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THEN Helen Hinsdale was born into this

world, it was as the daughter of a first settler of a new and wild region of northern New York. The primeval forests were on every side of the log cabin where she saw the light, and not very far away in any direction, for it was something over sixty years ago, her father having migrated thither from Berkshire county in Massachusetts, where the family name still remains in the town of Hinsdale and in the possession of many citizens. There she grew up with little schooling, but read as many books as came her way; she married early, and afterward continued her self-culture by every means at her command, so that the great masterpieces of English literature became familiar to her, and her love of beauty was fostered by her husband, Moses Rich of Brasher Falls. She made everything serve an inextinguishable desire to benefit her kind, in the cause of temperance, patriotism and the rights of woman, and has been useful in many moral causes as writer and speaker. From early years Mrs. Rich wrote her verses for newspapers and later for magazines, and when her volume, “A Dream of the Adirondacks, and Other Poems,” was published, it gained instant recognition from the press of the whole country as a worthy part of the poetry of America. Indeed a first book of verse very seldom reaches any such common judgment of approval, and it was justified by the merits of the contents. This volume was published in 1884, and now there is ready for the press and will shortly be issued a new volume, which will sustain the standard of the other.

Mrs. Rich's verse is always fluent and graceful, and she expresses emotion with that impress of genuineness and honesty which carries a personal force into the verse. She is deeply engaged in moral motives, and these fill many of her best poems with an inspiring fervor. But she also has the feeling of pure beauty; no poet could so celebrate the clearness of Nature, the roses, the lilies, the autumn glory, without an ecstatic sense of their loveliness. Her heart throbs in unison with the beauty of earth as well as with the heart of humanity, and she deserves her place with Lucy Larcom, Mrs. Dorr, Mrs. Rollins and others, as a fortunate interpreter of Nature and humanity. Mrs. Rich is now a resident of Chicago; she retains her connection with many important social movements, her religious affiliations are liberal, and she enjoys the warm friendship of men and women known in reforms and in literature.

C. G. W.

Yes, law is a great thing, but justice comes in

ahead When a lie makes a fiend not guilty, and the neigh

bor he shot is dead. Leadville would follow the fashion,-have regular

courts of law,I take no stock in lawyers, don't gamble upon their

jaw; But the judge he said Gueldo undoubtedly did for

Blake, And we ought to give him a trial, just for appear

ance sake; That Texas chap can't clear him, the lead's too

rich to hide, And the black neck of the Spaniard on the air

line's bound to ride. So I tried to believe in the woman with the bandage

upon her eyes, Though one side's as likely as t'other to drop

from the beam or rise If a nugget should tip the balance or a false tongue

cry the weight; But I thought I'd see if a trial was “the regular

thing” for Kate. So I went to her pretty cottage; the widow's a tidy

thing, Great mournful eyes, and a head of hair as brown

as a heron's wing. Her husband's murder was cruel; Antonio, fierce

and sly,

Had sworn revenge for a trifle when some of the

boys were nigh. She had tripped to her bed of pansies, for Blake

was going away; While he bent to embrace their baby she gathered

a love bokay. She heard a voice, -Gueldo's,-a shot, -and she

ran to Jim; But the baby's white dress was scarlet, and his

father's eyes were dim. You've heard the cry of a bittern ?-it was just that

sort of a noise; It brought us there in a hurry,—the women and

half the boys. She tried to tell us the story,-her white lips only

stirred; She seemed to slip quite out of life, and couldn't

utter a word. She told us at last in writing, only a name,-and

then Six derringers found his level, his guard was a

dozen men.

She didn't take on, seemed frozen,-but Lord!

what a ghastly face! With slow, sad steps, like the shade of joy, she

crept round the woful place, And when we lifted the coffin she knelt with her

little child, Just whispered to Jim and kissed him; we said she

was going wild.

Would be urged for the wolf defendant; the judge,

-well, he looked ashamed, When ten of the hardest rascals, the cruellest,

meanest lot, Swore, black and blue, Gueldo was four miles from

the spot

With them, a-hunting the grizzly; then the Texan

pled his case, Till the judge turned pale as ashes,-couldn't look

in an honest face. “ Your verdict, my men of the jury, must be

grounded, I suppose, On the weight of the testimony; if you have any

faith in those Reliable fellows from Gouger, the prisoner was not

thar." And his honor growled upon him like a vexed and

hungry b’ar.

Ah! deep things yield no token, and she wa’n't sur

face gold; 'T was a gloomy job prospecting round the claim

Jim couldn't hold. But I found her rocking the baby, her chin in the

dainty palm, White as the shaver's pillow, tearless, and dreadful

calm. I told her about the trial; she shuddered, her

great black eyes Flashed out such a danger signal, -or may be it

was surprise. "They never can clear Gueldo,-he cannot escape,

for I Can swear to his hissing Spanish, -that I saw him

turn and fly!" “No, never," I said; “his ticket is good for the

underground; He's due this time to-morrow where he won't find

Blake around.”

I've noticed the newest convert prays loudest of all

the camp;

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Gueldo and his attorney found seats on a coil of

rope. Then Kate came, with her baby like a rosebud in

the snow, Its pink cheek against the mother's pallid and

pinched with woe. Jim's blue eyes, as I live, sir! there were his very

curls; They set us miners to sobbing like a corral of silly

girls. She looked so thankful on us, colored, and when

she met The snake eyes of Gueldo, the braids on her brow

were wet, And if the hell of the preachers had yawned on our

gentle Kate, She couldn't have glared such horror or woman's

deadly hate. Well, they went on with the trial; an alibi, it was


And that mutton-headed jury declared for the

cussèd scamp For spite of Kate's truthful story, the evidence

went, you see, To disprove the facts; Gueldo by the law was

acquitted, free. “You can go,” said the judge; “but likely the

climate won't suit you here." Antonio rose defiant.

Then Kate spoke, low and clear, (Clasping her babe, and rising,) "Are you done

with the prisoner, sir?" As a marble statue might ask it. His honor

bowed to her,“Heaven knows I'm sorry I am, child.” “Be

cause," she replied, “I am not.” A flash from her eyes and pistol,—the Mexican

devil was shot. The smoke made a little halo round the laughing

baby's head. Then I knew the terrible promise she whispered

her husband dead. Gueldo staggered, falling, his swart face scared

and grim,"Dead, gentlemen of the jury! Decision reversed

for him! And justice!” we heard her mutter, though she

wasn't the talking kind, And she hadn't the least allusion to that female

pictured blind. Trembling she turned upon us the eyes of a

wounded doe; "Amen!" from the weeping neighbors; “God

help you!” the judge said, “Go!"

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When I am dead, strew roses o'er me, Sweet-
Great bleeding hearts, roses from head to feet;
Buds without stint, and leaves as bright and cool
As ferns that nod by lily-haunted pool;
And let me hold them in these arms, my Own,
So shall I never be again-alone.
How have I loved them? All the happy days
I walked with life the old and pleasant ways;
Loved them so well I gave the best to thee.
These, my true loves, broke never faith with me;
Nay, in their folds I often found the tear
I shed by night, a morning dew-drop clear.
I want them all—my roses of Lorraine,
The wild sweetbrier that blossomed in the lane,
My Bengal beauties, moss-rose, pink and white-
With all their glory it will not be night.
Let lily-bells alone for me be tolled,
And drape the sod with trailing Cloth of Gold.
O peerless darlings of the sun and rain!
When did I seek your velvet lips in vain ?
Your thorns have left no scar upon my heart,
My first, last breath still yours, a very part
Of all my being; go with me where blows
On Death's white bosom Life's immortal Rose!

Ring all thy lily bells, thy royal colors fly,

Sweet June, and die!
The burden of her flowery state she bore,

Till heart could bear no more
The revelry of golden throats, perfumes

Of all the dear, dead Junes. The phantom rose-leaves drifting faint and wan,

Slow fading in the sun, Remembered kisses by the pansy bed,

Vows that were said, Soft dreaming eyes of loved ones passed away

Haunt the still day.
The vanished sighs, the thrilling touch of hands,

In death's far lands.
All the impassioned loveliness that smiled

On thee, fair child.
Oh! rose-crowned daughter of a deathless sire,

Too fierce the fire
That poured its amber tide along thy veins;

Too strong the chains
That bound thy spirit to the unburied past:

Peace, June, at last!



Let me see! It was May, for an oriole came,

With its crest of vermillion and jet,
Darting down like an arrow of radiant flame,

In a song I shall never forget;
And flooding the air with a melody wild,

Half sorrow, half passion, and pain.
The years faded slowly; I stood there a child,

With a child's holy rapture again.
Ah, yes, it was May; for the violets blue

That I crushed in my palms in my glee,
With gentle reproach, shedding tear-drops of dew,

Found pity and refuge with thee;
It was May in the valley, on meadow and hill,

And you kissed me, you know, by the birch
That stands by the little, wild, frolicsome rill,

Where the robins come always to perch.
It was May in my heart, every folding and cell

In imperial purple (all sovereigns may wear);
May danced in my eyes that reflected so well

Thy face lighting up all the beautiful there; It was May! It was May! for you said with a sigh

“I love you; remember it ages to come; It will never be May to me more, if you fly,

Then hasten to tell me you pine for your home.”

Never alone again, since I have found
The treasure of the jewels of thy mind-
Richer than Ormus, or the fairest bound
Of Persian beauty poets joy to find!
Do I behold the starry realms above,
Or walk the fields, or in the forest lie,
Thy matchless thoughts all loveliness approve;
The winds repeat them in each passing sigh,
Birds sing thy messages of truth and praise,
The ferns repeat thy wisdom to the flowers,
The river murmurs of thy soul's calm ways
Beyond the mists that cloud our feeble powers!
And life, love, duty, by thy royal side, -
All things, O sage, through thee are glorified!


LET not the drifted snow of lilies white

Press my dead heart, but roses red as flame; It will be morning then; the stormy night

Gone like the discords of some martial strain Heard all too near-in the dim distance sweet.

O rose of life! that struggled to the light, At last unfolding, beautiful, complete,

To bud and bloom forever in His sight!

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