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* BIRCH ARNOLD.”
I love my neighbor like myself, this Ingin Summer
day, I feel it's glorious to live, for life is all O. K. Natur', the good ol' schoolmarm who pities our
distress, She gives her children every year this little glad
SWEETS FOR THE SWEET.
Oh, these rondeaus and triolets are pretty as vio
lets, They ’re dainty, artistic and neat; They're Gallic, Parisian, and pinks of precision,
And veritable sweets for the sweet. They give a soft pleasure to young men of leisure
Those beautiful feminine menWho on literature's border crochet and embroider,
And do “ fancy-work” with the pen. Their sapless aridities, their dry insipidities,
In statuesque beauty are wrought, But 't would be unconventional to express an inten
tional Wilful, original thought.
was born in Delavan, Wis., September 4th, 1848. Her maiden name was Bowen, and she is widely known by her pen-name, “ Birch Arnold.” Her first poem, "The Meeting of the Waters," was published in the Madison Democrat. With all its crudities it was unique and poetic, and the encouragement received determined her to enter into the field of literature as a profession. In 1877 she published her first novel, “Until the Daybreak," which at once gave her a rank among story writers. In 1872 she commenced to write for the Toledo Blade and Locke's National Monthly. Her articles attracted a great deal of attention, and D. R. Locke (“Petroleum V. Nasby") told a friend that he intended to "adopt that promising young man." His (Nasby's) chagrin on learning that the young man was a girl can be imagined. It has often afforded her amusement to find her utterances commented on as the “vigorous ideas of thinking men." To the world-at-large she still remains, and is often addressed as, “Birch Arnold, Esq." Ill health for several years prevented the continuous effort necessary to pronounced success, but lyrics, essays and miscellaneous writings have from time to time appeared over her signature. In 1876 she was married to J. M. D. Bartlett, of Quincy, Ill., and has two children. As a conversationalist she is interesting, and is an elocutionist of no ordinary ability. She is extremely sincere and earnest in her life, as well as her writings, and her heart is in the elevation of her sex and of humanity. Her latest work is a novel entitled "A New Aristocracy,” (Detroit, 1891), dealing with women and the labor question. Her home is in Detroit, Mich.
H. A. V.
THE WATER LILY'S SPIRIT.
And all lives are a poem; some wild and cyclonic,
dramas, Where the king speaks heroics, the idiot stam
mers, Where the old man gives counsel, the young man
loves hotly, Where the king wears his crown and the fool wears
his motley, Where the lord treads his hall and the peasant his
heatherAnd in the fifth act they all exit together,And the drama goes out with its pomp, and its
thunder, And we weep, and we laugh, and we listen, and wonder!
- The Cosmic Poem.
MOONBEAM and night,
Mystical light, Mingle and merge on the edge of the stream,
Where in a breath
As silent as death The lily gives birth to the soul of a dream.
Vanishing things, That flutter and dazzle, now fade and now shine,
Lift from its heart
When the pale sepals part,
YOUTH AND I.
The summer's suns may rise and set,
And June-day fragrance fill the air ; I see thro' tears, nor can forget
That ever-hovering wraith of care ; Though sorrow makes the sunshine less, They're one with thee, Forgetfulness !
YOUTH was led by hope,
I leaned low to sorrow;
In every bright to-morrow;
And when we reached the crest
Youth and I, we parted.
Each heart must know its day of grief;
All earthly things must fade and die ; Remembrance brings perchance relief,
Or bitterness of tear and sigh ; For me no other boon can bless Alike to thee, Forgetfulness !
TO A BUTTERFLY IN NOVEMBER.
Youth would follow love ;
I knew love's devotion, All its bitter sweet,
All its restless ocean;
Upon his glowing hand,
So Youth and I parted.
Oh, pallid phantom of a joyous summer day,
That vaguely trembles on my window pane,
Dost lift thy heavy-lidded eyes in vain To catch the westering sun's endearing ray? Dost sigh for odorous breaths that idly play Their sweet enchantments o'er the damask
rose, Upon whose glowing breast thou might'st re
Alas! thou art the idle sport of fate,
Yet not alone shalt thou find all too late-
crown; Like thee, I lingering watch the waning light As swift the shadows rise of destined night.
Youth was glad to go,
And I am well content;
Since away he went;
Of feverish desires,
Since Youth and I have parted.
Youth is far away,
But on the westward slope, Where glints the evening sun,
I once more welcome Hope ;
Where shadows darkly close,
When Life and I have parted.
Love does not always heal with balm ;
Like breath of some novitiate's cloistered prayer,
Nor brooks the storm that frets the tranquil air, And sends a discord quavering through its psalm, Belittles love. That love is truest, best,
Which bravely learns to face all bitter things, And yet in answering wisdom's high behest Forgets no word of its sweet
ings; And even as perforce it wields the knife Recalls with its fond kiss to stronger life.
E’EN thro' her radiant beauty, hour by hour,
I drink with draughts of darkly liquid eyes,
And listen oft her sweet and low replies, And pluck again the fragrant crimson flower
Upon her cheeks and dewy lips that lies, Insatiate with love's most sovereign power
As empty always as the Danaid's sieve-