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Better a man in his harvest-field,

Swinging his scythe with a spirit just, *Than he who sword and lance could wield, And now is dead and turned to dust.

Bend and mow, smooth and slow,
Like a river's curving flow.
Rake and heap, round and deep,
All the gold the farmers reap.
Pile the wain high with grain,
Princes of the yeoman's train!

Blithe King Hal, and babbling James,

Louis, Oscar, Peter, Fritz, Men of purple-potent names

Lauded by a thousand wits-
Left their thrones and rode away;

Rode in state nor came again;
Better swing a scythe to-day
Than have swung a sceptre then.

Lo, behold! streets of gold
Through the shining wheat unrolled.
Lo in state, slow, sedate,
Chariots approach the gate;
Open wide, they that ride
Are to potentates allied.

ETTIE S. BIGELOW was born in Pelham,

Mass., in 1849. She is the daughter of the Rev. I. B. Bigelow, an intinerant minister, for more than half a century an honored member of the New England Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church. Her early education was in the public schools of the cities and towns where her parents lived, as they were removed from place to place every two or three years by the decrees of the presiding bishops, according to the economy of their church. In 1866 she entered Wesleyan Academy at Wilbraham, Mass., and remained a student there two years.

Failing health compelled her to relinquish her course of study at that institution before the completion of the regular course, and she has since made her home with her parents at their various appointments. Four years ago her father left the active work of the ministry, and made for himself and family a permanent home in Holyoke, Mass., where Miss Bigelow now lives, tenderly caring for an invalid mother. She has done considerable literary work, being always a close student of books and events. She has published no book of poems, but her verses have appeared quite frequently in the New York Christian Advocate, the Zion's Herald of Boston, the New York Independent, the Boston Journal and other papers. Her prose writings, consisting of sketches, newspaper articles and a serial story, have been for the most part under a pseudonym. A few years ago she wrote a book of Sunday-school and anniversary exercises, published in New York, which had a large sale. Miss Bigelow is also an interesting platform speaker. Her lecture on “Woman's Place and Power” has met with special favor and most hearty commendation wherever it has been delivered.

H. M.


SPARROWS are piping; the bold robins sing,
Shout the wee brooks, and the pasture-bells ring;
Lit are the grasses and burning the briars,
Golden the pigeons that sit in the spires.
Happy, oh happy, oh happy to-day,
Out to the gates to the country away!

Sturdy of arm and with finger and thumb
Eager for service the brown pickers come;
Bright in the morning the empty pails swing
Timed to the tune the berry-maids sing.
Happy, oh happy, oh happy to-day,
Out of the gates to the country away!


Out of the dust and away from the streets,
Into the thickets and reedy retreats;
Ragged and shagged they come from the town,
Never a one in a velvet gown.
Happy, oh happy, oh happy to-day,
Out of the gates to the country away!

It belongs to other years,

But I keep it just the same, And sometimes, when no one hears,

Low and soft I speak the name.

Once I wore it like a crown,

Proudest queen beneath the sky! And like wind-blown thistle down,

Hope and joy went mounting high.

Deep in the woods where the summer lies dark
Hark to the merry dog's echoing bark!
Golden-rods wave in the wide purple shades,
Knights, by the side of the blithe berry-maids.
Happy, oh happy, oh happy to-day,
Out of the gates to the country away!

Deeper now than ocean gems

Hides it from the world apart; Others wear their diadems,

Mine I carry in my heart.

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Where did you ever learn ways so sweet,

To which no art or seeming belong? Were your dimipled hands and restless feet,

Attuned to motion, as harp to song ? Who told you the secret of the song

That sings itself, and laughter too,
That never tires though the day be long,

Tell me, my little fairy-who?
And whisper in my ear the magic word

That unlocks the golden gates of sleep; A word that men have never, never heard,

And only little children keep.

And teach me to trust, and trust again,

Though hopes prove false and hearts deceive; And whether the world brings loss or gain,

To ever love, and still believe.

Winds blow cold, out of tune is the song,

Roses have thorns, and gold lies deep; Tell me how to laugh when the world goes wrong,

And I pledge you the secret to keep.


native of England, but came to America in 1854, with her parents, when she was four years of age, and has lived most of the time since then in Wisconsin. She received her education in the Milwaukee public schools and was for a time a highly valued teacher. She was married to Mr. M. Bohan, then editor of the Fond du Lac Journal, in 1872. They now reside in Milwaukee, Wis., have a pleasant home and are surrounded by four bright, happy children,-two boys and two girls. Mi Bohan is the fortunate possessor of a combination of talents. She is a devoted and successful homekeeper, wife and mother. She is a painter of acknowledged ability and of far more than local celebrity. She is something of a musician, and there are many in Milwaukee and other portions of the state who take high rank as painters and musicians, who received their first and only instruction from her. From her earliest youth she has practiced composition. At school she not only wrote her own essays but many for her schoolmates. As she grew to womanhood the taste for writing increased. She wrote great numbers of poems and a still greater number of prose sketches, but offered none for publication until within the last five or six years.

Since then large numbers of her poems and sketches have been published in the best papers and magazines throughout the country. Her mental strength is very great and steadily growing stronger, and her mind is well disciplined. While she has done much literary work, it has always been a secondary consideration. Her daily duties have been as numerous and exacting as those of almost any mother, wife and home-keeper, and everything she has done in a literary way has been accomplished in odd moments, and sometimes when duty to herself required that she be sleeping.

J. A. W.


Not rich are we in hoarded gold, Though multiplied a hundred fold,

Wealth is just the wealth we use. And the best by far do we live, On the silver and gold we give,

As oil from the widow's cruse.

The beauty of the summer hours, And the fragrance of the flowers,

Are spent for others' good; And the bread we lovingly break, With a prayer for another's sake

May to us be richest food.




Why I love you? Tell me first

Why rivers to the ocean run,
And dew-drops sparkle in the sun;
Why roses blush, and lilies pale,
Wooed ever by the same love tale.

As some grand sun slow rolling to the west,

Sinks down in splendor when the shadows fall, So, full of glory, draweth nigh its rest,

Thy mighty life that claims the love of all.

Cannot help it? Then you know

The secret of the song of birds,
And fall of dew, like saintly words:
Why daisies bare their hearts to view,
And mine I show to none but you.

An eagle flying through the trackless sky

A giant pine upon the mountain sideThou hast a name that was not born to die;

Thou hast a soul of all our land the pride.

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