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second daughter of Samuel Rosecrans Doty and Hannah Lawrence, who were among the pioneers of Michigan. Mrs. Bates comes of stalwart stock; mingled Dutch and English blood. Her greatgrandfather, a Rosecrans, was ninety years old when he died, and the legend goes that at the time of his death “his hair was as black as a raven's wing.” Another ancestor was with Washington at Valley Forge. On the mother's side are the Lawrences, and Hannah Lawrence, the great-grandmother, was famous for her gift of story telling. Clara had a faculty for rhyme from her earliest days. She wrote verses when she could only print in big letters. Her first poem was published when she was nine years old. The most of her published work has been fugitive, although there have been several books, chiefly for children. Among these are “Æsop's Fables Versified," “Child Lore, “Classics of Babyland,” “Heart's Content," and several minor books, all published in Boston. Her life up to her marriage was passed in Ann Arbor. The homestead, “Heart's Content," was well known for its treasures of books and pictures. The location of the State University at Ann Arbor gave better facilities for education than was offered in the usual western village. It was before the admission of women to equal opportunities with men, but it was possible to secure private instruction in advanced studies. This the little flock of Doty girls had in addition to private schools, while the son had the university. Clara Doty was married in 1869 to Morgan Bates, a newspaper man and the author of several plays. Her home is in Chicago, Ill. She is a member of The Fortnightly, a club foremost among the literary societies of America. She is upon the literary committee of the woman's branch of the World's Congress Auxiliary. All her manuscript and notes were destroyed by the burning of her father's house several years ago. Among them were a finished story, a halfcompleted novel and some other work. Mrs. Bates is fond of outdoor life, and is a woman of marked individuality.


A lull held every sense, As lullaby to child the influence, Not Heaven's soft wind, blowing across my face,

Nor the far look through space, Gave tremor to my heart. I said, “This way She went before me on that dreadful day."

The uttermost blue was past;
Our land was gained, the height attained atlast.
Ah, height of green! Ah, sun-flecked, breezy slope,

No fairer goal has Hope !
Nor jasper wall nor gold-paved street could be
So cool with peace, so comforting to me.

A summit,-upland glade
It was, where earthly light had seemed a shade;
Where happy throngs on some glad plan intent

Hither and thither went.
Singing and Autes, and many a tender word,
With silences as musical, I heard.

Nor did my weary eyes, Stained with their tears, seem new to Paradise, For she I longed to see was there to greet

The coming of my feet. Rest was where pain had been in her dear face, But mother-love still held its sovereign place.

The breath of a soft wing,
A flutter as of dark bat hurrying
Across a twilight garden, and I knew

'Twas Sleep that hither flew Out of night's spaces to my bed, to bear Me whithersoe'er her vagrant Aight might dare.

Just as of old, she came, Smiled on me, called me daughter," spoke my

name, Held in her hand my hand-no hint of change,

And Heaven was not strange!

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Just seventy years ago,

A little baby smiled, And they gave the sweet old Bible name

Of Hannah to the child.

She slept, no doubt, such sleep

As only falls on eyes That still have shut within their lids

The light of Paradise.

No doubt the little hands

Lay passive on her breast, As with the cradle's lullaby

They hushed her to her rest.

Ah, me! who could foretell

What work those hands should do? How many they should help to lead

Life's troubled mazes through?

What never-faltering part

Their tender strength should takeWhat burdens for the tired ones bear,

What barriers help to break ?


born in Centerville, N. Y., October 17, 1835, of genuine Knickerbocker blood. One of her pleasantest prose sketches describes a family heirloom that has come down to her from her Dutch ancestry. Most of her life has been passed in Wisconsin, and there she was married to a gentleman who fully appreciates her. Mr. Alpheus B. Allerton, her husband, is a native of Ohio, and a descendant of the Allerton who came over in the "Mayflower.

Mrs. Allerton composed and recited verses before she could write, but offered little to the press until she was past thirty years of age. It is not difficult for her to write, but easy and natural, in prose or verse. She writes plainly, clearly, and sends the printer a faultless manuscript. As a woman and as a writer she is quiet, modest, sensible. She has high, lofty thoughts, and she has the gift of expression.

Mr. and Mrs. Allerton were invalids in Wisconsin, and they traveled to Kansas in a wagon, through Illinois, Iowa and Missouri, cooking their own meals and getting health and happiness out of the journey. On very high land in Brown County, in sight of Padonia, Hamlin, Falls City and Hiawatha, Mr. Allerton, in 1879, bought a quarter section of unimproved land. The brave man and his wife went to work, and now they have a handsome home, crowded granaries, cattle and horses on all the hills, apple and peach trees that bear luscious fruit, groves of trees, planted by hand, for shade and for beauty, and every comfort that prosperity brings in her train.

Mrs. Allerton has attended to every household duty, and has written poetry just as the birds sing, out of a joyous heart, and when there was nothing else to do. Her first poems were published in Milwaukee and Chicago papers. Col. Elias A. Calkins, a brilliant writer, was early an appreciative friend of the poet. A volume of Mrs. Allerton's poems, entitled “Poems of the Prairies,” published in New York in 1886, met with general favor and a large sale. Her poetry is natural, sweet, tender and true. It does not defy the laws of morals, of rhetoric or of good taste.

D. W. W.

Scarcely a day or hour

In all these long, long years But they have helped some weaker one,

Or wiped some sufferer's tears.

And, ah, who could foresee

Upon that baby brow, Where lay the dark and silky locks,

Its crown of silver now?

Peace, as at first, is there;

The world has never set One single line of its hard seal

Upon that forehead yet!

The constant shadow of pain

Has dimmed, perhaps, the eyes, Yet still they hold within their lids

The light of Paradise.


Just seventy years ago

Since the little baby came, And now her children's children bless

That sweet old Bible name.

BEAUTIFUL faces are those that wear-
It matters little if dark or fair-
Whole-souled honesty printed there.

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