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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
Is one; He hears

His children's cry. "The widow's God!"
Calm thou thy fears.

Ah! yes, I know; but I'm of earth;
I crave a hand

To outward reach; a human stay
Of earthly strand.

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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,
I sang a little song to thee,
Not dreaming of the woe and pain
Those six short years would bring to me;
Not dreaming of the sighs and tears
Enveloped by those waiting years.

O Autumn Rain! Gray Autumn Rain!
Again I sit and list to thee.
Thou seem'st to sing an olden strain
That fills my soul with melody.

Again I hear the laughs and lays,
The oft-sung songs of other days!

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Again I sing a little song;

But now my song is sad and slow.

I fear I make my 'rests' too long,
My lower leger notes too low.

My voice has lost its old time glee;
My notes all trill, in spite of me.

O Autumn Rain! I love thee still,
But broken, useless is my lyre;
Upon my heart has come a chill;
Within my soul there is no fire;

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;
My voice is drowned by sobs of pain;
My eyes are dim with unshed tears;
So I will sit beside the pane
And list thy song, O Autumn Rain!

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,
High on the shelves, where dust will gather o'er,
And spiders weave their mansions day-by-day,
And scan the leaves so often scanned before;
For I, at last, am granted this one boon;
Ich Ruhe Nun!

The school is closed! the many little feet,
That oft have climbed the hill to meet me there,
Are daily patt'ring now upon the street,
While I about their wand'rings feel no care,

Nor wonder will they meet me late or soon;
Ich Ruhe Nun!

The school is closed! yet, mayhap, day-by-day,
The little ones will gather blooms of spring,
Or summer's brighter blossoms, by the way,
And to their teacher's silent mansion bring.

'Twould add another joy to this one boon;
Ich Ruhe Nun!

The school is closed! the fledglings stronger grown,
Will enter soon the world's unequal strife.

I, too, shall garner what my hands have sown,
And enter school within another life.

Waiting the Master's call, or late or soon,
Ich Ruhe Nun!

TO HER I SING.

To her, who caught mine earliest sigh,
Who at life's dawning loved me first,
Who like an angel hovered nigh

And into full completenes nurst
The germs of thought that silent lay
Within that lump of helpless clay,
To her who watched me through life's spring,
When Hope's sweet buds were opening
And Joy was ever on the wing,

TO HER my songs I softly sing

MY MOTHER!

To her, whose eyes through weary years
Have closely watched my wayward feet,
Have watched me, through their smiles and tears,
With looks of love and pity sweet,

To her I sing my simple lays,

Content if they receive her praise;
For one sweet word from her is more
Than all the World may have in store.
Sweet recompense my songs will bring,
If SHE but smile the while I sing-

MY MOTHER!

ICH LIEBIE UNGELIEBT.

A GERMAN maiden springs the warp,
And throws the shuttle to and fro,
The while she sings a little song

In accents measured, sad, and low.
The sun hangs low; through all the day
Her tears the warp and woof have steeped;
And still, as at the early dawn,

She sings, "Ich Liebie Ungeliebt."

The sun goes down 'mid crimson clouds,
The west with glory is aflame;
The shuttle still goes to and fro;

The maiden's song is still the same.
The light goes out that, all the day
Through window, curtainless, has peeped;
And still the wearied maiden toils,

And sings, "Ich Liebe Ungeliebt.”

Deep silence creeps o'er earth and sea;
A form behind the maiden stands,
And watches while the maiden still
The shuttle throws with weary hands.
The hands are prisoned by a pair

That all the day have bound and reaped; And now no more the maiden toils,

And sings, "Ich Liebe Ungeliebt."

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