173

MA

MARY MAC COLL SCHULTE.

ARY MAC COLL SCHULTE was born in Liverpool, England. She is the daughter of Evan MacColl, whose productions gained for him the title of the "Burns of Canada," and Hugh Miller termed him the "Moor of Highland Cong." Mrs. Schulte was little more than an infant, when her father accepted a position in the Canadian Customs House in Kingston, Ont., and there it was she grew to womanhood, developing inherited literary instincts. Before the age of twelve, Dante and Shakespeare were pored over with delight, and at fifteen American journals, as well as local papers, were publishing her efforts. At the age of sixteen, she began her chosen career, that of a teacher. In that capacity for several years she made a home in the family of Hon. W. G. Fargo, of Buffalo, and it was during that period that her first book, "Bide Awee, and other Poems (Buffalo, 1879), was published. In 1881 she became the wife of Professor Otto H. Schulte, of Hasbrouck Institute, Jersey City. For the past twelve years she has resided in Newark, N. J., her husband being principal of its largest public school and an able writer on educational matters. Since her marriage her literary labors have been more desultory in character, the duties of wife and mother interfering somewhat with the concentration which she finds necessary to satisfactory achievement. The touch

ing poem entitled "Elaine " expresses, in a degree, the great loss sustained in the death of a charming and gifted daughter. Another, her youngest child, still lives and already bids fair to perpetuate the family gift. In person, Mrs. Schulte is a wee winsome woman," fair, blueeyed, possessing that nameless charm inseparable from goodness and culture combined. She is a woman of persuasive eloquence and warm Christian spirit. C. A. W.

A LEGEND OF THE HOLY CITY. THERE dwelt, so runs the legend, brothers twain On Zion's hill long centuries ago. Below them Jordan's green and fertile plain, Beyond, against the blue gleamed Hermon's snow. Westward on Carmel's purple ridge they gazed, Fair, stately forests rose on either hand, Of oak and sycamore, and cattle grazed On thyme-besprinkled slopes. A beauteous land! Content they toiled, in mutual love and peace, And being righteous, God upon them smiled And blessed them, giving yearly rich increase. But unto Ephraim's home had come no child,

While Reuben's dwelling held his heart's desire;
A son and daughters fair made glad his days.
Ephraim, submissive, saw his hope expire,
Sad oftentimes, yet questioned not God's ways.
If He, the Just, this sweetest gift withhold,
'Twere best, and men loved Ephraim the good.
The sorrowing and stricken he consoled,
And to the poor gave shelter, raiment, food.

Thus sped the years; then came a time of blight
When labor of the fig and olive failed,
No purple clusters hung on vine-clad height,
And husbandmen their barren fields bewailed;
Empty the fold, no herd within the stall;
Famine and pestilence stalked hand in hand;
Shrouded each home by sorrow's somber pall,
And voice of mourning sounded through the land.

Each brother wept to see the other's grief;
When, the brief toil of saddened reapers done,
So scant the harvest, numbering every sheaf
The sum sufficed not for the need of one,
And each took earnest counsel with his heart,
When dawned the feast day set for prayer and praise,
How secretly some cheer he might impart
To gild the gloom of erstwhile happy days.
Moonlight's soft splendor veiled the sleeping land,
And Ephraim, dreaming that his brother slept,
Arose, and, hastening, gained the hill where stand
The meager, scattered shocks from mildew kept.
Lifting a sheaf from out his scanty store

He spoke: "My brother, greater is thy need."
Then to the farther field his burden bore,
Nor dreamed that angels marked this kindly deed.

Reuben had waited, also, for the night,
And softly, silently he took his way
Where, gaunt and shrunken in the silvery light,
His ripened corn upon the hillside lay.

Brother beloved," he sighed, "How rich am I
In all thy lonely, yearning heart doth crave!
Half of this treasure on thy field shall lie,
Thou shalt rejoice and say the dear Lord gave."
Thrice had they passed each other in the night
Intent upon their mission; morning came,
And still, O miracle, O wondrous sight!
The sum of tented sheaves was still the same.

The fourth time, lo, the feet of both were set
In the same path, where shadows interlaced,
And midway silently the brothers met,
Each understood, and, silent, they embraced.
And on this sacred spot fair Zion's hill,
Jerusalem, was built, and to this day,
Grey-bearded patriarchs the story tell
To pilgrims passing up the Holy Way.

To our hearts, impatient, crying

For the ships so long at sea, While faith faints and hope is dying,

"Dinna weary, bide a wee."

"Rainy days" each life will sadden,
Gentle showers or tempest wild
Fall upon us,-blessings gladden
In their turn. To every child
Gives the Father or withholdeth,

Ever wisely, tenderly;

Thus our hearts for Heaven He moldeth, "Dinna weary, bide a wee."

Some there are whom glad fruition

'Neath the skies may never bless, Some to whose long-urged petition Ne'er will come the yearned-for "yes." Why? God knoweth. He who lendeth Strength to suffer trustingly, What He seeth best He sendeth;

"Dinna weary, bide a wee."

Hopeful wait a glad “to-morrow" ";

Cast on Jesus every care;
Not unseen by Him thy sorrow,
Not unpitied thy despair.
For His people there remaineth
Rest and peace eternally,

Where the light of joy ne'er waneth; "Dinna weary, bide a wee."

M

CELIA LAIGHTON THAXTER.

175

RS. CELIA LAIGHTON THAXTER was born in Portsmouth, N. H., June 29th, 1834. When she was four years old, her father, Thomas B. Laighton, went to live, with his family, on the Isles of Shoals. The childhood of herself and her two brothers, Oscar and Cedrick, was passed on White Island, where her father kept the lighthouse, which is described by her in her book, "Among the Isles of Shoals." All her summers are spent among those islands. In 1851 she became the wife of Levi Lincoln Thaxter, of Watertown, Mass., who died in 1884. She never sought admittance to the field of literature, but the poet, James Russell Lowell, who was at one time editor of the Atlantic Monthly, happened to see some verses which she had written for her own pleasure, and without saying anything to her about it, christened them "Landlocked" and published them in the Atlantic. After that she had many calls for her work, and at last, persuaded by the urgent wishes of her friends, John G. Whittier, James T. Fields and others, wrote and published her first volume of poems in 1871, and later the prose work, "Among the Isles of Shoals," which was printed first as a series of papers in the Atlantic Monthly. Other books have followed, "Driftweed," "6 Poems for Children," and " Cruise of the Mystery, and Other Poems." Among her best poems are "Courage," "A Tryst," "The Spaniard's Graves at the Isles of Shoals,' "The Watch of Boon Island," "The Sandpiper" and "The Song Sparrow."

SUBMISSION.

Humbled at last, I bowed in prayer my head
And cried, "O Savior, take again my hand!
Through starless deserts long my path hath led,
My weary feet pressed only shifting sand.

"Alone I can not tread life's thorn-set road,
I need thine arm to stay, Thy voice to guide;
Take all I have, but keep me, O my God,
A trusting child, forever near Thy side."
-Two Autumn Days.

LOVE.

I could not climb life's rugged mountain side
Without thy strong right arm to lean upon:

I could not stem the waves of sorrow's tide
Without thy voice and smile to cheer me on.

O, what is gold, or rank, or power to me?
They will not satisfy an aching heart,
And wanting love, how cold the world would be,
How desolate, with all its show and art.

-Good By.

THE SANDPIPER.

ACROSS the narrow beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I,

And fast I gather, bit by bit,

I. A. K.

The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds

Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,

Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong;

He scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky:
For are we not God's children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

SONG.

WE sail toward evening's lonely star
That trembles in the tender blue;
One single cloud, a dusky bar,

Burnt with dull carmine through and through, Slow smoldering in the summer sky,

Lies low along the fading west.
How sweet to watch its splendors die,
Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed.

The soft breeze freshens, leaps the spray To kiss our cheeks with sudden cheer; Upon the dark edge of the bay

Lighthouses kindle far and near, And through the warm deeps of the sky Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest In deep refreshment, thou and I,

Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed.

How like a dream are earth and heaven,
Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea,
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even,
Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me!
O realize the moment's charm.

Thou dearest! we are at life's best,
Folded in God's encircling arm,
Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed.

THE SPANIARD'S GRAVE.

AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS.

O SAILORS, did sweet eyes look after you

The day you sailed away from sunny Spain,

The bright eyes that followed fading ship and crew, Melting in tender rain?

Did no one dream of that dread night to be,
Wild with the wind, fierce with the stinging snow,
When on yon granite point that frets the sea

The ship met her death-blow?

Fifty long years ago these sailors died:

(None know how many sleep beneath the waves:) Fourteen gray head-stones, rising side by side, Point out their nameless graves,

Lonely, unknown, deserted, but for me,

And the wild birds that flit with mournful cry,
And sadder winds, and voices of the sea
That moans perpetually.

Wives, mothers, maidens, wistfully, in vain
Questioned the distance for the yearning sail,
That, leaning landward, should have stretched again
White arms wide on the gale,

To bring back their beloved. Year by year,

Weary they watched, till youth and beauty passed, And lustrous eyes grew dim, and age drew near, And hope was dead at last.

Still summer broods o'er that delicious land,

Rich, fragrant, warm with skies of golden glow: Live any yet of that forsaken band

Who loved so long ago?

O Spanish women over the far seas,

Could I but show you where your dead repose! Could I send tidings on this northern breeze That strong and steady blows!

Dear dark-eyed sisters, you remember yet

These you have lost, but you can never know One stands at their bleak graves whose eyes are wet With thinking of your woe!

BECAUSE OF THEE.

My life has grown so dear to me,
Because of thee!

My maiden with the eyes demure,
And quiet mouth and forehead pure,
Joy makes a summer in my heart
Because thou art!

The very winds melodious be
Because of thee!

The rose is sweeter for thy sake,
The waves in softer music break,
On brighter wings the swallows dart
Because thou art!

My sky is swept of shadows free
Because of thee!

Sorrow and care have lost their sting;