M'

ELIZABETH FLINT WADE.

RS. ELIZABETH FLINT WADE was born in Cassville, N. Y., Oneida county, in a home built by her father, where her early girlhood was spent. She was married from that home to Mr. Frank A. Wade, of Buffalo, N. Y., and has resided in that city ever since. Mrs. Wade has written considerable poetry and has contributed both prose and poetry to many of the leading periodicals. She has been especially successful with amateur photography, to which she has devoted much of her time. She has become a recognized authority on that subject. Mrs. Wade is a woman of many talents, but the poetic gift is hers by birthright; to its expression and development all other qualities of her mind are tributary. She has for many years been associated with the literary and philanthropical institutions of Buffalo, notably as president of the Prospect Avenue Baptist Church Literary Society and as chairman of the Hygiene Sanitary and Physical Culture committee of the Woman's Educational and Industrial Union. E. J. D.

AND MEMORY HOLDS THE KEY.

WHEN the Moors from their wonderful castle, reared in Andalusia's air,

Were driven out to seek shelter in the desert bleak and bare,

No word of repining they uttered, they shed no idle tears,

Though they left to the foes behind them the

gathered treasures of years;

For this hope in their hearts they cherished, to come to their own again,

And they carried, safe hid in their bosoms, the keys to their castles in Spain.

Long years have passed, and the lichens cling fast to the mouldering walls,

And the spider swings her gray hammock from the beams of those lordly halls,

Whose daintily fashioned carvings are falling fast to decay,.

And silence stretches her scepter, where once gay mirth held sway,

And of all that unnumbered people, but a handful now remain,

Yet still they hold in their keeping, the keys to their castles in Spain.

SOME kindly fate each Lenten day Has brought a lovely maid my way, Prayer-book in hand, her eyes cast down, Her dress a somber suit of brown, Her air sedate, nay, 'tis quite grave, Her very footsteps on the pave So staidly fall, they seem to say: "The days run by; repent and pray!" Day after day I watch and wait To see the maiden pass my gate, And though I strive to make her see, She never deigns a look at me. This morning, half in hope, half fear, I heard her footsteps draw a-near.

Forth from my window quick I thrust
My head. Can I believe? I must.
'Tis she, but what a change is seen.
The tender hue of springtime's green
Is in her gown. From bonnet gay
Two saucy rosebuds nod this way.
Throughout the forty days of Lent
She was the humble penitent.
Easter transforms her in a trice
Into a girl extremely nice,

And now, from Lenten vows set free,
At last she looks and smiles on me.

WHAT I WRITE FOR.

Oн, I write for all of the monthlies,

I write for the weeklies, too;

For the Century's column of "Bric-a-brac," And for the N. A. Review.

For Harper's Bazar and Weekly,

And for the Monthly, all three;

For Atlantic, Scribner's and Lippincott's, And Blackwood's over the sea.

Why, 'twould take too much tiine to tell you
The half, to say nothing of all,

To which I send the work of my brain,
Even could I their names recall.

"But your name signed to essay, or story,
Or poem I never have seen;
Pray, do you conceal it with pseudonym,
When you write for a magazine?"

No, indeed, that is unnecessary,

For none of my many screeds,

By these publications have ever been found To "answer their present needs."

CONFIDENCE.

UPON the shoulders of the past we stand,

And to the future turn our questioning eyes. What doth she hold in store, what precious prize, That we may wrest from out her close-shut hand?

No fear of failure past hath power to sway

The hope that springs eternal in the breast, But toward fresh heights whose limits are unguessed

We press, undaunted still, our upward way.

Faith from her watch-tower sees the distant peaks
Already scaled, sees every outpost fall.
Who wills may conquer. God is over all,
And gives good gifts to every one who seeks.

JAMES W. BARKER.

45

PROF. shore of Lake Champlain, in

ROF. JAMES W. BARKER was born near

Vermont. His father, Nathan B. Barker, was of genuine Puritan stock and fought in the War of 1812. It was in New Hampshire, whither his parents had removed, that Prof. Barker began his school life and was prepared for college. In 1845 he came to western New York, and in this section most of his subsequent life was spent as a teacher in the public schools, where he held high rank, being appointed by the State Superintendent to conduct teacher's institutes. He was also elected president of the State Teacher's Association in 1868, which testified to his success aud popularity. In 1861 he appeared as the poet before certain societies of Hillsdale College, Mich., at their commencement gathering, and on commencement day the college gave him the degree of "A. M." His literary career, however, began very young. When a boy of sixteen years, he first enjoyed the sight of some of his verses in print. Since then his poems have been very numerous and have appeared in various newspapers and magazines, principally the Buffalo Courier. He was also a very forcible prose writer and did a good deal of editorial work, besides furnishing correspondence to several papers, use of the pen being his recreation. He wrote much upon educational topics, all that he produced being characterized by liberality of thought and vigor of expression, joined to practical knowledge and common sense. Prof. Barker's death was the result of an accident. He died September 17th, 1883. H.A. K.

PICKING LINT.

PLYING the busy fingers

Over the vestments old,
Not with the weary needle,
Not for grains of gold;
Thinking of fainting heroes
Out in the dreary night,
Smitten in freedom's battle,

First in the gallant fight;

Bright are the jewels from love's deep mint; God blesses the finge while picking lint.

Quicker! the blood is flowing, Hundreds were slain to-day; Every warm pulsation

Is stealing the life away.

"An hundred threads a minute,
An hundred drops of gore,"
Is the sad and thrilling measure

We have not learned before;

But the shadows are wearing a silver tint; God blesses the fingers while picking lint.

We have clad the fallen heroes

With garments our hands have made;
By the lint we now are picking

Shall the fearful tide be stayed;
We lift our hearts to heaven

And our Father's blessing crave;
God bless our smitten country,
Remember the fallen brave.

O, bright are the jewels from love's deep mint;
God blesses the fingers while picking lint.

BY-AND-BY.

THERE'S a little mischief maker That is stealing half our bliss, Sketching pictures in a dreamland That are never seen in this; Dashing from our lips the pleasure Of the present, while we sigh: You may know this mischief maker, For his name is "By-and-By."

He is sitting by our hearthstones,

With his sly, bewitching glance, Whispering of the coming morrow As the social hours advance; Loitering 'mid our calm reflections, Hiding forms of beauty nigh; He's a smooth, deceitful fellow, This enchanter, "By-and-By."

You may know him by his wincing,
By his careless, sportive air;
By his sly, obtrusive presence,
That is straying everywhere;
By the trophies that he gathers
Where his somber victims lie;
For a bold, determined fellow

Is this conqueror, "By-and-By."

When the calls of duty haunt us,

And the present seems to be All the time that ever mortals

Snatch from dark eternity, Then a fairy hand seems painting Pictures on a distant sky; For a cunning little artist

Is the fairy, "By-and-By."

"By-and-By" the wind is singing;

'By-and-By" the heart replies; But the phantom, just before us, Ere we grasp it, ever flies. List not to the idle charmer, Scorn the very precious lie; Only in the fancy liveth This deceiver, "By-and-By."

IF IT BE TRUE.

IF it be true, and who shall dare deny
The universal voice of prophecy?

If it be true, that just beyond the river
Which we call death, the soul shall live forever
In a fair country bathed in morning light;
If we are soon to range that realm of bliss,
Should my proud soul be wedded unto this?
If it be true that we are children all
Of one kind Father, at whose gracious call
We come to live in peace with one another;
That every child of sorrow is my brother;
If it be true that virtue hath no guise,
Nor gold the power to purchase paradise;
If the dear Father loves the weak and poor,
Nor turns aside from any humble doer;
If he would seek his children's happiness,
Why in my labor should I venture less?
If soon beneath the very turf I tread
This mortal form shall slumber with the dead,
And resting on its cold and crumbling pillow,
Shall no more feel the toss of passion's billow;
If head and hand no more have power to move,
To thoughts of mercy or to deeds of love,
Should I this lingering moment consecrate
To thoughts unkind, or deeds of scorn or hate?
If it be true-and this I surely know,
That I shall reap the very kind I sow,
That I must stand alone-not for another,
And answer for myself-not for my brother;
Then should I waste my life in fruitless care,
For what another's conscience has to bear,
Save, if I may, to bear some humble part
To lift the burden from an aching heart?

FLOWERS FOR THE HERO DEAD.
BRIGHT stars for the country's glory,
And stripes for the nation's weal,
A song of the gallant story
Of cannon and of steel;
For the heart oppressed with sorrow,
Let a tender prayer be said;
But love will never borrow

Fair flowers for the hero dead.