ensued. In Kansas Mr. Higginson came to know John Brown, of Osawatomie, with whom his relations of confidence and mutual regard continued until the latter's death.

To the civil war Higginson, as a philanthropist, looked forward fearlessly and even confidently. Like Frederick Douglas and so many others, he saw that slavery, at any rate, must go down in the struggle. At once, in 1861, it was arranged with Gov. Andrew that he should raise a regiment, but just then recruiting was stopped and nothing resulted for the moment. In 1862, nevertheless, Mr. Higginson recruited two white companies in and about Worcester, and was in camp as commander of one of them when he received a most unexpected request to take command of the 1st regiment of South Carolina volunteers, then just organizing. How he trained and led to victory these refugees, fresh from slavery in South Carolina and Florida, has been modestly related by Col. Higginson himself in one of the most fascinating and instructive books which our civil war produced-"Army Life in a Black Regiment." On an exciting expedition up the Edisto, in 1863, Col. Higginson received a wound which robbed him of health and strength for several years. After a


short furlough he attempted to resume active duties, but in the following year found it necessary to resign his commission.

The most aggressive of abolitionists, brave as the bravest among soldiers, Col. Higginson has yet always continued to live in the present. Until all men and women are indeed equally free, and enjoy equal opportunity for happiness and selfimprovement, there will always be abundant occupation for a philanthropy as broad as his. He himself would, no doubt, prize most highly his fair fame as the ever faithful champion of the weaker sex. We can all honor his efforts for the elevation of women, whether we share or not his hope in the purification of politics through their influence. His outspoken sympathy for home rule in Ireland has been characteristic of the man, and, of course, also perfectly sincere and unselfish.

Col. Higginson is a scholar; a lover of books and of "divine philosophy." He is none the less a fit representative man of Cambridge and Boston for W. C. L.



OVER the field where the brown quails whistle,
Over the ferns where the rabbits lie,
Floats the tremulous down of a thistle.
Is it the soul of a butterfly?

See! how they scatter and then assemble;
Filling the air while the blossoms fade,-
Delicate atoms, that whirl and tremble

In the slanting sunlight that skirts the glade.

There goes the summer's inconstant lover, Drifting and wandering, faint and far; Only bewailed by the upland plover, Watched by only the twilight star.

Come next August, when thistles blossom, See how each is alive with wings! Butterflies seek their souls in its bosom, Changed thenceforth to immortal things.


I DREAMED one night that the calm hosts of heaven

Had lost their changeless paths; and as I stood
Beside the latticed window, I could watch
Those strange, fair pilgrims wandering from their

Up to the zenith rose the moon, and paused;
Stars went and came, and waxed and waned



Then vanished into nothing; meteors pale
Stole, soft as wind-blown blossoms, down the

Till I awoke to find the cold gray morn
Hymning its lonely dirges through the pines.
Were it not better that the planets fail,
And every heavenly orbit wander wide,
Than that this human life, its years like stars,
Should miss the accustomed sequence of content?
All times are good; life's morning let us sing,
Its sunny noon, high noon, the whole world's


Nor less that sweet decline which ends in eve. Life were monotonous with its morning hours, Came not the hurrying years to shift our mood, Unfold an altered heaven and spread its glow O'er the changed landscape of time's afternoon.


FROM street and square, from hill and glen
Of this vast world beyond my door,

I hear the tread of marching men,
The patient armies of the poor.

The halo of the city's lamps

Hangs, a vast torch-light, in the air; I watch it through the evening damps: The masters of the world are there.

Not ermine-clad or clothed in state, Their title-deeds not yet made plain;

But waking early, toiling late,

The heirs of all the earth remain.

Some day, by laws as fixed and fair As guide the planets in their sweep, The children of each outcast heir

The harvest-fruits of time shall reap.

The peasant brain shall yet be wise,
The untamed pulse grow calm and still;
The blind shall see, the lowly rise,
And work in peace Time's wondrous will.

Some day, without a trumpet's call,

This news will o'er the world be blown: "The heritage comes back to all!

The myriad monarchs take their own!"


O RADIANT summer day,

Whose air, sweet air, steals on from flower to


Couldst thou not yield one hour

When the glad heart says, "This alone is May?"

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Very respectfully

Charles Lotin Heldrecti

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