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MARY K. BUCK.

MR Mich.is a daughter of Bohemia, in the likes

But at night when so softly they're sleeping,

Cuddled down in each snug little bed, With busy hands safe from all mischief

And quiet each restless young head, And a look of such peace on their features,

As if never a tear they had shed;

As I gaze on their dear rosy faces,

So sweet in their innocent sleep,
I pardon, unasked, all their mischief,

Nor thought of their naughtiness keep; For my heart overflows in the silence

With love that is tender and deep.

How small seem the trifles that vexed me!

How could they have power to annoy! And gently I fold the worn garments

And pick up each battered old toy, While I think of the homes where no children

Repay ev'ry care with a joy~

eral and not the figurative sense of the word, though the latter might still be very appropriate. But the land of the rugged mountain ranges of the Erzberg and the romantic depths of the Bohmer Wald were very early exchanged for the evergreen pine forests of Northern Michigan and the sparkling blue waters of Grand Traverse bay. So, although not native and to the manor born, this portion of America's “bonnie northland” is proud to claim her as its own. She is still on the sunny side of life's meridian, and personally is a most charming little lady, with a quaint, sweet originality of her own that wins her everywhere hosts of warm friends and admirers. A devoted mother, a shrewd business woman doing good work daily in her husband's office, a model housekeeper, it can easily be seen that she has not much time to woo the muses. Had she more leisure and less of the active duties of life, the world would know more of her. As it is, her literary work makes up in quality what it lacks in quantity. Her graceful verse is very often found among the fugitive poems that have been so often copied as to have lost name and identity, and are bound up in many compilations of choice poetry. Originally, she has written for St. Nicholas and other leading periodicals, but mainly for prominent newspapers, the Congregutionalist, Advance, InterOcean, Portland Transcript, Detroit Free Press and Good Housekeeping being among the number. As a prose writer, she has written many bright short stories for leading periodicals, and is at present at work upon a book, of which more will be known later on. If the past forecast the future, Mrs. Buck has a brilliant one before her.

E. L. B.

Sad homes, where their merry young voices

No longer the glad echoes start, To fall, like the sweetest of music,

On a mother's lone, aching heart, Whose dear ones too soundly are sleeping

From her sheltering arms apart.

Oh, mothers, like me, who are weary

And often too hastily chide, Keep not your fond words for the sleepers,

Nor wait for the darkness to hide The love welling up from the heart-spring

When kneeling your darlings' beside.

Let us give of our best in the daytime;

Let mother-love brighten and bless The pathway the dear ones must travel;

Too soon will life's burdens oppress; Let theirs be the joy to remember

Mother's smile and the tender caress.

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WILLIAM F. McNAMARA.

WILLIAM FRANKLIN MCNAMARA,

And pleasant it is when summer noons

On the hills lie tast asleep, With green leaves whispering their tremulous

runes, And the warm air full of sounds, the tunes,

Mayhap, of fays who keep

'Tis said by the old folk everywhere

Themselves from mortal sight; And days like these are so wondrous fair That they float aloft in enchanted air,

Nor wait for the secret night.

The cardinal lifts its fire-plumed head

By the lisping streamlet's side, When the earlier days of the summer are fled, And the scattered petals of roses red

Lie low in their perfumed pride.

penname Harry Hazleton, was born in Camden, Maine, December ist, 1855, the first of eleven children, seven boys and four girls, all living, and a family, too, of natural refinement, with intellects above the average. The father of this large family, a hard-working, honest man, who has for some years been laid away at rest, was born on the island of Achill, in Clew Bay, on the west coast of Ireland. At the age of twenty he came to America. Ten years later attracted to Camden, the charming sea-port of the Penobscot, having a natural love for the beautiful, he fell in love with the town, and also with Miss Martha Wellman Allenwood, a sterling young woman of rare Christian grace, whose ancestors figured in the annals of the pioneer history of Maine, resulting in a happy marriage.

The early life of William McNamara "ran quiet as the brooks by which he sported.” It was his intention early in life, an intention which may yet reach fruition, to take the profession of medicine, but the way was not opened; one of a large family of children, his help was needed on the farm. An accident happened to him at the age of twenty by which his back was injured from a fall on the ice. He slowly regained his strength, but not wholly, so that a few years ago, deeming it advisable for his health, he sought out a pleasant home among the fruitful farms of the Aroostook, in the northern part of the State, where he has since married and is living with his devoted wife. The accident of the fall on the ice, though apparently a loss to him, was a blessing in disguise. It led his mind to a world of thought and fancy, and during the years that he was unable to do manual labor he wrote many sweet and sad, but hopeful songs. During the past ten years he has written more extensively on various subjects for different publications.

W. W. P.

The locust whirs in the oak's tall crest,

The night mists earlier fall; Then the provident squirrel fills his nest, And the rabbit doffs his summer vest,

And winds through the bare trees call.

So the days in this nook of mine steal on,

With never a clanging bell
To herald their birth in the rosy dawn,
Or, when one softly away

has

gone, To dolefully peal its knell.

THE MAN FROM THE NORTH.

One night, like a jocky contesting a race,
A quaint little man with a jovial face
Dashed into the town at a rattling pace,

With a six-reindeer team gaily prancing. “How lucky,” he cried, “that I chanced to come

down: Why, they're all fast asleep in this drowsy old

townBut a spree will soon set things a-dancing!"

A NOOK.

I KNOW a nook, a sunny nook,

That hides in a dark old wood, Where fern fronds saucily nod to the brook, And the rabbit pauses with timid look,

And strut the partridge's brood.

Then he pursed up his lips and a whistle came out That brought down the North Wind with rollick

ing rout; And the trees heard with fear his mad laughter and

shout, And bent their heads low as he passed them. Right onward he rushed in most terrible glee, Till, unsatisfied still with his maudlin spree, Chimneys, steeples and gables in arms gathered

he, And down to the earth rudely cast them.

And I love it well when violets wake;

For the merry thrushes then Their rarest notes in the soft air shake, And the swelling buds into leafage break,

When the violets wake again.

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