IN

INA D. COOLBRITH.

N the rosy retrospect, the writer of these lines sees a cosy interior, in a quiet house, on a hill in San Francisco. There was always a kind of twilight in that place, and a faint odor of fresh violets, and an atmosphere of peace. It was a poet's corner in a city which was more poetical then than it now is, and far more poetical than it will ever be again. There were little Parian busts on the mantel, delicate pictures upon the wall, rich volumes with autograph inscriptions everywhere; through the curtained window one saw a marble Cupid wrestling with a marble swan in a shower of sparkling spray-but this was in the garden opposite. If the lawn was limited on the hither side of the street, the exquisite atmosphere of the small salon-it was a salon in the best sense of the word-was most attractive. Here Bret Harte chatted with the hostess over the table of contents of the forthcoming Overland Monthly; here the genial "John Paul," Charles Henry Webb, discussed the prospects of his Californian; and here Joaquin Miller, fresh from the glorious fields of Oregon, his earnest eyes fixed upon London in dreaming of future fame, met the gracious lady who was the pearl of all her tribe.

Ina D. Coolbrith, although a native of Illinois, and of New England parentage, passed her childhood and early youth in Los Angeles, California, when that old Spanish settlement was worthy of the name. She might easily have been mistaken for a daughter of Spain; the dark eyes, the luxuriant dark hair, the pure olive skin flushed with the ripe glow of the pomegranates; even the rich contralto voice, the mellifluous tongue and the wellworn guitar were hers-everything, in fact, save only the stiletto and the cigarette. Those were halcyon days: she was singing her full-throated songs-perhaps too often touched with a gentle melancholy, but this also is Spanish and semitropical-and the world was listening to catch the far-off strain from California. She was a constant contributor to the Overland Monthly, and she frequently appeared in the Californian, the Galaxy, Her Harper's, and other leading periodicals. muse was speedily and cordially recognized in the best quarters, and, in later years, when on a flying visit to the Atlantic sea-board, Whittier, and many another master-singer, welcomed her fraternally—paternally, I should say in some

cases.

In 1881 a collection of her poems, written with but a few exceptions previous to the year 1876, was published in a small volume under the title of "A Perfect Day," that perfect poem very properly lending its name to the collection. This, which would seem to have been the auspicious

opening of a brilliant career, full of the promise of prosperity, was, under the irresistible force of circumstances, an apparently eternal farewell to the world of song,-for the singer, who has no superior among the female poets of her own land, and scarcely an equal, has almost ceased to sing! In 1874, circumstances had compelled her to accept the office of librarian in the Free Library of Oakland, Cal. She has been there ever since; she may be forced to remain there unto the end. Her life has been a rare example of unceasing and heroic self-sacrifice for the sake of those who have been dependent upon her. Death robbed her, in 1876, of an idolized mother, and now she goes daily to the tread-mill of duty and endures her fate almost in solitude. Is it any wonder that a heart so oppressed should find it difficult to sing?

Her poems are singularly sympathetic; I know of none more palpably spontaneous. The minor key predominates; but there are a few lark-like carols suffused with the "unpremeditated joy" of heavenly inspiration. C. W. S.

A PERFECT DAY.

I WILL be glad to-day: the sun
Smiles all adown the land;
The lilies lean along the way;

Serene on either hand,

The full-blown roses, red and white, In perfect beauty stand.

The mourning-dove within the woods
Forgets, nor longer grieves;

A light wind lifts the bladed corn,
And ripples the ripe sheaves;
High overhead some happy bird
Sings softly in the leaves.

The butterflies flit by, and bees;

A peach falls to the ground; The tinkle of a bell is heard

From some far pasture-mound; The crickets in the warm, green grass Chirp with a softened sound.

The sky looks down upon the sea,
Blue, with not anywhere
The shadow of a passing cloud;
The sea looks up as fair-
So bright a picture on its breast
As if it smiled to wear.

A day too glad for laughter-nay, Too glad for happy tears!

L

LIZETTE WOODWORTH

REESE.

IZETTE WOODWORTH REESE was born in a little country place, near Baltimore, over five and twenty years ago, of French and German parents, with a smatteringof hardy Welch thrown in on her father's side. Her parents moved to Pittsburgh, when she was a child, but only lived there six months, when they transferred their household goods to Baltimore, where they have been ever since. Miss Reese learned to read when she was five years old. At seven, she devoured everything in the way of mental food, histories, essays, novels, poems, dry old religious biographies, and the Bible. At eight, she made the acquaintance of Dickens, and though she appreciated his genius fully as much as anyone does, with whom he is not the favorite of favorites, she loves Thackeray and Hawthorne above all prose writers of the century. Her most distinguished characteristic is straightforward, ness. She would rather meet an enemy than write to one, if she had one, but she is too gentle to ever acquire that most desirable of things. She has a horror of a lie in any form. Her sympathies are broad. She has a passion for books, flowers, music, pictures, perfumes, and, chiefest of all, poetry. Her love of nature is as profound as it is reverential. Her favorite poets are the old English ones, and among them, I think, she loves Herrick best. Her first book of poems, "A Branch of May," was published two years ago, and it received noteworthy notices,-Mr. Howells, Mr. Stedman, and Col. Higginson being particularly favorable. Her first poem was published when she was seventeen. For four or five years after, she only wrote from two to three poems a year. She is to-day a "slow" worker, as she herself says. Many of her lines are unforgetable; they enter the chambers of one's brain, and they will not out, but sing themselves over and over again.

Miss Reese is very slender, of medium height, with golden hair, true blue eyes, and delicate features. She's a breathing cameo, as sensitive as an Eolian harp, and as finely strung.

BETRAYED.

SHE is false, O Death, she is fair!

J. E. M.

Let me hide my head on thy knee; Blind mine eyes, dull mine ears, O Death! She hath broke my heart for me!

Give me a perfect dream;

Find me a rare, dim place; But let not her voice come nigh,

And keep out her face-her face!

THE DEATH POTION.

(In Italy, 15—.)

ONE drop of this, and she will not know

If she be foul or fair;

One drop, and I may bind him again
With a thread of my golden hair.
(Hear, Lord Jesus!)

I would that those folk across the street,

In old St. Simon's there,

Would hush their noise: for they sing so sweet They make this rare drop seem less rare. (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

It is May; my plum trees five

Down in the court below

Look like five little chorister boys Tiptoe to chant, so white they blow. (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

And a butterfly like a violet

Flits through the sun and lights on the sill Close to my hand. Are the bees about, Or is it the wind comes down the hill? (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

But what have I to do with the May,

Or any other weather?

Or with five white plum trees? Hate and I, And I and Hell, be yoked together. (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

(One drop is sure to kill.) When she dies, They will put the cross on her breast, And get the golden candlesticks out

For her head and feet, and call her blest. (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

But she is a thief! Do ye hear me in heaven? Her soul shall not come in

To those white souls. She is pitch, not snow. Saint Simon, Saint Simon, is Theft not sin? (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

For he was mine, and I was his; (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

Though we had shame, yet had we bliss. (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

I fell, but for love, love, love;

And for love, love, love, I swear!

I, for this man and my love,

Would have wiped his feet with my hair! (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

This robber came; she lay in wait; She sprang upon him unaware; He thinks to wed her with a ring To-morrow in St. Simon's there. (Hear, Lord Jesus!)

One drop? And she shall have it then
In a sup of her lover's wine;
So-old things will come back again,
And I be his, and he be mine!
(Hear, Lord Jesus!)

A THOUGHT OF MAY.

ALL that long, mad March day, in the dull town, I had a thought of May-alas, alas!

The dogwood boughs made whiteness up and down;

The daffodils were burning in the grass; And there were bees astir in lane and street, And scent of lilacs blowing tall and lush; While hey, the wind, that pitched its voice so sweet,

It seemed an angel talked behind each bush!
The west grew very golden, roofs turned black.
I saw one star above the gables bare.
The door flew open. Love, you had come back.
I held my arms; you found the old way there.

In its old place you laid your yellow head,
And at your kiss the mad March weather fled!

DOUBT.

CREEDS grow so thick along the way, Their boughs hide God; I cannot pray.

TRUTH.

THE old faiths light their candles all about,
But burly Truth comes by, and blows them out.

IN JUNE.

WITH A DIFFERENCE.-Hamlet WHO saw the June come? Welladay! My neighbor's bushes, one and all, And grew white after God's old way, Behind the garden wall.

Who saw the June come? Nay, not she, My neighbor's daughter, slim and shy, Long since she left her father's house, Ere yet the rose was nigh.