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The roses that his hands have plucked

Are sweet to me, are death to me; Between them as through living flames

I pass; I clutch them, crush them, see? The bloom for her, the thorn for me!


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R. BIGELOW was born in Brooklyn, N. Y.,

on September 26th, 1857; but all except the first twelve and the last two of his thirty-six years have been spent in Buffalo, the home of his family on both sides since the city was a hamlet. His mother's father, Gen. Lucius Storrs, was a merchant there before the burning of Buffalo in 1812, and his father's father settled there in 1816. So that, although Mr. Bigelow now lives near Boston, he still calls Buffalo home. For fifteen years he was identified with the business life of the city, first as managing partner of the Messrs. Bigelow

Brothers' printing-house, and then as president of | the Bigelow Printing and Publishing Company.

It has been only since selling his stock in this company that Mr. Bigelow found time and strength for the closer literary studies toward which he had always felt inclined. Before he left Buffalo, however, he had done some literary work, fruits of which had appeared in sketches contributed to the Youth's Companion and St. Nicholas, and in poems which were printed in the Buffalo Commercial and Buffalo Express, besides considerable book-reviewing, and a little editorial and other writing on the staff of the Buffalo Express. For a short time, indeed, he occupied the very chair in the Express editorial rooms vacated not long before by his brother Allen, who had left it to make a last vain search for health in the South.

Mr. Bigelow's removal to Dover, Mass., fifteen miles from Boston, after a winter spent in Harrisburg, Pa., fulfilled a plan he had long cherished for a period of quiet study there. Verse: writing was not deliberately included in his plans for literary work, and he has simply obeyed the occasional promptings of the Muse without besetting her for suggestions.

The following examples of Mr. Bigelow's verse include selections from what has appeared in the Critic, the Boston Commonwealth, the Youth's Companion, the New England Magazine and American Gardening, and to these is added “The Poet's Morn," a piece in lighter vein contributed to Life.

A. C. B.


When in the solemn dusk you sit and think, With face upturned to the enduring skies, Of life and art, and those great griefs that sink The soul in woe in spite of high emprise, I know not how, but from the surging sea Of these my thoughts some echo comes to me, Moving my soul till from its billows rise The answering strain for which thy spirit cries, And then, or joy or sorrow holds the throne Of thy strong heart, thou art no more alone.


I met thee, dear, and loved thee-yet we part,

Thou on thine unknown way and I on mine, Ere yet the music of my woman's heart

Has had full time to harmonize with thine.
Yet since the strain begun has seemed so sweet,

Forgive me, if I dare to proffer thee
This echo from the depths where, all complete,

Trembles the soul's perfected melody.

Jewels I have not, else for memory Would I bestow them on the friend I love, But tears and smiles, and the sweet thoughts that



The heart by day and night, such, such to thee
I give in these poor lines as lavishly
As summer winds yield fragrance when they blow
Up from a vale where countless roses grow.

In vain for him the buds shall burst their shield,

And chestnut-leaves their tiny tents unfold; In vain the early violets dot the field:

His heart is cold.

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The spicy health of the fresh green woods

And the garden's rare perfume. RS. MIXER whose maiden name was Knowl- ! And as I sit in this dear old room, ton, passed her girlhood in Cincinnati, O.

Inhaling the beauty rare She was graduated from Rutgers Female College Of the radiant summer in its prime in New York City. Her alma mater conferred on

And the perfume-laden air, her the honorary degree of M. A. for a paper and poem read before the alumnæ of that college in 1870.

I seem to see a familiar face Like many women of intellectual tastes without the Look up from that well-worn seat, leisure to make literature a profession, she has been And busy hands ply the needles there content to use her poetic gift in occasional poems.

In time with the rocking feet. She was for fifteen years editor of Our Record, a

A kindly presence pervades the place, small paper published in the interests of the Buffalo

And a cheery voice the while Home for the Friendless, and has been, at times, a

Would seem once more with its old-time tales contributor to the columns of the Buffalo Express,

Our loneliness to beguile. Commercial and Courier.

H. G. H.

Oh! well may a gracious meaning cling

Round that empty, faded chair,

For the zephyr beareth a message in

From the dear heart whose place was there.
O FAMOUS town! thy sweet elm-shaded ways
And sparkling stream, which tell the patriot's

THE WEAVER. story, Seem to have more than rightful share of glory,

With wondrous skill, in the crowded mill, When we recall those golden later days,

The spinner her shuttle plies, Where flint and fire, by genius struck ablaze,

And watches the web with fear and dread,

As it forms beneath her eyes;
Wakened anew each legend stern and hoary,

For well she knows that one rotten thread,
Making thy landmarks a Memento Mori
That brought the world upon thy shrine to gaze.

Inwove in these even bands,
Here the deep shades of “Sleepy Hollow" guard

Will be traced through the fabric far or near Him of the mountain, wood and sylvan stream,

As the work of her careless hands. And calmly rests the stern and fiery bard

In the mill of life, full of noise and strife, Whose magic touch unveiled the things that

We each have a weaver's part, seem;

And the web of each day, by the passion's play, Here too, the granite boulder seamed and scarred

Is woven with a curious art; In truth eternal tells the sage's dream.

But if, false to ourselves and our Master's name,

We fashion the fabric thin,

And with its tissue blend sable threads

Of slothfulness and sin, There it stands in its wonted place

To our own account will the mischief come,
In the window's cool retreat,

And take from each joy its hoarded sum.
With the soft old footstool creeping near,
As if waiting for weary feet.



The Summer was dying, and golden-haired Aut

Old and furrowed the rockers look,

For they've measured the march of years, And the faded cover is thin and worn,

And blotted as if with tears.


Through the closed lattice come soft sweet sounds

Of the rich, warm summer life,
The voices of birds and the bee's low hum,

And the insect's drowsy strife.
Borne in on the soft June breezes, float

The sweets of the clover bloom,

In rich changeful beauty was gorgeously dressed,
That the Day-King, her lover, might catch her last

Ere he sank in his brightness and glory to rest.
His parting smile lingered as if loth to leave her,
The forests and mountain-tops caught its glad

As she modestly drew a thin gossamer o'er her,

Till her blushes were hid by the favoring night.








Miss Ada Louise Davenport, is closely identified with Buffalo's literary life. She received her education in Pike Seminary and in the Buffalo State Normal School. She was graduated from the latter institution in June, 1888, just after she had passed her twenty-first birthday. On leaving school, she entered at once upon literary work on the Buffalo Morning Express and for two years, until her marriage to Mr. Kendall, city editor of the Express, was actively engaged on that paper. She was a member of the original editorial staff of the Buffalo Enquirer. She is the mother of two lovely children. Mrs. Kendall was recently elected vice-president of the Scribbler's Club.

1. A. K.


Centralia, Ill., where the first six months of her life was spent. The rest of her childhood was lived in the suburbs of Buffalo, N. Y., where, having few playmates, she sought and found a satisfying companionship in books and nature. Her literary talent is an inheritance, as the same talent was possessed in a striking degree by Miss Seaver's uncle, William A. Seaver, so well known in Buffalo many years ago, when editor of the Buffalo Daily Courier, whose fame afterward became well known, through his connection with the Harpers as editor of Harper's Drawer. It has been Miss Seaver's desire to make literature her life work, but other duties have interfered to such an extent as to make that realization impossible.

C. H. W.



A DANDELION top growing right in my room!
A round silvery ball that is just out of bloom,
It bobs to and fro as if swayed by the breeze.
Now how did you come in my house, if you please?
What! aren't you a dandy top? I'm in a whirl,-
You can't be your mother's own tow-headed girl!


A bend in the line of the time-browned rail-fence, The rugged backbone of the fields:

A bush-covered angle,

A fragrant green tangle That only a fence corner yields.

The sun has sunk behind the hills;

A distant night-hawk's cry I hear; But all at last dies softly out,

And tenderly and calm and clear A crescent rises in the sky,

A gondola slow floating through
The tiny clouds, that rest like flecks

Of foam upon a sea of blue.
And here and there a trembling star

Like some lone sea-bird hovers near, And looking down I see it all

Reflected in the river here; Reflected, fainter, dimmer though,

Just as our lives at best can be But faint imperfect shadows of

That Life once lived for you and me. Oh, wayward, strange, distorted shapes!

'Tis well His loving eyes can see And judge us not alone for what

We are, but what we strive to be!

Swaying this way and that like a big-sister flower Is Matilda Jane's sun-shade of pink,

While swung cross a rail

Hangs a gleaming tin pail: There'll be berries for supper, I think.


But it happens just now that a trespasser comes, And the fence as a barrier fails.

A brace for a swing,

Two long legs make a spring, And now side by side hang two pails.

I'll not spy, but I think that the mother at home Should make other provisions for tea,

For the clank of those pails

As they sway on the rails Sounds woefully empty to me.

The sinking sun; A mass of gold and purple in the West; The drowsy twitterings of birds at rest; A long low house that silhouetted stands Silent and lone across the meadow lands; A broken silver ring against the sky, Then one belated thrush's far-off cry,

And day is done.

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