SARAH WOLVERTON. OME writers study poetry first, and thus try to be poetic; others are poetic and study laws of verse only to express themselves the better. Of this second and smaller class is Miss Sarah Suter Taylor, now Mrs. Wolverton. Always a lover of poetry, she expressed herself poetically before she was herself aware of her gift. Married early, engrossed in home cares, and saddened by severe disappointments, she did not give any special thought to poetic expression, till fourteen years after her marriage, when, becoming an invalid, she was given time to think, and her thoughts came in rhythmic rhyme. It is now some thirty years since she began to publish any of her poems, and though subjected to so many trials, such perhaps as would have discouraged many another, she has written a great number of poems and a few poetic dialogues. Her contributions have been printed in the Waverly Magazine, the Christian Register, Boston; Godey's Ladies Book, Scribner's Monthly, and Liberal Christian, New York, and many magazines, weeklies and dailies in Buffalo, Detroit and other cities. Her personal life has been varied. She was born in Boston, Mass., and was there married at an early age to George W. Wolverton, a sea captain. A few years after their marriage he retired from the sea, and thereafter they made their home in the west, living for different periods in Buffalo and Detroit. Since her husband's death she has lived in Detroit. She has had four children, three of whom, two sons and a daughter, are now living. Her present life in Detroit in spite of her desire to make it rather quiet, is busy with the constant demands of the large social circle of which she is so prominent a factor. L. S. M'C. A TRIBUTE. 'Twas night! I wondered how I'd breast The wintry wave, Suppose a storm arose! what hand Was there to save? Spake low a voice within; alway His children's cry. "The widow's God!" Ah! yes, I know; but I'm of earth; To outward reach; a human stay GE GERTRUDE TRACY JOHNSON. ERTRUDE TRACY JOHNSON was born September, 16th, 1844, in Stockton, Chautauqua county, N. Y. She is the youngest of nine children, all of whom are living. She is of English and Scotch descent, her ancestors having emmigrated to America in pre-Revolutionary times. Her great-uncle, Arthur Fenner, was one of the early governors of Rhode Island. Her ancestors were a vigorous and hardy race, remarkable for longevity, as well as for strength and vigor of intellect. Miss Johnson retains her full share of this constitutional and intellectual vigor, her appearance being that of a person at least fifteen years younger than her age ordinarily warrants. At an early age she exhibited a fondness for reading and study. When but seven years old she was reading biography and history. At that age she displayed a passion for poetry, but showed no disposition to write until eleven years of age. At that time an elder sister removed to Nebraska, whereupon wild with grief the little Gertrude hastened to her room and wrote the poem "To My Sister." Her mother read the verses with a smile of approval, but advised her not to attempt to write poetry until she was older. This advice was followed, and no other poem was produced or attempted until the age of sixteen, when the lines "Music Everywhere" was published. The next year she entered upon her chosen vocation as principal assistant in the Oreopolis Seminary, Oreopolis, Neb. From her entrance into the school-room she was a success, and enjoying her labor, she gave little time to poetry, writing only to gratify a desire to give play to thought. For the last fifteen years she has filled a lucrative position as grammar-school principal. She resides in Kansas City, Mo. E. L. P. A LITTLE SONG. Six years ago, O Autumn Rain, O Autumn Rain! Gray Autumn Rain! Again I hear the laughs and lays, Again I sing a little song; But now my song is sad and slow. I fear I make my 'rests' too long, My voice has lost its old time glee; O Autumn Rain! I love thee still, I try to sing, but woe is me; The song will have no charm for thee. I cannot sing, O Autumn Rain! Because my heart is full of fears; O, softly patter, Autumn Rain! Thy soothing tones a healing bring. Thou teachest that my sighs are vain; That blessings hide 'neath sorrows wing. Ah! once I joyed that I could sing; Now I'm content with listening! ICH RUHE NUN. THE School is closed! the books are laid away, The school is closed! the many little feet, Nor wonder will they meet me late or soon; The school is closed! yet, mayhap, day-by-day, 'Twould add another joy to this one boon; The school is closed! the fledglings stronger grown, I, too, shall garner what my hands have sown, Waiting the Master's call, or late or soon, TO HER I SING. To her, who caught mine earliest sigh, And into full completenes nurst TO HER my songs I softly sing MY MOTHER! To her, whose eyes through weary years To her I sing my simple lays, Content if they receive her praise; MY MOTHER! ICH LIEBIE UNGELIEBT. A GERMAN maiden springs the warp, In accents measured, sad, and low. She sings, "Ich Liebie Ungeliebt." The sun goes down 'mid crimson clouds, The maiden's song is still the same. And sings, "Ich Liebe Ungeliebt.” Deep silence creeps o'er earth and sea; That all the day have bound and reaped; And now no more the maiden toils, And sings, "Ich Liebe Ungeliebt." |