A

CORELLI C. W. SIMPSON.

MONG the charming residences which make Bangor the favorite city of homes in the Pine Tree State, that over which Mrs. Corelli C. W. Simpson presides with graceful hospitality is well known and delightful. To this happy wife and mother, in a home which gives pleasure to all her friends, the poetic gift is the crowning happiness of her life. Mrs. Simpson was one of twin daughters born to Capt. Francis Dighton Williams in Taunton, Mass., February 20, 1837. She is justifiably proud of the best New England ancestry on her father's side and also that of her mother, Corelli Caswell. Her grandfather, Cyrus Caswell, who was a lover of music, gave to his daughter the Italian name Corelli, from an air he was fond of playing on his violin. She handed it down by giving to her twin daughters the names Corelli and Salome. So much alike were these little sisters that they were designated, even in the family, by their pink and blue ribbons, and in maturer life the resemblance is still remarkable.

Corelli C. Williams was thoroughly educated in schools both public and private, chiefly the Bristol Academy and Taunton High School. After visiting Bangor, Me., she opened the first kindergarten known in that city in 1864. A hearty lover of children, cheerful, sympathetic and unwearied in her efforts, she became at once very popular, and it is not strange that A. L. Simpson, a member of the Penobscot bar and at that time a widower, as he led his little Gertrude daily to the kindergarten teacher, should perceive her rare qualities and covet the happiness of leading the teacher herself to preside over his home. They were married September 20, 1865. In December, 1866, the little Gertrude welcomed a sister Maude, and the family circle was complete on May 22, 1872, upon the advent of a son, Howard Williams, at present a law student in his father's office. Mrs. Simpson has written her poems in moments of inspiration and not as a serious task. Overflowing with enthusiasm and ardor, she finds in verse the natural expression of her feelings. Her writings have appeared in various popular periodicals, and are always warmly received. A few years ago a fair for the benefit of the Young Men's Christian Association was held in Bangor, and she was applied to for something saleable. The result was a Tête-à-Tête Cook Book, a gem of culinary art, the most of its delicious recipes being original with her, and this dainty work had an immense sale. She has since had a second copyrighted edition published. She has absolutely perfect health, and walks frequently five or six

miles for the pleasure of the exercise, "not knowing," as she says, "what it is to be tired." During her spare moments she is engaged upon a work entitled "Leaflets of Artists," which comprises sketches of the lives of artists by eminent writers. F. L. M.

CONTENT.

WHILE waiting for the Lily,

We lose the sweet Mayflower; While longing for the sunshine, The beauties of the shower.

While dreading distant thunder,

We miss the bird's sweet song;

While fearing all life's evils,

We blind our eyes with wrong.

We wait and long; we fear and dread;
Why may we not enjoy instead?

If Heaven we ask, to Heaven draw near;
Come with the children; lo! 'tis here.

ENDEAVOR.

LIKE skyward sparks our souls aspire,

To fall as drops the sand.

Morn finds 'mong clouds each heart's desire;
At eve we grope on land.

We've failed our highest to attain,
Shall we then cease to try again?

Alike to things both near and far,
With gleeful, prattling shout,
To nurse's cap or distant star

The babe's wee hands stretch out. From striving shall the babe desist Because the moon meets not his fist?

How grew that tree with deep-set root?
By reaching towards the sun.
Though standing at the ladder's foot,
Its rounds are one by one.
By constant striving we shall find

Our sheaves and the wherewith to bind.

A fairer picture ne'er was seen, This little mimic king and queen. "Not introduced!" Screams her mamma, And leads her off to Grandpapa. High, higher up the mountain side, Far, farther o'er the ocean's tide, Down, deeper through the valley's lane, Wild, searching reckless o'er the plain, Dear sisters sigh, astonished, sad; "What motive rules this willful lad?" "He will be lost," groans stern papa. "Let him search on," says grandmama.

She dreams, and wakes, and dreams anew, As though she'd nothing else to do; Not heeding cares that come too soon, Builds castles higher than the moon, And whispers low, each hope, each fear, In grandma's arms, to grandma's ear. "She'll be no use!" cries her papa. "Disturb her not,” sighs grandmama.

'Though ten years 'lapse 'tween that and this, The same sweet lips unite to kiss.

Birds listen, wondering what they mean;
I'll be thy king; thou'lt be my queen."

This picture's touched with higher aim,

And too, it needs a larger frame.
Now introduced are pa's and ma’s.
And shaking hands, are grandmammas.

SONNET.

DEAR friend, in leafy, balmy days of June
Thy rarest gems of verse were sung. Thy hand
Pure thoughts unwrapped and into being fanned
As screened from sun, or neath the silent moon
With "brook and branch" of pine thy heart kept

tune.

Dost dream on California's gold-stored strand
Of rock-built mansions? one that, towering grand
From banks of waving grass, this quiet noon
O'erlooks and guards our fair Penobscot stream?
'Mong ferns and sedges which the brooklet wets
Birds, buds and blossoms breathe of thee to-day.
With brush, though faintly, to refresh thy dream
I've traced for thee both home and violets.
These simple tributes at thy feet I lay.

OLD-TIME PICTURES.

AT play, a boy, just turning eleven
Espies a lovely lass of seven.
They quarrel then "make up" in haste.
Her lips meet his; he clasps her waist;

MYSELF.

THOUGH palace grand or humble cot,
Though creams or crusts, it matters not.
All else may prove their falsities,
Within myself my castle is.

FIVE YEAR-OLD PERPLEXITIES.

Oh! pity me, dolly; for dolly, I've done
The worst thing that could be done under the sun.
Don't look at me, dolly, so smiling and glad,
When I am so dreadfully, dreadfully sad.

Dear dolly, you know, we were 'bout to take tea; I went for lump sugar, for you and for me;

I couldn't ask mamma, for she'd gone down town; Nor Bridget, for she was then changing her gown.

I begged aunt to give me a bit of sweet sauce, But she's an old maid, and you know how cross; I wonder if auntie was ever like us!

She said, "Run away, child, and don't make a fuss."

I climbed the first shelf, and while there on my feet,
And tasting of your lump, to know if 'twas sweet,
I reached up for mine, but the next thing I knew,
Such bumps on my head, dear! I'm glad twasn't

you.

But, dolly, I don't mind my fall, or the bumps,
And didn't care much then to pick up the lumps.
To tell it, or whisper it, most makes me choke.
But listen.-The sugar-bowl fell down and broke!

It seems as though, dolly, this day has been years.
I've cried till your dress is all soaked with my tears.
You pity me, dolly; could you, you would cry;
Oh, dolly! my dolly! 'thout you I should die.

When anything's wrong, mamma says we must run And tell the truth, dolly, 'bout all that we've done; Now shouldn't I feel, dear, more glad than I do? As soon as it happened, I came and told you.

Oh, dear! I'm so sorry 'tis broken! But hark!
I hear carriage wheels! Mamma's come! Though
'tis dark

I'll find the way to her lap, and once in it,
I'll kiss and tell her the whole in a minute.

WA

WALTER ALLEN RICE.

WALTER ALLEN RICE was born in Bangor, Me., January 14, 1857, and for a long term of years that city was his home; but latterly his employments have called him to various New England cities, and more recently he has been engaged as a lecturer in the interests of secret society work. This nomadic life naturally has not been favorable to much literary achievement, but nevertheless he has done considerable pen-work since leaving Harvard College in 1877. Much of this has been in the direction of verse, and his poems have appeared in different publications. Whether or not Mr. Rice published anything before he left Harvard, I am unable to say, but during freshman years he devoted himself to verse-making, and in addition to short stories, he prepared the manuscript of a novel, which he soon consigned to oblivion, his reason for not allowing the story to be printed, "That it was written simply for the pleasure of the thing." Having a strong liking for elocution, Mr. Rice took up its study professionally, and on leaving college he gave readings in many of the Maine and New Hampshire towns. In this connection he prepared a course of lecture readings, "Five Evenings With American Authors," which were very favorably received by lovers of good literature, though the young lecturer soon abandoned the field for lack of material support. The authors treated of were Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Bret Harte and Mark Twain. Previous to entering Harvard, Mr. Rice graduated from Phillip's Academy at Exeter, N. H., having also been a graduate of the Bangor High School in his eighteenth year. Among other positions he has ably filled is that of proof-reader with the publishing house of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., of Cambridge, Mass. He left Cambridge to engage in lecture work for the Order of the Iron Hall, a vocation giving large opportunity for travel and observation, and one in which success attends him. Mr. Rice was married July 5, 1887, to Miss Lydia A. Chase, of Roxbury, Mass. A man of thoughtful, studious habits, a lecturer of recognized ability and a graceful writer of prose and verse, he is one of whom the future promises much. R. R.

When she has closed the golden doors of day,
I love to hear her garments' rustling sound,
To feel her eyes meet mine, then turn away
While yet her presence seems to linger 'round.

How tenderly she wafts the cooling breeze
O'er city thronged and pleasure's calm retreat,
Where weary mortals seek a moment's ease

And greet her coming as a respite sweet.

Above the crib some gentle grandma bends

And smooths with loving touch the coverlet; So Evening, with her spangled spread descends, And folds away each burden of regret.

As each long sultry day doth reach its close, And fragrant is the air with new-mown hay, How softly down the insects' murmur flows, And blissful quiet steals along the way.

So silently the wondrous change transpires
We cannot mark the time when crimson light
Of sunset fades to blue, or when the fires

Of evening first come twinkling into sight.

How heaven and earth now clasp each other's hands,

And angels' footfalls we can almost hear. Onr weary feet now press the jasper sands,

And through the mists the City's heights appear.

Ah, now the struggling spirit rends its chains,
And tears the lash from labor's tyrant hand,

And upward soaring to its native plains, Communes the while with all that's pure and grand.

OCTOBER.

OCTOBER! Why do I this month adore?

I'll tell thee, friend. The years have not been long,

Nor have I yet forgot that husking song, And full moon shining through the old barn door. A merry throng laid bare the golden ears,

While jest and laughter kept the night awake,
And forfeits not a few we had to take;
But under all I bore a world of fears;
That night I meant to know. Was I to blame?
I thought the time would never come to end,
But when 'twas done, and home we 'gan to
wend,

The fire hid in my heart broke into flame;
And though to her 'twas somewhat of a fright,
She's been my wife for five Octobers bright.

THE HEART'S CONFESSION.

NE'ER subject bowed before the royal throne
More proudly than do I acknowledge thee
Queen of my heart, that ever had been free
Till thy resistless love made it thine own.
Whether the splendor of thine eyes alone
Conjured the spell, or all thy charms combined,
Swaying at thy sweet will the unwilling mind,
Bound me in fetters I had never known,
I cannot tell; but since that hour supreme
My being's thrilled anew with nobler aim,
And passing fancies that we idly dream
Became, at thought of honoring thy name,
Grand aspirations, whose bright glories seem
To light the pathway up the heights of fame.

LIFE.

BUDDING, blooming, dying, Morning, noon and night, Pleasure soon is sighing, Time puts out the light. Beauty's swiftly fleeing, Youth is lost in age; Things that are now being Are for history's page.

Hopes so like the flowers, Beautiful and sweet, Cheering summer hours, But, alas! how fleet. Wintry gales are blowing, Dead the flowers lie; Hopes are feebler growing 'Neath a leaden sky.

Laughing, musing, weeping,
Each succeeds in turn;
Each is in our keeping,
All too soon we learn.
Weeping, musing, laughing,
Life is only this;

Tears we're surely quaffing
From the cup of bliss.

*

Shadows may be lifted,

And the spirit roam, When the scenes have shifted In a cloudless home, Where there is no dying, Morning, noon or night, Pleasure never sighing, But eternal light!