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Nature weaves a marvellous braid;

Tints and tones how deftly blent;
Who upwinds the web she made?
Thou, who wearest her wise content.




The high sun deepens the scent and color of slow

blown flowers; Intense with the white warmth of heaven, glows

earth, in her mid-noon hours; The more life, richer the love, else life itself is a lie, And aspiration and faith on the gusts of April die.

-Her Choice. LABOR.

He labored with mind and strength, and yet he

could wisely rest; He toiled for his daily bread, and ate it with

wholesome zest At the world-wide human board, the brother and

friend of all With whom he could share a hope, on whom let a blessing fall.


They beckon from their sunset domes afar,

Light's royal priesthood, the eternal hills; Though born of earth, robed of the sky they are;

And the anointing radiance heaven distils
On their high brows, the air with glory fills.

- The Distant Range.

MILY THORNTON was born in Lafayette,

Ind., March 21st, 1845. She is widely known by her pen-name, “Emily Hawthorn.” She comes of English ancestors, the Thorntons and Parkers. On the paternal side the Thorntons were noted as original thinkers. Her great-grandfather, Elisha Thornton, carried a sword in the War of the Revolution. Her grandfather, also Elisha Thornton, resident of Sodus, Wayne county, N. Y., served in the War of 1812. Her father, James M. Thornton, gave his life to the cause of the Union, and of her two brothers, Charles H. lost his life in the Civil War, and Gardner P. served in General Harrison's regiment. The Parkers, her maternal ancestors, were among the primitive Puritans. Deacon Edmund Parker settled in Reading, Mass., about 1719, the family removing thence to Pepperell, Mass., which town they helped to found. There lived her great-great-grandfather, Deacon Jonas Parker. There her great-grandfather, also Deacon Jonas Parker, married Ruth Farmer and reared a large family, and here her grandfather, the third Deacon Jones, while teaching in the village seminary, fell in love with Nancy Gachell, whose mother, Eunice Diamond, eloped with and married the gallant Scotch captain, Jerry Gachell, and was disinherited on that account. For more than a century, from father to sun, the Parkers were deacons and leaders of the choir in the Congregational Church. When Emily's grandfather married the black-eyed daughter of the Scotch captain and English lady, the young couple took a wedding journed in a sleigh to find a new home in Lyons, Wayne county, N. Y., taking with them their household goods. Twenty years later their daughter, Harriet Parker, was married to James M. Thornton, son of Elisha, a civil engineer. The young couple moved to Lafayette, Ind., where Mr. Thornton established a large manufactory. Emily Thornton was educated in the free schools of Indianapolis, and at the age of sixteen she became a teacher. As a child in school she attracted attention by the excellence of her written exercises and of her original manner of handling given subjects. She was married, while very young, to Mr. Daniel B. Charles, of Indianapolis, the son of a wealthy farmer and miller of Lancaster county, Penn., but for half a century a business man of Indianapolis. At the age of twenty-four she was left a widow, in delicate health, with two little ones dependent upon her. Soon after the death of her husband, in 1874, she began to write for a livelihood, doing reportorial and editorial work for Indianapolis city papers, and corres


There are ends more worthy than happiness;

Who seeks it, is digging joy's grave, we know. The blessed are they who but live to bless.

-Unwedded. GENEROSITY.

A generous world indeed it is;
Most generous in its promises.

-So Little.

Thought must shade and sun the soul

With its glorious mutations; Every life song is a whole

Sweeter for its variations. Wherefore with your bliss at strife?

'T was an angel that withstood you! Could you change your perfect life For a dream of living-would you?

- Would You?

The clouds, the luminous clouds,

And clouds like lace,

Nearly veiling the face Of the luminous clouds, sunset clouds.

The clouds, most glorious clouds,

Rising higher and higher,

Great pillars of fire, The grandest of glorious clouds.

The clouds, the terrible clouds!

They gather and roll,

Like despair o'er the soul, Most terrible, threatening clouds!

pondence for outside publications. Having chosen journalism as a profession, she sought to perfect herself in all its branches. In 1876 she published her first volume of verse, under the title “Hawthorn Blossoms." The little book was received with great favor and proved a literary and financial success. From the centennial year to 1880, she continued to do newspaper work and biographical writing. She was associate editor of “Eminent Men of Indiana.” In 1881 she accepted a position as managing editor of the Washington World.Afterwards she established The National Veteran in Washington, D. C., of which she was sole proprietor and editor. In 1883 Mrs. Charles was prostrated through overwork and was confined to her bed for an entire year. While recovering slowly, she spent a year in revising and preparing for publication her later poems. In 1886 the work appeared in “Lyrical Poems," a volume of three hundred pages. That volume fully established her reputation as a national poet. She has achieved success upon the platform. On the occasion of her departure from Indiana, when a complimentary farewell testimonial was tendered her by the leading citizens of Indianapolis, in 1880, she made a brilliant address on “Woman Esthetically Considered.” In 1882 she addressed an audience of fifteen hundred ex-prisoners of war in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poetical address “Woman's Sphere" was delivered before the National Woman's Suffrage convention. She is a member of the executive committee of the National Woman's Press Association, and chairman of the executive council of the Washington Society of American Authors. She has been selected as one of its speakers at the World's Fair in 1893. H. V. F.

The clouds, the storm-laden clouds!

They with tear-drops of rain

Moisten earth's face again, The clouds, heavy rain-laden clouds.


The clouds, summer, sunset clouds!

They are, after the rain,

Golden burnished again, By the sun peeping under the clouds.

The beautiful, beautiful clouds!

Oh, could I but write,

As I sit here to-night, All the grandeur, the beauty of clouds!





The clouds, the beautiful clouds!

Oh, could I but write,

As I see them to-night!
The beautiful, varying clouds.

I'm mad, mad, mad! I know but this—I'm mad!
My 'wildered brain doth ever seethe and boil
Like into devil's broth in steaming caldron.
My mind is turmoil, and my thoughts are stirred
Into an endless maze of wild confusion,
And, as my fevered thoughts like misty vapors rise,
Or empty bubbles in uncertain flight,
I seek to reach, to guide and master them;
Yet, ere I have the power, they vanish
Quick as meteor flash, and all is dark.
Another bubble riseth from my throbbing brain;
Brightness gleams upon its wavering surface
As though the mind itself were shining through.
How eagerly! ay, with what frantic haste
I try to grasp it; but, alas, it bursts,
Resolves itself into airy nothingness.
Again I blindly grope in utter darkness.
These scintillating lights, bright bubbles from my

Do ever rise and vanish in their aimless way.
Their course through space is never pointed out;
No plans, no future destiny have they,
And thus to me they vividly portray

The clouds, ever-changing clouds,

Floating airily by,

Weaving webs in the sky, The beautiful, silvery clouds.

The clouds, the mountainous clouds,

Are uplifted so high

In the blue of the sky, The towering mountains of clouds.

My madness. And I know, I feel, I'm mad.
For what is madness ? 'Tis the power lost
To train these airy bubbles of the brain aright,
To follow up our thoughts, and still command,
Retain them as obedient servants.

Long may we wander suspectingly

Ingrates whom passions enslave; Scornfully, proudly, rejectingly,

Serving the mercy God gave; Nor look we to him who protectingly

His arm forth stretches to save.

Thoughtlessly, carelessly, musingly,

Playing at life's chequered game; Ever the tally-sheet losingly

Scoreth a list to our name; Bravely our conscience accusingly

Stirreth our senses to shame.

Looking to conscience inquiringly,

Thoughtlessness seemeth a sin; Working and striving untiringly,

So must the battle begin. Faith, hope and love will inspiringly

Teach us how life we may win.

But my

mind hath had too many servants; They have far too well filled their alloted sphere. They throng the temple, and they crowd the brain; They beat upon the wall of mind, but ah! the wall Gives way. My mind is like a broken drum, On which no echoing tones resound. They surge and sway, in maddening glee, or harsh

uproar, As ceaseless breakers of the sea dash on the rock

bound shore. Yet they are strong; thoughts have become too

strong. They have o'erpowered me, and they are my

masters. I cannot, howe'er much I would, escape them, And I, henceforth, like abject slave, or culprit whipped,

Must do their bidding, Although my weary step, wild eye and haggard brow, Prove how my strength is taxed beyond endurance. Yet still these wicked thoughts like phantom forms Do drive me on, and whisper in my crazed ear, Do this, do that, or yet the other; thus they say, And taunt and sneer and make me fiend inhuman; And though 'twere murder, suicide, or aught else, I even must obey this mighty power, This madness that hath me ever in its clutches, As in the grip of Hercules, or massive iron vise, From which no hand can save, no human help

avail; From which no wrench, save that given by the hand of death,

Can set my spirit free.

May we our duty do darefully,

Strengthening careworn, oppressed; Threading our way ever carefully

Through snares, to the home of the blest; Hopefully, cheerfully, prayerfully,

Finding in heaven a rest.

Striving with Sin, Sin enslavingly

Holding us ever so fast;
Looking for mercy most cravingly

Through the dark clouds sweeping past; Tenderly, lovingly, savingly,

Jesus redeemeth at last.


Oh, thought! that is deeper and vaster

Than the cavernous depth of the sea, I will still be of artists the master,

And portray an ideal of thee.


ENTERING life, we come fearfully

Into the new and unknown; Trembling and terrified, tearfully,

Lifting life's burden alone, Braving its danger more cheerfully

When we the stronger have grown.

Sweet lips that are dewy and tender

As the soft budding heart of the rose, Bright eyes, filled with deepening splendor,

While musing o'er them my thought grows.

'Neath the lips, pearly gems whitely gleaming,

Cheeks, the lily, the rose, and the down, The brow, pure and fair, 'twould be seeming

To crown with a matronly crown.

Still, like old Earth, so receivingly

Taking the bad and the good, Taking, nor choosing, believingly,

Ever the best, as we could; Sadly repenting, then grievingly

Striving to do as we should.

In the depth of the eye now is glowing

A smile, or a tear-drop, I see; Through them the sweet image is showing

A pictured idea to me.

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I saw a diamond glistening in the grass,
Along a path where once I chanced to pass.
It blazed with changing, scintillating light;
I knew the gem was precious, for it shone so bright.
I stood and watched its iridescent rays,
Now gold, now silver, now in purple, blaze.
Methought such beautiful, such shimmering rays of

light Could ne'er before have gladdened any mortal's

sight; I closer stepped to grasp the gem, —'twas but a drop

of dew; Its glorious rays were Heaven's beams the sun

sent shining through.

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