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Where whirred the beetle through the night,

Rises the morerain's plaintive woe; And in its lonesome hiding-place

Pulses the cricket's tremulo;


But at the broad'ning day's advance

The brooklet seems to laugh and sing; And fills the valley and the wood

With fuller voice of everything;

"Then suddenly from leafy screen

Out darts the joyous bobolink, And sparkling drops of melody

In bubbling measures rise and sink; And from the screens of fern and leaf,

Afar and near, and all about, In answer from the merry throats

The diamond songs come gushing out; Music seems into jewels turned,

Sparkling and dancing on the glow Of tawny sunlight o'er the hill,

Which floods with gold the vales below.

RS. WALSWORTH comes of one of the

earliest families to settle in western Pennsylvania, whose line of descent has given many persons to literary and professional pursuits. Her grarıdfather, John L. Gow, of Washington, Pa., was a writer of both prose and verse. Her father, Alex M. Gow, was well known in Pennsylvania and Indiana as an educator and editor. He was the author of “Good Morals and Gentle Manners," a book used in public schools.

Before Minnie Gow was ten years of age, her poetic productions were quite numerous, and although those productions were enjoyed and treasured by her friends, no encouragement was given her to publish until her judgment and taste were matured by experience and study. She was graduated from the Washington Female Seminary. On December 4th, 1891, she was married to Edgar Douglass Walsworth, of Fontenelle, Iowa, to which place Miss Gow had removed with her family a few years previous. Mrs. Walsworth has contributed to the New York Independent, Interior, St. Nicholas, Wide-Awake, Presbyterian Banner, Literary Life and several other periodicals. “Luaine," a poem, contains her most mature and careful work.

J. M. G.

Still swells the fuller voice of day

From air and wave, from branch and sod, Till nature's perfect harmony

Rolls forth in rich accord.



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O winds, that whispered benedictions o'er them,

'Tis long since on her cheek ye spent your breath, And years, O flowers, that woke to life that

morning, Since at her hands ye met a willing death.

And the child-eyes, meeting the old eyes, dim,
Knows that her thoughts are not for him.
But he hears, with a wonder undefined,
And a gentle awe in the baby-mind.
But soon he had gone, the street door closed,
And grandma, over her knitting, dozed.

But vague and tender as the flowers' awak’ning,

There came, that day, new life within her heart; Her pulses beat in unison with Nature's,

Her joy but to the day belonged a part.

Ah, yes; perhaps yet, ʼmid the summer's beauty,

The words come back and mem'ries sweet arise, “Oh gift of God! oh perfect day!” she murmurs,

But tears well up to dim her wistful eyes.


Oh, what was that night but unbroken joy
To the waking mind of the little boy!
And his world of men and sights and sounds
Must stretch away unto broader bounds.
He ate his berries with glad content,
And fond eyes watched him as he went
From vestry floor to gallery seat,
With beaming face and tireless feet.
At last it was over; the time had come
When auntie suggested the going home.
The white-haired minister chanced that way,
And paused a moment, a word to say.
His smile was kind and his manner bland,
The pressure warm of his friendly hand,
While a pleasant word, as he passed along,
Was given to each of all the throng.
A groping thought-a glad surprise-
A question lighted the boy's bright eyes,
And he said, with a reverent tone and word,
“Is this his house, and is he the Lord ?

Into the gloom of the summer night,
Through flower-like panes, a shower of light
Dripped through the upturned, dream-hushed

A shimmering flood from a thousand eaves-
An invitation, gracious, sweet,
It fell on the throng of a city street,
Where the temple new in its beauty stood,
Awaiting the gathering multitude;
A supper and fair, where good things greet
The eye and palate of all who will eat.
Alas! that the pleas are oft in vain
In the cause of the Lord, to heart and brain,
But to pay his dues while he eats, man owns
Is a slaughter of birds with a saving of stones.


Aunt Nellie has fashioned a dainty thing,

Of hamburg and ribbon and lace, And mamma had said, as she settled it 'round

Our beautiful baby's face, Where the dimples play and the laughter lies

Like sunbeams hjd in her violet eyes: “ If the day is pleasant and baby is good,

She may go to church and wear her new hood."

From a house as "snug as a robin's nest,”
A bird-of-a-boy in his Sunday-best,
Of kilted suit and hair fresh-curled,
To-night goes forth to see the world.
Grandma acts as his valet, true,
Wields the sponge and buttons the shoe;
But, strange to say, she omits to-night
The fairy-tale—the small boy's right-
And talks, with a joy in her every word,
Of the new and beautiful house of the Lord.
Then, more to herself than the child, perhaps,
As her thoughts run back and the years elapse,
As mem'ries rise and press and crowd,
They escape her lips—she thinks aloud,
And tells of a time when a sainted few,
With godly minds and a purpose true,
The log-house, old and cold and bare,
Had used as the meeting-place of prayer.
But the good seed sown the Lord hath blessed,
And to-night he welcomes each glad guest
To his beautiful house-fit monument
Of all the blessings his love has sent.

Then Ben, aged six, began to tell,

In elder-brotherly way,
How very, very good she must be

If she went to church next day.
He told of the church, the choir and the crowd,
And the man up in front who talked so loud,
But she must not talk, nor laugh, nor sing,
But just sit as quiet as anything.
And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May,

When the fruit-buds burst into flowers, (There wasn't a blossom on bush or tree

So fair as this blossom of ours),
All in her white dress, dainty and new,
Our baby sat in the family pew.
The grand, sweet music, the reverent air,
The solemn hush and the voice of prayer,



Filled all her baby soul with awe,

As she sat in her little place,
And the holy look that the angels wear

Seemed pictured upon her face.
And the sweet words uttered so long ago

Came into my mind with a rhythmic flow, "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven,” said He,

And I knew that He spake of such as she.
The sweet-voiced organ pealed forth again,

The collection-box came round,
And baby dropped her penny in,

And smiled at the chinking sound.
Alone in the choir Aunt Nellie stood,
Waiting the close of the soft prelude,
To begin her solo. High and strong
She struck the first note; clear and long
She held it, and all were charmed but one,

Who, with all the might she had,
Sprang to her little feet and cried:

“Aunt Nellie, you's being bad!"
The audience smiled, the minister coughed,
The little boys in the corner laughed,
The tenor-man shook like an aspen leaf
And hid his face in his handkerchief.
And poor Aunt Nellie never could tell

How she finished that terrible strain,
But says that nothing on earth would tempt

Her to go through the scene again.
So we have decided, perhaps 'tis best,
For her sake, ours, and all the rest,
That we wait, maybe, for a year or two,
Ere our baby reënter the family pew.

ROM John Upham, who was born in England,

in 1597, and who came to New England in 1635, have proceeded all branches of the Upham family in North America.

Rev. Dr. James Upham was born January 23rd, 1815, in Salem, Mass., and his childhood was passed among its historic and literary associations. He is endowed with the “dominent characteristics of the Upham family,” which are energy, enterprise, industry, integrity, religiousness and good sense. He entered the college in Waterville, Maine, now Colby University, at the age of sixteen. After graduation, in 1835, he was appointed Preceptor of Farmington Academy, Farmington, Maine. Here, through too close application to study and teaching, his health was permanently impaired, and he was obliged to abandon all work for a time. In 1837 his health was so far restored that he was able to enter Newton Theological Institution, which, however, he left about the middle of the Senior year, subsequently studying Homiletics with Rev. John Wayland, D. D., of Salem. In 1840 he was appointed Professor of Biblical Literature and Sacred Rhetoric in the Maine Baptist Theological Institution, in Thomaston, and was ordained the same year. Following this professorship came pastorates in Manchester, N. H., and Millbury, Mass., whence he went, September, 1845, to Newhampton, N. H., as Professor in the Newhampton Literary and Theological Institution, where he took charge of New Testament Greek Interpretation, Archæology, Ecclesiastical History and Homiletics. This institution was removed to Fairfax, Vt., in 1853. While there, in 1860, the degree of D. D. was conferred upon him by his Alma Mater. In 1861 he was elected to the presidency of the institution, which he resigned in 1866 to become one of the editors of the Watchman and Reflector, now the Watchman, of Boston, Mass. This connection ended December, 1875. From 1876 to 1882 he was an associate editor of the Religious Herald, Richmond, Va. Since 1878 he has had charge of the Health Department in the Youth's Companion. His public life has been spent mainly in the teacher's and the editor's chair-twenty-four years in the former, and twenty-five years in the latter, which he still retains. He has always been, and continues to be, a frequent contributor to various journals. November 12th, 1841, Mr. Upham married Miss Cynthia Jane Bailey, of Providence, R. I., a woman,

filling up the high ideal in all its specialties of woman's relationship.” Her death occurred September, 1865. Their children were a daughter who


For life must come and life must go!
The winters pass, the mayflowers blow

And love is here;
And tho' the bliss be but alloy,
'Tis less of pain, with more of joy,
And life is dear.

-Luaine, Part ii.


O woe, whose deep abyss hath heavenly powers!

O joy, whose farthest height is keenest pain! We start affrighted at these souls of ours,

And long to reach the common-place again. Oh strange the possibility is given, That we should know such bliss as makes us

weep! Is't that the soul hath caught a glimpse of Heaven, The body, writhing, fears her hold to keep?

-Luaine, Part iii.

I thank thee for my home and friends,

And for my daily bread;
For all the comforts of my life,

Around so richly spread.

died, December, 1866, and five sons, one of whom died in infancy. Mrs. Experience S. (Bascom) Upham, to whom he was married, June, 1868, is a most worthy successor of his first wife. Their children were, Avie Bascom, born 1873, who died the following year, and Elizabeth Webb, born December 18th, 1875, whose young girlhood brightens the home of her parents, 14 Chestnut St. Chelsea, Mass.

Rev. Dr. Upham has been the writer of much excellent prose, and many poems which have appeared in important periodicals.

His poems are solid in thought, simple and unpretentious in form, helpful in sentiment, and are addressed mainly to the religious part of our nature. They commend themselves to the hearts of the public, but they have never been collected into a volume.

J. M. R.

I thank thee for the love I share

With others dear to me;
I thank thee for the love I feel

For them, and more for thee.

I thank thee for the mercy-seat

And for thy Holy "l'ord; And for a heart to pray and praise,

And love and trust my Lord.

Bless, now, the labor of my hands,

And grant me good success; Or, if sore failure be my lot,

My failure even bless.


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