THE TWO HIGHWAYMEN.

I LONG have had a quarrel set with Time,
Because he robbed me. Every day of life
Was wrested from me after bitter strife,
I never yet could see the sun go down
But I was angry in my heart, nor hear
The leaves fall in the wind without a tear
Over the dying summer. I have known
No truce with Time nor, Time's accomplice, Death.
The fair world is the witness of a crime
Repeated every hour. For life and breath
Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly
The voices of these robbers of the heath
Sound in each ear and chill the passerby.
-What have we done to thee, thou monstrous |
Time?

What have we done to Death that we must die?

A DAY IN SUSSEX.

THE dove did lend me wings. I fled away
From the loud world which long had troubled me.
Oh, lightly did I flee when hoyden May
Threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn tree.
I left the dusty highroad, and my way
Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair.
A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay
From every hedge and every thicket there.

Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, where in the

grass,

All heaped with flowers I lay, from noon till eve;
And hares unwitting close to me did pass,
And still the birds sang, and I could not grieve.
Oh, what a blessed thing that evening was!
Peace, music, twilight, all that could deceive
A soul to joy, or lull a heart to peace.

It glimmers yet across whole years like these.

JUSTICE.

I hold the justice of Heaven Larger than all the science, and welled from a purer fount.

-The Canon of Aughrim. RICHES.

Riches make selfish souls, and gain has an evil eye. -Ibid.

IRELAND.

All you have made it to-day is a hell to conquer and keep,

Yours by the right of the strongest hand, the right of the rod. -Ibid.

H

HATTIE LEONARD WRIGHT.

ATTIE LEONARD WRIGHT was born in Fort Wayne, Ind., December 9, 1858. When little more than three years old, her mother died and the following two years were spent at the home of her grandfather, Rev. J. Ivers Whitman, of Fairfield, Ohio. About that time her father remarried and she was taken to Fort Wayne to reside with him. When she was twelve years old her stepmother died, and in less than three years afterwards she became the feminine head of her father's house. When nine years old she began to attend school, but could read and write well at that time. She was graduated from the Fort Wayne High School when she had attained her sixteenth year. The following June she was graduated from the Training School, notwithstanding a ten weeks' illness endured that spring. The next two winters she taught in the public schools of Fort Wayne, but her health began to fail, and for that reason she was obliged to give up teaching. She did not, however, remain idle, but assumed charge of the housework, also giving lessons in vocal and instrumental music. Five years passed thus, when she again taught school, in the country near Fort Wayne, and later she also taught in Ohio schools. She was so ambitious that even in her busy life of teaching she found time to learn painting, giving all her leisure to that accomplishment. On her return from Ohio she was engaged as society editor on the Fort Wayne Morning Journal, which position she filled for more than a year. A few years later she accepted a position as teacher of vocal music in the schools of Fort Wayne, resigning that position to marry Mr. R. M. Wright. Mrs. Wright's first literary work was done when she was little more than fourteen years of age-a poem written in memory of a classmate who had died. In later years she wrote many letters of travel, reports of various meetings, a few humorous sketches and a large number of poems that have been published from time to time. In addition to these accomplishments Mrs. Wright read medicine with her father for a number of years, but disliked the practice too much to make it her profession in life, although she had rare gifts in that direction, and would probably have been very successful. She is passionately fond of animals and is an expert horsewoman. The Leonard family is a very old one, dating back eight generations in this country and have been distinguished for fine memories and rare musical and literary talent. Mrs. Wright has a pleasant home in Fort Dodge, Iowa, where she resides, happy in the cares of her household and de. voted to her little son. H.A. K.

MY VIEW AN' HIS'N.

I TELL ye jest what, them teachers
Has a awful sight fer to bear,
An' I couldn't be hired to be one
Ef I hadn't a rag to wear
Except this old suit uv blue jeans
An' not nary cent fer to spare.

Fust they's a passel uv young ones
Jest full uv the very old Nick-
The biggest ones puttin' the littlest

Up to ev'ry mis-chee-vious trick
An' a keepin' theirselves out uv trouble
In a way that seems purty slick.

Then, they's the intrusted payrents
Ferever a meddlin' aroun'

An' a faultin' the teacher fer somethin'
He knows better'n they, I'll be boun'.
It hain't possible fer ye to suit 'em,
Anyways to suit 'em all roun'.

This one-he thinks thet his children
The teacher hain't learned 'em enough,
Thet he's ben by far too easy;

The next one allows he's too rough;
An' Jones, he says thet he's partial,

An' he took his'n out in a huff.

An' then, jest look at his quarters,
He boards with the Widder Van Bloom,
Two mile an' a half he must foot it
'Cause the neighbors here hedn't room.
Takin' summer an' winter together
His comfort it hain't on the boom.

Fer 'n fall the roads is so muddy,
In winter ther drifted with snow;
An' 'n spring the mud is repeated;
By June in the dust he must go;
'F it hain't one thing it's another
To make him feel mizzerble low.

Then ther's that dirty old school-house,
'Tain't fit fer to stable a cow;
The ceilin' all frescoed with spit-balls
Thet's stuck frum the fust year tell now;
The windows without any curtains-
A comfortless place, you'll allow.

Ther hain't a tree that stan's nigh it

To keep off the blisterin' sun

Thet strikes straight through them old winders
In the children's eyes-ev'ry one
Scorchin' an' parchin' an' blindin'

Tell the long afternoon is done.

It's jest as bad in the winter,

Fer the glare uv the dazzlin' snow Shines through them unshaded winders All day with its pitiless glow

An' cracks in the weather-boardin'
Lets in all the winds thet blow.

*

My son, he don't see it thet way;
He believes thet teachin's a trade
Much better'n farmin' or physic

Or than sellin' dress-goods an' braid;
Thet next to preachin' come teachin'
An' thet teachers is born 'n not made.

He says thet thet narrer school-room
Is the big world copied out small
Where students uv human nacher
Can find little samples uv all
The bodies, brains, dispositions

Thet crowd this terrestrial ball.

He says thet the work uv teachin'
Is somethin' noble an' grand;
Thet the unknown hard worked teacher
To-day holds fast in his hand
Shapin' fer good or fer evil
The Destiny uv our land.

He says thet it learns him patience,
At the same time thoroughness,
As he tries to foller the pattern

Uv One who will surely bless
The work uv the 'umblest teacher
Thet strives in His footsteps to press.

THE OLD GRAY HORSE.

A SORRY old nag was the old gray horse,
With his roughened coat and his shaggy mane
And his unclipped locks 'bove his well-worn shoes
And his knotted tail fringed with frozen rain
And as he soberly went on his way

Through the mud and sleet in the morning gray
Very few, very few would have dared to say
There was once a time when this old horse gray
Was a brisk young nag-in the days that are
past-

And had even been dubbed in those early days "fast."

But there had been a time when men shook their heads

And had even declared that the young gray colt, With his swinging trot at a lightning-like pace Would never do aught excepting to race. "For an honest day's work” said they, one and all "He'll be likely to balk and be sure to stall."

But a patient head and a loving hand Were guiding the gray colt's bridle rein And, although with many a fret and pain,

He learned to know when to stop and to stand. And little by little he learned the fact That, to always be able the right to act,

For horses as well as for men it is true

A moderate course is the best to pursue.

So, jogging along through the mist and the rain
Over the hill and over the plain,
When it is wet and when it is dry

The old gray horse goes patiently by;
Carefully plodding where it is rough,
Cheerfully trotting where smooth enough,
Doing his best and doing his all

Never known to balk, never known to stall.
People may talk with a jeer and a frown

Of his long-haired coat with its mud-stains brown,
May laugh at the quaintly bundled up knot
That nods behind to his regular trot

But the old gray horse with an unmoved face
Goes quietly by at the same old pace,

TO A NOVEMBER VIOLET.

OH Flower of Spring, that lingered here to cheer
The briefer daylight of a ling'ring fall,
Speak to my darling of another year-

Of vines that drape an humble cottage wall,
Of birds that build beneath its slanting eaves
And swing upon the rose-bush at the door;
Of Hope that bourgeons with the budding leaves
And Love that waxes more and more.
Smile in her face, my flower, and see thyself
Reflected in the dark depths of her dusky eyes;
Smile, for the answer of her bending lips

Will stir thy beauty with a new, a sweet surprise. Nestle against her cheek my wee blue flower

And dream of summer winds and sunny days; Breathe in her ear a murmur of that hour

When last I saw her lovely flower-like face;
And tell her, oh my bonny blossom blue,
Tell her, oh, tell her, violets are true.
Tell her I work and wait for her alone
And tell her winter will e'er long have flown.

GEORGE CARLETON RHODERICK, Jr.

G

EORGE CARLETON RHODERICK, Jr. was born in Middletown, Frederick County, Md., February 19, 1861. He had no more educational advantages than those of his companions in the public and private schools of the village. At the age of fourteen he left school to enter the printing office of his father where he began to weave his fancies into rhyme, often composing at the case, and writing his verses out afterward. In 1881 he projected and published the Jolly Joker, a humorous monthly which enjoyed an enviable reputation, circulating all over the country; but a pressure of office duties forced him to abandon the enterprise, when at the height of its popularity.

Mr. Rhoderick is now, and has long been, assistant editor of the Valley Register, published in Middletown, besides being correspondent for a number of metropolitan dailies. Nearly all of his poems originally appeared in the columns of the Register. Mr. Rhoderick is fond of athletic exercises, and is a genial, whole-souled gentleman whom it is a pleasure to meet. In physique he is tall and well proportioned, has a good carriage, and a frank, open countenance. He is a favorite wherever known. T. C. H.

THANKSGIVING.

FOR the bounteous gifts of Heaven That upon us have been poured, For the rich and plenteous harvest

In the barns and gran'ries stored, For the peace with which our land

Has been so gloriously blest, We would lift the voice in praises

And our thankfulness attest.

For the sunshine and the rain

That descended from above, For the increase of the harvest

And the Father's gracious love, For the year of peace and plenty And for blessings without end, Let the voices of the people

In Thanksgiving praises blend.

For the health that God has given

To the Nation, bought with blood;

For the absence of contagion,

And of famine, and of flood;

For the blessings of kind Heaven,

That throughout the land extend,

We bow in holy rev'rence

While Thanksgiving prayers ascend.