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(RONDEAU.) She lingers yet, the dainty thing, Coy queen, the young and laughing Spring;

She just looks in with half a smile

Our weary heartache to beguile, And leaves us cold and shivering. She sent the robins up to sing, Such music! chill with chattering, It seemed so winter-like in style;

She lingers yet.

R. TRIPP was born in Plano, Ill., April 4th,

1861. He has been a resident of Iowa almost continuously since 1881. For a brief portion of this time he attended the Iowa State Normal School in Cedar Falls, or was acting as associate editor of a society and literary paper in Cedar Rapids, or had a little poetical and political experience with a humorous paper in Queen City, Texas. He has been closely identified with the political, social, literary and educational life of Plymouth county, having been a teacher in several townships, an active and enthusiastic Republican speaker, and a typical western newspaper hustler since he located there. Being a voluminous contributor to many literary papers and magazines, and having a personal acquaintance with many authors of national fame, he has a better literary reputation abroad than at home. He has recently published a volume entitled “Around the Fireside, and Other Poems."

W. W.


She courts the snow-cloud still on wing, And laughs to see the winter king

Holding his broken palace pile,

So loth to leave it yet awhile; Blow, up ye gales! your treasures bring!

She lingers yet.


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Around the fireside hearts should grow warm

With acts of kindness; as in Heaven's clime The sin-freed spirit may forget the storm

That oft assailed it in the olden time, So should the heart forget its earthly care

While round the ever pleasant, cheerful blaze; The home should be a holy spot, since there Is spent the better part of life's sweet days,

Around the fireside.

Sed that 'Mantha ourter play

The pianna, l'arn to sing,
So Marier had hur way;
Mantha left us 'way las' spring,

Went tu kollege, l'arned the style,
Leavin' us alone awhile.


IN meadows bright with violets

And spring's fair children of the sun, With all that love or youth begets,

We romp, and play, and laugh, and run. The crocus with a face of snow

We oft discover as a prize ;
Love blushes in her cheeks, I know.

And blossoms in her eyes.
The song-birds twitter as we pass

From bud to blossom, glad and free;
She is an angel-hearted lass,

With admiration all for me. I read it in her tender ways,

The love-clad touches of her hand; Love teaches me the art of praise

And makes her understand. Ah, well, the violets may fade,

The crocus wither in the sun; But with the merry-hearted maid

I still may laugh, and play, and run. For love has sought us from above

And bound us, though we both are free, And in God's meadow-lands of love

She only lives for me.

“Mantha's like hur muther wuz,

When way bac' frum spring tu fall, Luv' notes in hur ears I'd buzz,

Leanin' o'er the garden wall;
Neow the town boys visit us,

Jest tu compliment hur ways;
An' I dare not raise a fuss
If the best one stays an' stays;

'Mantha likes tu entertain

Boys of style an' boys of brain. “Bet that ere anuther year

'Mantha will jest up an' wed; Children ar' so very queer,

Fur the other day she s'ed, 'Dad!'-she alwus calls me Dad

'Aint I gettin' much tuu old Fur a common country lad, Without learnin', without gold?'

Kin' o' struck me then an' thare
Soon thare'd be anuther pare.

“Queer she iz sence she return'd,

Haz strange notions in hur head, Gues' she at the kollege le'rn'd

Only how tu woo an’ wed.” That's the greatest thing in life,

That's the best an' grandest rule, 'Mantha'll make a splendid wife, 'Mantha's just got bac' from skule.

But life's skule will be, you bet,

The best one she's entered yet. “In this kollege she will find

Hardships, lessons long tu le'rn, Oft her eyes will be so blind

She will not know whare tu turn;
Children will forsake hur place,

Grow outside hur muther-rule;
Enter life's uncert'in race,
Like Samantha, go tu skule;

But hur h’art will kind a smile
Should they cum bac' fur awhile."


“Wul, Samantha's bac' frum skule,

Bac' an' iz a womun grown; Mayba thinks I am a fule,

Mayba — but I'm not alone,
Fur hur muther iz with me,

Ma wuz mad when I a'pos'd
Mantha takin' a degree
Ov grand hi' skule furbalows,

Ma's wish iz my da’ly rule,
So Samantha went tu skule.

“Went an' left us lon'sum like,

With two empty h'arts an' han's ; Ma went out upon a strike,

I guv' in tu hur deman's;

In sweet and simple childlike glee,

Ere age brings grief and care, We speak it at our mother's knee, 'Tis half of every prayer.

- Good Night. 135




But ceaseless the warfare within me prevails,

It's tumult will never be still,
And often, too often, my Good Angel fails

To conquer the Spirit of Ill.
Hemmed in by the fires of this wearying fight,

While my years to eternity roll,
I witness the legions of Darkness and Light

Contending to capture my soul.
Fast bound in the fetters of earth and of sin,

I struggle and cry to be free,
While the Angel without and the Demon within

Wage perpetual war over me. Oh! saddest of combats! most cruel of wars!

I am spent with the toil of the fray! Lifelong shall I bear its disfiguring scars,

And deliverance seems far away.

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"HE author whose name appears here was

essentially a poet, although he obtained far greater success and more ample recognition as a novelist, for one of his latest works, "The Parted Veil," published in Belford's Magazine, placed him on the plane of our greatest writers of fiction. Major Fitts was born in Lockport, N. Y., September uth, 1839, and being the son of one of the most noted educators of western New York, his early education was all that could be desired for one “bred to the law." He was admitted to the bar when just twenty-one and immediately took rank as an advocate. When the War of the Rebellion called the brave to the field, young Fitts was prompt to enter the contest, and after many bloody battles, at the close of the war, he was discharged a major by brevet for bravery in action; but in addition to his honors he bore with him the burden of Confederate lead, and so near his heart that the skill of the surgeon could not relieve him from this burden of death. Major Fitts was a most prolific writer; the titles of his songs and stories with the names of the newspapers and magazines that have published his productions would much more than fill the space allotted by this magazine for a biographical sketch. While in the army, Major Fitts made good progress in a literary life already commenced, and some of his best work was an outcome of the war and appeared in Harper's Magazine and the Gala.ry. Our author's strength as a poet lay in his vivid power of description and his suggestiveness, as “The Leadsman's Song," * On the Beach and “Ultima Thule" attest. Major Fitts died at his home in Lockport, on January 1th, 1890, from the effects of the enemy's lead, which he had carried in his breast ever since the war, and which was the result of a shot fired in the dawn of that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday in June, in front of Port Hudson.

S. T. C.

Still, serene in his strength, strives the angel of

Good; I am sure in the end he will win, For so long and so strong has he nobly withstood,

He must vanquish the evil within. Nay, I war no! alone! The bright Presence that

stilled The tempest on vexed Galilee With fervor and faith all my being hath filled,

And this battle He giveth to me.


'Twas a seaman bold on the ship's lee side,
Where the black waves rollicked far and wide,
Where keen winds whistled through ragged sails
With a dreary gamut of shrieks and wails,
Where cloudy masses obscured the sun
With a tangled vapor, dark and dun,
Where the stout ship reeled with the tempest's

And cries to God 'mid the storm arose
As the jagged line of the hard lee shore
Came dim to herald the breaker's roar!
'Twas then that the seaman swung the lead
With a circling sweep round his rain-beat head.
And launching it down in the troubled sea,
Sang loudly and clear this song to me:



Idly rests in its scabbard the sword that I wore

When battles flamed over the land; I am stirred by their bellowing thunders no more,

By their hot breath no longer am fanned. Ah! Christ, it is well! Let the spirit of hell

That tortured the people amain Lie down in the dust, and the sword, may it rust!

Peace bless us forever again.

'Quarter less four! Quarter less four!

Hark! how the breakers roar a-lee.

Chanting aloud in devilish glee, Chorusing ever, One ship more!

Wrecks ashore I can plainly see;
Corpses are lying there-corpses four:

There, alack! we shall shortly be.
Three fathoms only! Quarter less three!


Here I walk the sands at eve,
Here in solitude I grieve,
Break the spells we loved to weave.


Still the silver fires are set
In night's azure coronet:
Do they light thy pathway yet?

“Three and a half? It deepens at last!

Quarter less four! There's a channel here.

Courage, pilot and take good cheer!
Five—the danger is overpast!
Six!-huzza!—for it deepens fast.
Seven fathoms---deep eight!
Now may the breakers lie in wait,

Dragging the shoals with their foamy net: Others may meet with the sailor's fate,

We shall be snared-not yet, not yet! And a half-eight-eight and a half ! Now in sooth, we can bravely laugh: For the distant breakers, I wot, confess With their sullen roaring 'One ship less!'”

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And his song to me as I swayed the wheel
(For the good ship's woe or the good ship's weal!)
With the nervous grasp of a trained athlete,
Had a melody in its close most sweet.
For I thought, as our keel passed the cruel shoal,

And I held our course to the open sea,

That another pilot had stood by me, Keeping the ship toward the fated goal! A shadowy helmsman, stern and dark, Terribly steering my fated bark: A specter pilot of fleshless bone, With icy fingers upon mine own, With hollow eyes fixed on the corse-strewn shore, And jaws ever grinning 'One ship more!'

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When the sun was burning low, And his last expiring glow Gilded ocean's restless flow;

Nor flight nor rest is here! mine eyes in vain

Scan the horizon. Where are they who crossed? O captain, halt!—that piteous cry again

Ere I be lost.

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