VIOLETS.

The poet reaches forth his hands
To touch the thrilling finger-tips
That burn on hemispheric sands,
That flame the hills and light the
ships.

Enough of bliss,
Enough-and yet,
Give him but this:
A violet.

The poct shuts his weary eyes
And sweeps the burning day afar,
He hears beneath his purple skies
The rustle of his speeding star;

The streams that spend,

The springs that keep,
The leaves that rend,
The buds that sleep.

They blossom slowly, one by one,
The winsome little valley through,
But when they find the brooks that
run,

They laugh and blossom two by
two;

And when they meet

The poet's eye
They twinkle fleet
As vesper sky.

Angelique De Lande.

Born in Portland, Me., in 1843. Attended one of the private schools of the city until nine years of age, when she entered the Grammar School; at the age of fourteen, the High School, being a member of the graduating class of 1861. Two years later she removed to Boston, Mass., and became identified with the Catholic Church. Her first published poems appeared in 1880 in various local papers; and about 1884 she became a regular contributor to the Are Maria, a Catholic magazine, published weekly at Notre Dame, Ind.

GROWING OLDER.

Growing older!—drawing nearer
To the first entrancing sight
Of the Saviour's matchless beauty,
In his own fair realms of light.
Growing older!-thoughts of glad-

ness

Gild the hours as swift they fly, Chasing every cloud of sadness

From the Christian's sunset sky.

Growing older!-daily, hourly,

Learning more our need of Him In the splendor of whose presence E'en the noonday sun grows dim. Leaning more in dear dependence

On the sinner's faithful Friend, Casting every care upon Him

Who has loved us to the end.

Year by year the milestones lessen
As our birthdays come and go,
Ploughing furrows on smooth fore-
heads,

Flecking raven locks with snow.
Growing older!-Blessed Master!

Lifting trembling hands in prayer; Come we oftener to Thine altar,

Sure to find Thee waiting there. Growing older!-feebly groping Through that mystic, shadowy vale

Leading unto Death's dark portal,

Where the flesh and spirit fail. Aching hearts and wearied bodies, Battle-scarred and travel-worn, In the sleep of Christ's beloved Wait the Resurrection morn.

WILLIAM W. HAWKES.-SARAH W. S. BERRY.

William Whitney Hawkes.

813

Born in Portland, 1857, and, while in the High School of that city, wrote songs that were set to music, and other pieces. Entered Yale, 1875, wrote for Yale Literary Magazine until his graduation in 1879, with honors. In two years afterward he graduated from the Yale Medical School and was elected, on competitive examination. Physician and Surgeon in the Connecticut State Hospital. He has acquired great skill, is one of the four visiting surgeons of the Hospital, and his writings now are chiefly of a scientific character.

THE MOUNTAINEER.

"Tell me, is the cloud of even

Heaving up the western sky?
Turns the light of day so quickly?
Is the weary night so nigh?
Ah! I hear the mountain torrent,
Leaping to the glen below,
Is my father coming, mother?

What I dread I do not know."
"Yes, the day to darkness turneth.
(So the will of Heaven please,)
But the torrent that thou hearest

Is the crispy mountain breeze.
And thy cloud is bold Mon Dena,
Doughty guardian of the west.-
Trust, thy father yet returneth;

Hope, my child, lie still and rest."
"Speak! Is that the thunder pealing,
Or a knocking at the door,
Hark! I feel the highland quiver
As I never felt before.
Open, mother, fling the guard-way,
Pierce the gloom of midnight skies;
For I hear a flood of voices,-
Open, for my father cries!"

"Call it not the thunder rolling,

Nor the mountain furies' roar;
But the night wind stoutly beating,
Buffeting the outer door.
That is not a swell of voices,

But the sighing of the fire.
Then be quiet, child, and slumber,
For thou canst not hear thy sire."
"But the yule upon the hearth-stone
Has the great heart of the oak;
To the gasping chimney sighing,
Breathes its spirit out in smoke.
See, a splendor greets my vision,

Far surpassing earthly day!
And a soul of music calls me
Irresistibly away.

But the widowed and the childless
Wept alone the weary hours, [lands
While the tempest, heights and wood-
Told of terror-chilling powers.
Yet the sun, as calmly rising,
O'er the storied highlands shone
On a wrecked and gorgéd valley
And an avalanche alone.

Sarah Webster Sawyer Berry.

Sarah Webster (Sawyer) Berry, born in Portland and daughter of Capt. Abel Sawyer; married Stephen Berry, in 1863 She wrote several operettas which were brought out at City Hall, after the great fire, for the purpose of purchasing the new lot for the New Jerusalem Church on New High Street and which were so successful that more than the needed amount was raised. The selections given below are from the Snow Flake."

SONG OF THE SNOW FAIRIES.

AIR-"IL TROVATORE."

O here's to Saint Nicholas, Saint of the day!

O long may he flourish-for ever and aye,

And be dear Old Santy to millions unborn,

As to millions he's been in the years that are gone.

O here's to Saint Nicholas! long may he ride

O'er house-tops by night, round the earth far and wide,
While the jingle of bells and the prance of rein-deer

Give proof to the wakeful that Santa is near.

O here's to Saint Nicholas! here's to his pack,
For as full as it goes, it comes empty back;
And children are laughing in merry delight;

Young hearts are made glad, and young eyes are made bright.

O Santy, dear Santy, so merry and round,

Long, long may your kind heart be cheered with the sound;
For sweeter than all the most kindly applause

Is God bless our Santy! our good Santa Claus!

PITY THE WANDERERS.

Pity the wanderers, homeless and poor,
Seeking for shelter and food at your door,

The storm rages high and the wind whistles loud,
And snow drifts pile up the long narrow road.

O pity my poor little brother, for why

Do they leave us out here in the cold storm to die?

Pity my brother, I've held him so tight,

All through the wild storm of this pitiless night,
Yet all I can do, the cruel wind whirls

And tangles and tosses my own darling's curls.
O pity us, children, don't turn us away,
We'll wander again as soon as 't is day.

O pity us, children, for little you know

How blinded we are by the fast driving snow;

But Frankie is patient and tries not to cry,

Though the tear trembles cold in his little blue eye.
O children, take pity, O pity the poor,

The half-frozen children that beg at your door.

Israel Jordan.

Israel Jordan was born in Casco, Me., Dec. 7, 1862, and is a graduate of Bates College. He is a contributor of spirited and finely-finished poems to the columns of the New England Magazine and Youth's Companion.

THE ROYAL HEIR.

"And if children, then heirs."

To the woodland, to the wold,

To the downward dashing stream,

To Orion's belt of gold,

To the sunset's purple gleam,

To the calm and restful bliss

Found in all things pure and fair,-
Child, no dream-told tale is this,-
Thou, forsooth, art royal heir.

To the tall, crow-cradling pine,

To the river's silver maze,

To the Christmas hearth-fire's shine,
To the honey-making days,

To the harebell on the peak,—

O sweet sign! Love walks e'en there,

To affection none can speak,

Child, thou art the royal heir.

To the tales of ancient times,
To the mystery of life,
To the sympathetic chimes,
To a part in kingly strife,

To a soul unsoiled by sin,

To the Ear that answers prayer,
Though low-voiced, amid life's din,--

Child, thou art the royal heir.

Clarence Blendon Burleigh.

C. B. Burleigh, son of Hon. Edwin C. Burleigh, was born in Linneus, Me., Nov. 1, 1864. While at the New Hampton (N. H.) Literary Institution, 1878, he began his newspaper work as a correspondent. In 1883 he founded the Hamptonian, a school magazine, still published. Graduated at New Hampton in 1883, and from Bowdoin College in June, 1887, winning the first prize for prose, and the second prize for poetry, offered by the Bowdoin Orient, of which paper he was at one time chief editor. In his Senior year he won the first Brown prize for extemporaneous composition. After leaving college, he was on the staff of the Daily Sea Shell, a society paper at Old Orchard, and, later, was offered a place on the staff of the Lowell Mail, but, purchasing a share in the Kennebec Journal, entered upon active duty as one of its editors. He married Miss Sarah P. Quimby, of North Sandwich, N. H., Nov. 24, 1887.

Then chant the graces of your queen, And let us drink long life to both,
Her elegance and wealth,
And I will sing the praise of mine,
Her innocence and health.

In sparkling claret's foam;
Your queen may make society,
My queen will make a home.

AMO.

"I love," the radiant maiden said.
The young man gave a start;
A thousand fancies filled his mind,
He clasped her to his heart.

It seemed to his bewildered sense
As if 't were all a dream;
But as he pressed her closer still
She only said, “Ice cream."

Adalena Frances Dyer.

In

Miss Adalena F. Dyer whose pen-name is Saturnia," was born in Cape Elizabeth, in 1857, and has always lived at the Dyer homestead which has been in the family during six generations. As an author she is well known to the readers of the Portian Transcript and other leading literary journals, and does not need an exten fed notice. addition to her literary work, Miss Dyer has gathere i an herbarium of some 450 specimens, mostly of Maine growth. Her songs saɔɔ̃w great b24aty of thought an i grace of expression.

PUTTING

When the brier shuts her eye,

And the sunset wine

Turns to dull lees in the sky,

Then the grazing kine

Used to wend their homeward way
Through the daisy stars,
Leaving me, a little maid,
Putting up the bars.

UP THE BARS.

And he said our lives would be
Free from fret and jars,

If Love shut all discords out,
Putting up the bars.

But I lost his helping hand,

And the world grew gray, [band As when the storm-clouds' sombre Hides the blue of day.

Pleasant little dreams were mine, Thus a pathway walked alone

Born of summer air;

Castles neither change nor time

Ever could impair.

When in after years I strayed
'Neath the new-born stars,
Stronger, firmer hands helped mine,
Putting up the bars.

Through the spikes of meadow-sweet
Wound our peaceful way,
Where the freckled lilies greet
Summer's ardent ray;

Mem'ry sadly mars;

For we cannot banish thought,
Putting up the bars.

Still the spirit of those days
Ever dwells with me,
Walking all the hidden ways

God alone can see;

And the old love steadily burns;—
Though it leaves but scars,

I am weak to shut it out

Putting up the bars.