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The worm its golden woof presents;
Whatever runs, fies, dives, or delves, All doff for her their ornaments,
Which suit her better than themselves; And all, by this their power to give
Proving her right to take, proclaim Her beauty's clear prerogative
To profit so by Eden's blame.
Maid, choosing man, remember this:
You take his nature with his name;
- The Angel of the House.
The Wrong is made and measured by
The Right's inverted dignity; Adulterous heart! as love is high So low in hell thy bed shall be.
RS. GRACE HIBBARD is the daughter of
the late L. Porter, D. D., a Massachusetts clergyman, and a descendant of an old English family. She was born in a suburb of the city of Boston, and there received her education. Her early life was spent in New England, where, at her father's knee when still a child, she learned the Hebrew and Greek alphabet long before she learned the English. At an early age she was graduated from a young ladies' college near Boston. Soon after she was graduated her father removed to Chicago, where after a short time he died.
Mrs. Hibbard has spent the last few years in Colorado and California, and she has made a number of trips to Mexico, where she studied the Mexican character, which she has portrayed in her writings. Her first literary work appeared in the Springfield, Mass., Republican, and since then she has been a contributor to many of the leading magazines and papers of America. In short stories and ballads she excels. One short sketch, “ Bummer and Lazarus," a story of San Francisco, was translated into the German and printed in one of the leading papers published in the German language. Not long ago she received for the best short poem, from a leading Eastern magazine a prize that was offered by the publishers. A unique literary effort from her pen was a complete novel of 100 words only, published in Belford's Magazine. Her short poems have won her a reputation on the Pacific Coast. One of the papers to recognize her merit as such a writer was the Morning Call of San Francisco, which did much to encourage her in developing her talent. Many of her Pacific Coast poems have been copied into the prominent papers of the United States. She is a good conversationalist. In person she is small, is fair, and has large blue eyes. About three years ago she was married at Colorado Springs, Col., to Dr. Hibbard, of Denver.
O. C. A.
The best things that the best believe
Are in her face so brightly writ, The faithless, seeing her, conceive
Not only heaven, but hope of it. With beauties so maturely fair,
Affecting, mild, and manifold, Can girlish charms no more compare Than nect'rines green with nect'rines gold.
That nothing here may want its praise,
Know, she who by her dress reveals
THE STATE FLOWER OF CALIFORNIA.
Say Grace: it is not time mispent:
Worst food this betters, and the best, Wanting this natural condiment,
Breeds crudeness, and will not digest. God loves no heart to others iced,
Nor erring flatteries, which bedim Our glorious membership of Christ,
Wherein all loving His love Him. All blessings ask a blessed mood:
The sauce is here much more than meat: Happy who chooses gratitude! That wanting, God will try regret.
BEAUTIFUL, golden wild poppies,
That nod in the soft, balmy air; Well were you chosen the emblem
Of the land of the lands most fair.
Who planted you, golden poppies?
Were you here when the world was new? Were you painted by the morning ?
Do you mirror the sunset's hue?
Do you grow from seeds of bright gold
That are hidden away from sight? Are you stars come down from the sky
That shine in the radiant light?
To “banks and braes” where bluebells grow',
'Neath trees where birds are singing, Their home and mine-did others hear
The bonnie bluebells ringing ?
Are you golden cups o'erflowing
With jewels of rain-drop and dew? Why are you so constant-hearted ?
To the State that has chosen you ?
UP FROM THE SEA.
With gold you carpet the meadows,
Like the gold-paved “Land of the Blest." Wild poppies—the flower emblem
Of the State of “The Golden West.”
WRAPPED in the cold, silver mist so white,
Up from the sea come the silent dead;
Through streets of the city with noiseless tread, They wander together—'tis All Souls' Night. One looks in the window, where long ago
Beloved at the hearthstone she had a place,
And she gazes long at a manly face. "I love you, my husband,” she murmurs low. Men shuddering hurry along the street;
They shiver at touch of the cold white mist,
And they long for the morning's warm sunlight; They know not 'tis spirit they love they meet,
They feel a horror they cannot resist,
The sky and the sea like two nuns
Wear mantles of gray, And like a black cross seem the masts
And the yards of a ship far away.
Is it coming, coming to me
This heavy black cross ? Shall the hopes and joys of my life
Suffer pitiful shipwreck and loss?
The ship like a bird on the wing,
Seems only to stay.
Oh! thank God it is sailing away.
At the ebb of the tide, a stately ship,
Sailed away to a southern coast; In the moonlight pale, with sails unfurled,
It seemed but a white, sheeted ghost.
On the midnight tide, it drifted away;
Far away on the trackless main; The stars shone bright, but the night-wind wailed,
"It will never come back again."
The day is dying. In the western sky
The sun still lingers, brightness lies on waves,
The fallen shield of day. There comes to me A vision fair, as curling mist-wreaths fly Across the sun-like puff of smoke. There lies
Upon the window-sill a cigarette.
A tiny thing from Egypt far, and yet,
And Venice rises up from waves of blue,
Its waters tinted with the sunset's hue;
The ship came back from the sunny south coast,
Like a bird, with its white wings spread; The morning sun made the sea like gold,
And the wind with its warning had fled.
A WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM.
Last night beside my hearthstone
She sat in snowy dress, The firelight touched her golden hair
With many a fond caress.
The unseen fingers of the air
Set all the bluebells ringing. My thoughts like birds that homeward Ay,
Across the sea went winging.
She wore white autumn flowers,
Like frozen stars they seemed One flower she left, else I should think
Of angels I had dreamed.
FRANCES FULLER VICTOR.
A Child of scarcely seven years,
Light haired, and fair as any lily; With pure eyes ready in their tears
At chiding words, or glances chilly; And sudden smiles, as inly bright
As lamps through alabaster shining,
A child in all infantile grace,
A curious, eager, questioning child,
Whose logic leads to naive conclusions; Her little knowledge reconciled
To truth amid some odd confusions;
The problems hardest for her reason,
Doubting that which she can disprove,
RS. FRANCES FULLER VICTOR was
born in Rome, N. Y. Her father was of an old Colonial family, some of whom were among the founders of Plymouth. She has on her mother's side a long line of titled and distinguished ancestry, ascending through thirty-nine generation to Egbert, the first king of all England. When Frances was nine years of age, she wrote verses on her slate in school, and arranged plays from her imagination, assigning the parts to her mates, to whom she explained the signification. At the age of fourteen she published verses which received favorable comment, and at the age of eighteen some of her poems were copied in English journals.
To her great delight her younger sister, Metta Victoria, proved to possess a genius for poetry and fiction which was of a high order, and the two sisters were much bound together by their mutual tastes and pursuits. At that time the family were living in Ohio, to which State their parenrs had removed, and it was a familiar boast of the Ohio press that the State had two pairs of poet sisters, the Carys and the Fullers. Frances and her sister Metta married brothers. The younger sister remained in the East, settling in the vicinity of New York City, and Frances followed her husband, then an officer in the naval service of the United States, to California. At the close of the Civil War he resigned and went to settle in Oregon. In that new world Mrs. Victor began to study with enthusiasm the country and its history from every point of view. She wrote stories, poems, and essays for California publications, which, if collected, would make several volumes. After the death of her husband, in 1875, she returned to California and assisted Mr. H. H. Bancroft on his series of Pacific histories, writing in all six volumes of that work, on which she was engaged for about eleven years. Subsequently she resumed book-making on her own account. Besides the great amount of literary work done by Mrs. Victor which has never been collected, the following works may be named: “Poems of Sentiment and Imagination," published in her girlhood; “ The River of the West;” “The New Penelope, and Other Stories and Poems; “All Over Oregon and Washington,” and “Atlantis Arisen;" all of which, except the first volume of poems, deal with the history and the romance of the Northwest. Mrs. Victor is a woman of medium height, with fair complexion, gray eyes and hair once auburn, changing to a soster tint. Her energy and vitality are displayed in her vigorous prose. Her home is in Portland, Oregon. Η. Α. Κ.
Such graces dwell beside your hearth,
And bless you in a priceless pleasure, Leaving no sweeter spot on earth
Than that which holds your household treasure. No entertainments ever yet
Had half the exquisite completeness-
An angel sits beside the hearth
Do thy chamber windows open east,
Beloved, as did ours of old ?
Withdrawn thro' evening's porch of gold, And watch the pink flush fade above
The hills on which the wan moon leans, Remembering the sweet girlish love
That blest this hour in other scenes !
I see your hand upon your heart
I see you dash away the tearsIt is the same undying smart,
That touched us in the long-gone years; And cannot pass away. You stand
Your forehead to the window presset, And stifle sobs that no command
Can keep from rising in your breast.