A SONG OF LOVE AND THE SEA.

OH shipmate sweet, oh shipmate true,
Here's a song of love and the sea!

For we sailed in fair and we sailed in fine,
Nor storm nor cloud, oh shipmate mine,
As we sailed, oh shipmate mine!

Oh shipmate sweet, oh shipmate dear,
The log of the cruise is rare!
For memory's scroll will forever unroll

Its record of glimpses of Nature's great soul,
As we sail, oh shipmate dear;
As together we sail away again

Over the lapis-lazuli plain,

Where the sparkling spume from the sea-drifts flies
And bejewels the plumes of the gulls that wing
Where a million crystal cradles swing,
Where baby mermaids are rocked to sleep,
Lapped and lulled as the breezes die

Till they're tucked to rest 'neath the mirrored sky,
Beguiled in dreams 'neath a moonshine sheet,

As we cruise, oh shipmate sweet!

As we cruise, oh shipmate true, Into the seas that Homer knew; Into the languorous Indian seas Of Sailor Sindbad's mysteries;

Among the isles where the ages seem
To loiter, enthralled in the Buddha dream;
Where Time, supine, with nerveless hands
Lets the hour-glass stay its ruthless sands;
While the despot sun his soul distills
Through days as ages, through ages as hours,
To burn again in the passion of spice
Or breathe in the balm of flowers;

Into and out of the under-world,

As this great little earth 'neath the sun is twirled,
Not only we sailed, but we're sailing still-
Shift memory's helm, we're off at will!

Joy hath a throne on every wave

As we cruise, oh shipmate brave!

Oh shipmate sweet, oh shipmate brave!
Here's a song of love and of life!

And we'll sing as we cruise, for our course doth lie
Into the peace of the evening sky.

Whatever the weather, 'tis fine in our eyes,

Whatever the port, 'tis paradise,

As together we cruise, my dear,
As we cruise, oh shipmate dear!

M

ALLEN GILMAN BIGELOW.

33

R. ALLEN G. BIGELOW was born in Buffalo, N. Y., March 13th, 1854. He was the oldest son of Rev. Albert Bigelow and Maria Storrs Bigelow. On his father's side he was a descendant of Ethan Allen, whose name he bore. Mr. Bigelow's first literary work of importance was done on Bohemia, a Buffalo publication, in 1880. He had various editorial connections with the Buffalo Evening Telegragh, the Roller Mill, of Buffalo, the Lockport, N. Y., Journal and the Buffalo Express. For the last named paper he did some of his finest prose work. He contributed to the North American Review, the Magazine of Poetry and other journals. His poems were mostly written for the Atlantic Monthly, St. Nicholas and the Buffalo Express. Mr. Bigelow was active in many fields, a popular member of the National Guards, a discerning and cultured musician, and, above all and essentially a poet. He died in Asheville, N. C., August 8th, 1891, leaving a widow, Genevieve Boyce Bigelow, and a W. W. son and daughter.

They saw the blacksmith singing bass; There was the miller tenor's face;

And there the clerk,

Who, having closed his six day's work
Behind the counter in "the store,"
Was not averse to one day more
Spent in a sphere a trifle higher,
And so sang "counter" in the choir;
There, in his somber Sunday suit,
The pedagogue essayed the flute;
In tones alternate harsh and mellow
The carpenter sawed at the 'cello;
While, over on the other side,
The postmaster, with modest pride,
Winded the ophicleide.

The women, too, were much the same:
That elderly, sharp-visaged dame,
With keen-edged voice,
Sang treble there, a trifle flat
(The people never minded that
When you and I were boys).
There were the same half-dozen girls,
Each with a dozen dangling curls,
All standing in a row,
With hymn-books leather-bound.

"Blow ye the trumpet, blow
The gladly solemn sound”-
Why should the folks below
Turn and look round?

In bonnet small and neat, And ribbons cute,

There, on the second seat,

Beside the flute,

And almost elbowed by the fellow

Playing the 'cello,

A maiden sat and sang the old “fugue-tune "Long as it was, 'twas ended all too soon

In alto tones, full, rich and mellow.

The aged treble oft had pierced my ear;

The row of girls had added to the smart;

But this new voice-its tones not loud, but clearPierced to my heart

And filled it with a mad desire

To join the choir.

Ah, fatal madness! 'T would not do;

For well I knew

I could not cling

To such a hope. I could not sing!

My tuneless throat

Held not a single note.

And yet that "gladly solemn sound" An echo in my soul had found;

I longed to occupy a seat
Between the flute and alto sweet,
Or 'twixt the bow upon her bonnet
And that other bow with rosin on it.

A year has passed since this occurred,
And I that sweet new alto heard;
And doubtless you will be surprised
To know my hope is realized.
No, no! I have not learned to sing,
I could not compass such a thing
Within so short a space.

I occupy no place

Up in the choir. It would not do;
My tuneless voice too well I knew
To show my face

Where "gladly solemn " trumpets blew!

So, knowing I could not aspire To sit beside her in the choir,

What could I do

But just reverse the situation? The alto joined the congregation And sits beside me in the pew.

MY SWEETHEART.

I'm in love with a fair little maiden,

With her eyes, with her lips, with her hands, With her dozens of dear little dimples;

And though she's petite,

On her sweet little feet

'Tis a wonder to me how she stands.

And she loves me, this dear little maiden;

And her hands, and her eyes, and her lips, And her dimples, all giving me welcome, In a sweet, artless way, Have their say, every day,

As to meet me she lovingly trips.

Will she wed me, this sweet little maiden?
Bless you, no! that she never will do;
But when I have told you the reason,
I haven't a fear

'Twill appear to you queer;

For I'm thirty,-while she's only two!

BELLS.

On Sabbath morns the Spirit's voice
Loud o'er the city peals.

At evening, like the Angelus
His silvery summons steals.

-The Spirit of the Bells.

M

AGNES SHALLOE.

RS. AGNES SHALLOE was born in Buffalo and was educated in the Buffalo public schools and High School, being graduated from the latter in 1870. She was chosen to write and read the graduates' poem; was chosen on several occasions to write poems for alumni celebrations, Lincoln's birthday, etc., and when only sixteen years of age she wrote a New Year's address for the Buffalo Courier, which was selected in preference to many other poems offered for that occasion. Mrs. Shalloe contributed principally to the Buffalo Courier after leaving school, being much encouraged by the late Thomas Kean, who was connected with that paper, and Mr. Ray T. Spencer, at one time principal of the Buffalo High School. She has won recognition and has written verses for nearly all the city papers, particularly the Catholic Union and Times.

IN LOVER'S LANE.

He wanders down the maple path, His web of thoughts a-spinning,

In gold midsummer's aftermath,

A doubtful task beginning.

J. H.

He meets young Cupid: "Harken, sweet,
I'll give thee this love-penny
If thou wilt steal a message fleet
To lovely, winsome Jennie."

Now forth she comes in dainty wear,
Her beauteous form revealing;

Her snowy bodice not so fair
As throat above it stealing;
The bonny face in prim repose,
The golden curls a-peeping,
As quaintly sweet as mossy rose
Above her bonnet creeping.

The artful cherub speeds apace,
And oh, they are a-meeting!
The lover from his vantage place
Looks forth upon the greeting;
She reads the missive, blushes sweet,
And clasps the little stranger:

"Come rest with me those dimpled feet." "I will," saith Love, the ranger.

They linger still in lover's lane
And breathe the old, sweet story.

SPIRITS OF REST.

No evanescent shadows, but immutable,
Whatever fate may lead thee, what betide,
Remembered or forgotten we abide,
True as the stars, serene, inscrutable.

One poppy-wreathed, one crowned with immortelle;
The languorous, witching, worm; the cold and fair;
Bearing the wand of dreams, and amaranth rare,
And mystic draught from Life's eternal well.
O, weary spirit, rest thee; evermore
With lotus flower to lull regret and pain,
We yield thy treasures unto thee again;

Lost hope, lost love, from cruel Time's gray shore,
Soft as the twilight fall on sunset's breath.
Lo, I am Sleep, and this my sister, Death.

IN SUMMER DAYS.

HERE in the garden beautiful,

O, Friend of the long ago,

The violets bloom in the sun-freckled gloom,

And riotous roses blow.

The lily swoons in its fragrance,

And jasmine frail and sweet Clambers as bold as in days of old

Over our rustic seat.

The bee is lazily scorning

The poppy's scarlet and gold,
And, idlest of things, a spider wings
Over the scented mold;

Crickets are blithely chirping,

And a splendid butterfly rests Where the dragon-fly sails slowly by The syringa's starry crests.

Here is the old sun-dial;

Dear, on its time worn face
'Tis to learn the message stern
Which the fleeting hours retrace.
Over it wings the swallow,

Beneath are the grasses wet
With silver dew, the moments through,
Like tears of the soul's regret.

Thou, who are nearest, dearest,

In thoughts that are sweet to pain, Come from the deep of the year's long sleep, Heart of my heart, again!

Glad as the spirit of summer,

O Love, we shall wander slow,

As in perfumed haze of by-gone days
And bloom of the long ago.

MR.

WALTER CLARK NICHOLS.

R. NICHOLS was born in the town of Pittsfield, Mass., December 20th, 1870. His father and mother were of Puritan lineage. Mr. Nichols' father, Col. Samuel E. Nichols, was a student at Amherst, and left the college in the middle of his course to go into the army. He was afterwards editor and publisher of the Pittsfield Sun until 1882, when he took up his residence with his family in Buffalo, N. Y. Walter C. Nichols attended private and public schools in Pittsfield, and on coming to Buffalo entered the department of practice in the Buffalo State Normal School, where he studied for two years. In 1884 he entered the Buffalo High School, from which he was graduated in 1888, gaining the highest rank in the graduating class of fifty-seven scholars, and receiving the Jesse Ketchum gold medal for highest scholarship. He was a member of the class of '92 in Harvard University. Mr. Nichols has written verse since his sixteenth year, but the first poem of his composition that was ever published appeared in the Springfield Republican in 1888. Since then his poems have been widely published, and have appeared in Puck, Boston Transcript, New York Graphic, Detroit Free Press, Buffalo Courier, New York World, New York Mail and Express, New York Home Journal, Town Topics and Yankee Blade.

W. E. K.

A LITTLE GIRL.

My lady trips the stairs adown
To greet the rays of morning,
Which glisten round her head, a crown
Her natal day adorning.

What age's my lady? Just thirteen;
You'd think she was far older;
Her witching eyes have grown more keen,
Her teens, too, make her colder,

Alas! how childhood with a whirl From yesterday is fleeting!

I called her then "a little girl"; To-day she scorns this greeting.

Flit on, my lady, through the years

Which give to youth their plenty Of love and grief, of hopes and fears, Till age proclaims you twenty.

Then, as each year Time steals a curl And dimple from you (doubting), Methinks I'll call you little girl" Without disdainful pouting.

HUSKING TIME.

THROUGH many a rift and gleaming crack The country barn so old and black

By the autumn breeze is fanned. The dark-red sun in the west drops low, To their nests on the rafters the swallows go, And the old barn really seems to know

That the husking time's at hand.

The laddies and lassies, that gather now
To husk the corn and scrape and bow,
Seem the fairest in the land.
The pile of corn so ripe and sheen
Is the goodliest sight that ever was seen,
And the dear old barn is glad, I ween,
That the husking time's at hand.

The corn is husked, the pleasure's o'er,
The silvery moonshine lies on the floor,
Dispersed is the rustic band.

And while the old barn may crumble away,
Nor corn-stooks line it in rich array,
There's One who will say to us all some day:
"The husking time's at hand."