M

MARY K. BUCK.

RS. MARY K. BUCK, of Traverse City, Mich., is a daughter of Bohemia, in the literal and not the figurative sense of the word, though the latter might still be very appropriate. But the land of the rugged mountain ranges of the Erzberg and the romantic depths of the Bohmer Wald were very early exchanged for the evergreen pine forests of Northern Michigan and the sparkling blue waters of Grand Traverse bay. So, although not native and to the manor born, this portion of America's “bonnie northland" is proud to claim her as its own. She is still on the sunny side of life's meridian, and personally is a most charming little lady, with a quaint, sweet originality of her own that wins her everywhere hosts of warm friends and admirers. A devoted mother, a shrewd busi ness woman doing good work daily in her husband's office, a model housekeeper, it can easily be seen that she has not much time to woo the muses. Had she more leisure and less of the active duties of life, the world would know more of her. As it is, her literary work makes up in quality what it lacks in quantity. Her graceful verse is very often found among the fugitive poems that have been so often copied as to have lost name and identity, and are bound up in many compilations of choice poetry. Originally, she has written for St. Nicholas and other leading periodicals, but mainly for prominent newspapers, the Congregationalist, Advance, InterOcean, Portland Transcript, Detroit Free Press and Good Housekeeping being among the number. As a prose writer, she has written many bright short stories for leading periodicals, and is at present at work upon a book, of which more will be known later on. If the past forecast the future, Mrs. Buck has a brilliant one before her.

E. L. B.

But at night when so softly they're sleeping,
Cuddled down in each snug little bed,
With busy hands safe from all mischief
And quiet each restless young head,
And a look of such peace on their features,
As if never a tear they had shed;
As I gaze on their dear rosy faces,

So sweet in their innocent sleep,
I pardon, unasked, all their mischief,
Nor thought of their naughtiness keep;
For my heart overflows in the silence
With love that is tender and deep.

How small seem the trifles that vexed me!
How could they have power to annoy!
And gently I fold the worn garments

And pick up each battered old toy,
While I think of the homes where no children
Repay ev'ry care with a joy-

Sad homes, where their merry young voices
No longer the glad echoes start,
To fall, like the sweetest of music,

On a mother's lone, aching heart,
Whose dear ones too soundly are sleeping
From her sheltering arms apart.

Oh, mothers, like me, who are weary

And often too hastily chide,
Keep not your fond words for the sleepers,
Nor wait for the darkness to hide
The love welling up from the heart-spring
When kneeling your darlings' beside.

Let us give of our best in the daytime;

Let mother-love brighten and bless The pathway the dear ones must travel; Too soon will life's burdens oppress; Let theirs be the joy to remember Mother's smile and the tender caress.

WILLIAM F. MCNAMARA.

ILLIAM FRANKLIN MCNAMARA, pen

W name Harry Hazleton, was born in Cam

den, Maine, December 1st, 1855, the first of eleven children, seven boys and four girls, all living, and a family, too, of natural refinement, with intellects above the average. The father of this large family, a hard-working, honest man, who has for some years been laid away at rest, was born on the island of Achill, in Clew Bay, on the west coast of Ireland. At the age of twenty he came to America. Ten years later attracted to Camden, the charming sea-port of the Penobscot, having a natural love for the beautiful, he fell in love with the town, and also with Miss Martha Wellman Allenwood, a sterling young woman of rare Christian grace, whose ancestors figured in the annals of the pioneer history of Maine, resulting in a happy marriage.

The early life of William McNamara “ran quiet as the brooks by which he sported." It was his intention early in life, an intention which may yet reach fruition, to take the profession of medicine, but the way was not opened; one of a large family of children, his help was needed on the farm. An accident happened to him at the age of twenty by which his back was injured from a fall on the ice. He slowly regained his strength, but not wholly, so that a few years ago, deeming it advisable for his health, he sought out a pleasant home among the fruitful farms of the Aroostook, in the northern part of the State, where he has since married and is living with his devoted wife. The accident of the fall on the ice, though apparently a loss to him, was a blessing in disguise. It led his mind to a world of thought and fancy, and during the years that he was unable to do manual labor he wrote many sweet and sad, but hopeful songs. During the past ten years he has written more extensively on various subjects for different publications. W. W. P.

A NOOK.

I KNOW a nook, a sunny nook,
That hides in a dark old wood,
Where fern fronds saucily nod to the brook,
And the rabbit pauses with timid look,
And strut the partridge's brood.

And I love it well when violets wake;
For the merry thrushes then

Their rarest notes in the soft air shake,
And the swelling buds into leafage break,
When the violets wake again.

And pleasant it is when summer noons On the hills lie fast asleep,

With green leaves whispering their tremulous runes,

And the warm air full of sounds, the tunes,
Mayhap, of fays who keep-

'Tis said by the old folk everywhere— Themselves from mortal sight;

And days like these are so wondrous fair That they float aloft in enchanted air, Nor wait for the secret night.

The cardinal lifts its fire-plumed head
By the lisping streamlet's side,
When the earlier days of the summer are fled,
And the scattered petals of roses red
Lie low in their perfumed pride.

The locust whirs in the oak's tall crest,
The night mists earlier fall;
Then the provident squirrel fills his nest,
And the rabbit doffs his summer vest,

And winds through the bare trees call.

So the days in this nook of mine steal on,
With never a clanging bell

To herald their birth in the rosy dawn,
Or, when one softly away has gone,
To dolefully peal its knell.

THE MAN FROM THE NORTH.

ONE night, like a jocky contesting a race,
A quaint little man with a jovial face
Dashed into the town at a rattling pace,

With a six-reindeer team gaily prancing. "How lucky," he cried, "that I chanced to come down;

Why, they're all fast asleep in this drowsy old

town

But a spree will soon set things a-dancing!"

Then he pursed up his lips and a whistle came out That brought down the North Wind with rollicking rout;

And the trees heard with fear his mad laughter and shout,

And bent their heads low as he passed them. Right onward he rushed in most terrible glee, Till, unsatisfied still with his maudlin spree, Chimneys, steeples and gables in his arms gathered

he,

And down to the earth rudely cast them.