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And more briery, too, you fancy!
Well, perhaps so. Thorns are ill, But Love draws them out so kindly,
One must trust him, come what will.
Far westward is a snow-bound train;
Eastward, a soul is saying, “Though I have looked so long in vain
This is not love's delaying; For I have such a certain sense Of answer: it is prescience.”
The letter, from its barriers free,
Hastes to the love that waited. Lo! its first words: “So close are we,
That, if by snow belated, This message you are sure to feel The day before you break the seal."
Thus ran my thought, but like the wind
Speaking thy soul from out the clod ?”
True life, what is it but the thrust
Oye, that never dwell apart,
Though half a globe may sever, Thus will it be, when heart to heart
Can show no sign forever! Though death-snows loom like Himalay, Yet soul to soul, unbarred, will fly.
JUNE SONG FOR THE OLD.
The June is sweet with rose and song,
For days and weeks upon the lip has hung
A precious something for an absent ear; Some tender confidence but lately sprung,
Some dear confession that but one must hear.
HOW LIFE'S DARK IS LIGHTED.
The day was black with clouds and care,
But nothing saw to light my doubt. “Oh, for the comfort of that friend,
Now at the earth's remotest end!
The heart repeats it over day by day,
And fancies how and when the words will fall; What answering smile upon the face will play,
What tender light will linger over all.
May grow reluctant; for the open gate
On whom slow words of courtesy must wait.
It may be dull or cold, too sad or light;
Can often put the dearest words to flight.
May chill or wither what we longed to say; What fits the sunshine will not fit the storm,
What blends with twilight, jars with noon of day. KATE McPHELIM CLEARY.
Again, when all things seem our wish to serve,
Full opportunity may strike us dumb, May sink our precious thoughts in deep reserve,
And to the surface bid the lightest come.
And often ere our friend is out of sight,
We start; the thing can scarce be credited, We have been silent, or our words been trite,
And here's the dearest thing of all unsaid!
WHILE icy winds so pierce me to the core,
One thought can keep me sunny as the south; That spring is not behind, but just before
The one soft rapture missed at June's red mouth. Full as she is in every other bliss,
Her heaven of roses shuts the spring away. Large my content, on such a day as this,
That Ripeness is not looking toward Decay, But Desolution looking forth to Life.
Oh! that my soul esteemed her seasons so; Prizing sweet passions less than final strife,
With its one hope of all beyond the snow!
ATE MCPHELIM was born in Richibucto,
Kent county, N. B., August 20th, 1863. Her parents, James and Margaret McPhelim, were of Irish birth, the former with his brothers being distinguished for intellectual ability and business talents. They were extensively engaged in the timber business, and in 1856 her uncle, the Hon. Francis McPhelim was Postmaster-General of New Brunswick, and her father held the office of high sherift of the county. Her father's death, in 1865, left his widow with three small children and not very ample means, which she devoted to their education. In later years she was well repaid by the success that attended their literary efforts. Kate was educated at the Sacred Heart Convent, St. John, N. B., and later attended other convent schools in this country and in the old. Her pen which had been a source of diversion and delight to her since she was a little girl, became, when necessity required, an easy means of support. Her first published poem appeared when she was fourteen years old, and from that time to the present she has written almost continuously poetry and fiction. On February 26th, 1884, she was married to Michael T. Cleary, a young lumber merchant of Hubbell, Neb. Mr. and Mrs. Cleary have kept a hospitable home, welcoming as guests many distinguished men and women. Mrs. Cleary's stories are largely those of adventure and incident, and are published in newspapers quite as much as magazines. Her verses are delicate and often humorous and they are, above all, musical. Frank, unaffected and vivacious, Mrs. Cleary is a woman who would be noted anywhere for kindness of heart and clear cleverness of perception. She is a woman of thorough adaptability and is equally happy in society or solitude. She has three little children, whom she personally cares for. As a housewife she is more than thorough; she is original and experimental. Her face is comely, her height is medium, and her manners are cordial and simple.
C. W. M.
INTIMATIONS OF GENIUS.
A HAWTHORN bough in full and snowy bloom;
When the merry April morn
Were a million legions born;
The great army of the corn.
And when in May-time days,
And the pleasant prairie ways;
Crept to proffer perfect praise.
All its sweetness in the sunshine of the sleepy
summer hushes. And ever o'er it all, in a gold and crimson pall, Over mignonette grown tawny, and o’er grass a
bronzing brown, With a rustle and a whir, and a sad and solemn
stir, The leaves are drifting down, dear, oh, the leaves
are drifting down.
And when the June-time heat
In mellow music beat
To the sounds serene and sweet.
Come the mornings gray and chilly,
Come the nights serene and stilly,
rose, and lily,
While in dreams the children listen
echo shrilly, And ever, ever still, in the hollow, on the hill, By the roadside, where the sun-flower lifts aloft a
ruined crown, Like the dear old dreams of youth, dreams of
honor, fame and truth, Forever falling from us—do the leaves keep drift
When the fierce sun of July
All drop by drop ran dry;
It seemed that it would die.
But the nights benign and blue Brought the blessed balm of dew, And baptized the corn in beauty,
Ever fresh and ever new; Till, in amber August light, 'Twas so golden that you might Fancy Midas touched the bright,
Tender tassels it out-threw.
Now the sweet September's here,
Holds a guerdon of good cheer;
In the sunset of the year!
Go drifting, drifting down, dear-with the leaves
go drifting down!
BEFORE THE BAL MASQUE.
AND so you have found an old programme.
Throw it away, my dear; In its silken sheath it has lain there hid, In that old box with the sandal-wood lid,
This many and many a year.
Gone the ripple and the rushes
Of the love-songs of the thrushes,
Let us look! A galop with George Bellair.
Bless you, he's tamer now; A decorous deacon, and leads at prayer, And, just to look at him, one would swear
To dance he never knew how.