133

SHE LINGERS YET.

(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.

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.

APPLE BLOSSOMS.

APPLE blossoms! crowns are they
On the lovely brow of May;

Ask the South Wind how it brought
All this beauty magic-wrought,
Thus to change the brown and gray
Of the landscape, on its way,
To such fairy-like display;
Wings are ye to lift my thought,
Apple blossoms!

Rapture in my heart holds sway,
Seas of fragrance with their spray
Deluge me, and I am caught
In sweet tides of song untaught
From the birds that haunt the gay
Apple blossoms.

MARY.

"Thou the Mother-crown shalt wear,
Looked for, longed for, when the heir
Of the nations comes to rule,
Born of thee, the 'Wonderful.'"
"As thou speakest, let it be,”
Mary said, and he was gone;
Visioned was the mystery
To her silent heart alone;
Eve had heard it at the gate
Of her Eden desolate,
But the glory and surprise
Fell alone on Mary's eyes.
-The Mother of the Wonderful.

HOWARD CARLETON TRIPP.

MR.1861.

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

AROUND THE FIRESIDE.

AROUND the fireside should grow and bloom
All human virtues. In its golden light
There should be neither selfishness nor gloom,
But all the family be glad and bright
For being members of the circle there.
This is the place where love and joy should find
A balm or nectar for the heart's despair;
This is the sacred fane for all mankind,
Around the fireside.

Around the fireside should ever be

To gladness given, but to sadness dumb ; Here should those long-departed always see A haven they may enter when they come Across the ocean billows of this life;

Here should the sin-sick sons and daughters cast Life's anchor evermore and quell the strife Within their hearts, here should they come at last, Around the fireside.

Around the fireside God's love should shine,
And life should sparkle with the splendid blaze
Of duties nobly done and acts divine,

With words of comfort and with hopeful lays,
And songs of welcome from the happy throng
That breaks the circle of all hopes allied
To all good things, knowing no hate nor wrong,
No selfish motives and no sordid pride,
Around the fireside.

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.

LOVE LYRIC.

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.

SAMANTHA'S BAC' FRUM SKULE.

"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;

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.

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."

135

JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS.

HE author whose name appears here was

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 11th, 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 Galaxy. 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 11th, 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.

THE EVIL WITHIN 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.

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.

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 not 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.

THE LEADSMAN'S SONG.

'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 blows,

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:

I.

"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!

"Three and a half?

Quarter less four!

II.

It deepens at last!
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!' "

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!"

ON THE BEACH.

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

When the tide had ebbed away
With the ebbing of the day
In the bosom of the bay;

When the starry fires were burning, Lamps of heaven, with night returning, Beacon-lights of mortal yearning,

Then we walked the brown-gray sand, Heart to heart, and hand in hand, Walked the while in fairy-land.

There, beside the singing sea,
There together happily
Sang our hearts its melody.

Then together--now alone, Listening to the ocean's moan, Bended like a reed o'erblown.

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?

Oh my darling, earth is weary,
Life, without thee, sad and dreary,
Ocean's song a miserere!

And my sun is burning low; Fainter yet life's embers glow, Tides will ebb that can not flow.

ULTIMA THUle.

ALONG the desolate regions of this land,

To gloomy shores where is a boundless sea, Moves as with cadenced step a countless band, Marching with me.

A mighty army pressing to the verge

Of the fathomless ocean, staying not its feet Where thunderous surf may never roll and surge, To warn retreat.

O leader, call a halt! O bugler, sound

One thrilling note of pause, for ye may see In yon dark flood the foremost files are drowned, As all will be.

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.

MAY.

SHE comes again with smiles and flowers to bless us,

To decorate the earth so grim and gray, While from the south her breathings wild caress us, Sweet May!

The world is sad with pain, with age is hoary, It groans and travails on its toilsome way, But on it like a coronal of glory

Sits May!

Thou wayward, merry darling of creation,

Come to our hearts with sunshine; come and stay! To thee and all thy charms we make oblation,

Dear May!