M S. JENNIE SMITH. S. JENNIE SMITH. ISS S. JENNIE SMITH was born in New York City, where her father, Joseph L. T. Smith, has been for many years at the head of his profession of City Surveyer and Civil Engineer. She received her education in the public schools and normal college of that place. Shortly after she finished her schooling her family removed to Astoria where she obtained a position as teacher. During this time she contributed occasionally to the local papers and other periodicals. Wishing, however, to devote more time to writing than her school duties would allow, she resigned her position and took up her residence in the town of Oyster Bay, where her parents had already settled. And there in the seclusion of a quiet, country home, she devotes the greater part of her time to literary work, frequently writing combination stories with her sister, Alice A. Smith, who also has considerable talent as an author. Miss Smith began to make up stories almost as soom as she could form her letters. Her chief work is writing sketches and stories for young people. Her first literary effort that was published was produced during her early girlhood, and was not written with pen or pencil, but was set up in type by herself as she composed it, and appeared in the Local Reporter of Harlem, in which office she was for a short time employed as a compositor. A. H. C. 'TIS THE FIRST ONE THAT COUNTS. Don't fancy you're strong and can stop at the first, Refuse e'en a sip of this glass so accursed; 'Tis always the first drink that counts. Beware of the very first smoke, my boy, If once you allow this foe to succeed; And here, too, the first step will cost. Avoid the first act of deceit, my dear, Beware of beginning with falsehood to deal; 407 Look out for the very first theft, my love, Dishonesty grows till it brings forth the deed Which to sorrow and ruin amounts; Then beware when you're planting the very first seed, For that is the moment that counts. Avoid the beginning of anything wrong; To quickly lead on to the worst. A FLAT CONTRADICTION. PHAT'S that you are a'sayin' ma'am? The paple up the stairs Kin make the dures come open now? It's done most ony wheres? Sure though I moight be ignorint And not know much of books, You can not fool me mother's choild; I'm shmarter thin I looks. And whin yer'll box me Mikey's ears, Thin I'll belave phat you have said You say yer afther wantin', ma'am, The very dures is hanted, ma'am, And why they carl 'em flats, good ma'am, I ralely can't make out; For trals I'm sure a betther name, I went down to the flats last wake I pushed the little button bell It scramed roight out into me face I scarce think that I'll iver have And there that blissed minute, ma'am, And not a livin' sowl was near- I hurried to the nixt dure, ma'am, Was likely to be hanted too, Though nixt the hanted flat. And now wad you belave it, ma'am, I tried thim flats down to the last The ghosts kipt scrachin' through the bells YOUTHFUL DEPRAVITY. "MAMMA, I fink I am not well," Said lazy little Mabel; The beans I'd given her to shell Neglected on the table. Her dimpled cheeks with roses vied; "I'm sorry, dear," I gravely said, "Because you'll miss the puddings; The place for sick folks is in bed, With not a taste of good things." She thoughtfully smoothed out her dress, This naughty little sinner; "Then I'm not sick just now, I dess, I'll wait till after dinner. E EDWIN A. WELTY. DWIN A. WELTY was born in Canal Dover, Ohio, on December 5th, 1853. His father, E. Welty, was one of the leading business men of that day, and his mother, Elizabeth L. Welty, was a woman of superior mental ability, good education and natural capacities of no common order. His father dying in August, 1854, and reverses of fortune following, his mother removed to Missouri in 1856, and there the greater part of his life has been spent, residing in St. Joseph, Mo., until the year 1884, since which time he has been located in Oregon, Mo., engaged in active business as a broker and dealer in investment securities. Mr. Welty was educated in the St. Joseph high school, taking the classical course, being graduated in 1872, and delivering the valedictory. He has at different times delivered poems to the graduates at the receptions given by the Alumni, that of the Centennial year, 1876, being especially notable. After he was graduated he spent a year in the mountains of Colorado, Utah and New Mexico, and amid the Indian tribes and border men of that day he gained the familiarity with those scenes his pen in after years has so aptly described. His first production, "The Trapper at Bay," appeared in the Aldine in 1876, and was one of a series of Ballads of the Forest and Savage Life. It was followed by "The Hollow Oak," "Old Naomen's Fate" and "The Huron's Answer." These were followed by a number of military and historical ballads. Mr. Welty's productions are bold, flashing and brilliant. A master of metre, he blends with it the storyteller's magic art, and is equally at home in the forest, the saddle or the battle field. In his Forest Ballads you see the bivouac at night, the sweep of mighty rivers, and the legends of a fast departing race, see the wigwams dot the valleys and the fierce tribesman's council fires, meet the braves upon the war path and the panther in his liar. In his military ballads you see the sweeping columns and all of war's grand pageantry, the rattle of the old-time flint lock, the roar of cannon, the ring of cold steel and the clash of sabres as they cross, and if the Anglo-Saxon or Viking spirit dwells within your breast, or the soldier's warm blood courses through your veins, you will echo what another has already well said: "He who rides with Welty's troopers Sits a steed that carries well." The perusal of these poems would naturally lead the reader to think their author more used to the call of "boots and saddles" and the clash of arms than to the gentler thoughts that women love, but III. You may speak of the Maids of Circassia's white sands, Of the passionate daughters of sunnier lands, I grant you this freely, but I know, ah! too well IV. But hark! on my musings there breaks a soft note, 'Tis the cadence that wells from a distant bell's throat, As it pours on the air, in a clear, liquid sheet, THE ROSE AND BESSIE'S PICTURE. ON the stand with your picture one bright summer day A rose for a moment I chanced there to lay, Such as bloomed in the Paradise Eve left behind, W. H. H. HINDS. N earlier times, it was thought that a man's air. It is now better understood that to know any man we must turn to his ancestry. Among the pioneers of Northern New England the ancestry of Dr. Hinds held a prominent position. His father was a man possessing all the noblest traits, such as courage, perseverance, enterprise, truthfulness and pluck, needed by the men who penetrated the savage wildernesses of North New Hampshire, changing them into smiling villages and fruitful fields. Settling with his family in Milan, he soon developed the spirit of a "mighty hunter" whose daring enterprise cost him and one of his sons a violent death. Owing to the untimely death of his father Dr. Hinds was, at fourteen years of age working at the carpenter trade, devoting six years of his life to it, with only a few weeks of schooling allowed in a year, reinforced by a single academic term. At an early age, he became a teacher in district schools, took lessons in architectural drawing, for the business of an architect in his young manhood. Hardly yet of adult age we find him chosen captain in the 22nd regiment of the New Hampshire militia. At twenty-one, major, and when twenty-two was promoted to a lieutenant colonel, and became a colonel of the regiment at twenty-three, later declining a Brigadier General's commission for lack of means to sustain the honor. After a long and honorable military career, he settled down and devoted himself to his profession, that of a practical dentist. His fertile brain is ever on the outlook for improvements. He has taken out several patents. He has a taste for music and has written much verse, devoting all his leisure to the cultivation of literature or the Muse. L. C. NEW ENGLAND. TALK not to me of other shores Give me the land where martyr's blood Give me my own dear Fatherland Where schools and churches free, Were planted by a noble band From o'er the stormy sea. I love the land my Fathers trod, I love New England's rocky shore, I love her forests deep; I love her storm-winds as they roar, And o'er her mountains sweep. Give me to quaff her crystal rills, To roam her lovely dales: Give me to climb her mountain hills,— A view her spreading vales. |