The roses that his hands have plucked The brooks leap up with many a song; I once could sing, like them could sing; They fall; 'tis like a sigh among A world of joy and blossoming: Why did I come? Why did I come? The blue sky burns like altar fires. How sweet her eyes beneath her hair! The green earth lights its fragrant pyres, The wild birds rise and flush the air; God looks and smiles, earth is so fair. But ah! 'twixt me and yon bright heaven I hear a low "I love," "And I ”— SEPARATED. WHEN in the solemn dusk you sit and think, With face upturned to the enduring skies, Of life and art, and those great griefs that sink 'The soul in woe in spite of high emprise, I know not how, but from the surging sea Of these my thoughts some echo comes to me, Moving my soul till from its billows rise The answering strain for which thy spirit cries, And then, or joy or sorrow holds the throne Of thy strong heart, thou art no more alone. IN FAREWELL. I MET thee, dear, and loved thee—yet we part, Has had full time to harmonize with thine. Would I bestow them on the friend I love, But tears and smiles, and the sweet thoughts that move The heart by day and night, such, such to thee I give in these poor lines as lavishly As summer winds yield fragrance when they blow Up from a vale where countless roses grow. WALTER STORRS BIGELOW. R. BIGELOW was born in Brooklyn, N. Y., MR.BIGELOber was 9957, but an except the first twelve and the last two of his thirty-six years have been spent in Buffalo, the home of his family on both sides since the city was a hamlet. His mother's father, Gen. Lucius Storrs, was a merchant there before the burning of Buffalo in 1812, and his father's father settled there in 1816. So that, although Mr. Bigelow now lives near Boston, he still calls Buffalo home. For fifteen years he was identified with the business life of the city, first as managing partner of the Messrs. Bigelow Brothers' printing-house, and then as president of the Bigelow Printing and Publishing Company. It has been only since selling his stock in this company that Mr. Bigelow found time and strength for the closer literary studies toward which he had always felt inclined. Before he left Buffalo, however, he had done some literary work, fruits of which had appeared in sketches contributed to the Youth's Companion and St. Nicholas, and in poems which were printed in the Buffalo Commercial and Buffalo Express, besides considerable book-reviewing, and a little editorial and other writing on the staff of the Buffalo Express. For a short time, indeed, he occupied the very chair in the Express editorial rooms vacated not long before by his brother Allen, who had left it to make a last vain search for health in the South. Mr. Bigelow's removal to Dover, Mass., fifteen miles from Boston, after a winter spent in Harrisburg, Pa., fulfilled a plan he had long cherished Verse-writfor a period of quiet study there. ing was not deliberately included in his plans for literary work, and he has simply obeyed the occasional promptings of the Muse without besetting her for suggestions. The following examples of Mr. Bigelow's verse include selections from what has appeared in the Critic, the Boston Commonwealth, the Youth's Companion, the New England Magazine and American Gardening, and to these is added "The Poet's Morn," a piece in lighter vein contributed to Life. A. C. B. AN ELEGY FOR WHITTIER. IN vain for him the buds shall burst their shield, His heart is cold. M MARY E. MIXER. RS. MIXER whose maiden name was Knowlton, passed her girlhood in Cincinnati, O. She was graduated from Rutgers Female College in New York City. Her alma mater conferred on her the honorary degree of M. A. for a paper and poem read before the alumnæ of that college in 1870. Like many women of intellectual tastes without the leisure to make literature a profession, she has been content to use her poetic gift in occasional poems. She was for fifteen years editor of Our Record, a small paper published in the interests of the Buffalo Home for the Friendless, and has been, at times, a contributor to the columns of the Buffalo Express, Commercial and Courier. H. G. H. CONCORD-TOWN. IN MEMORY OF A HAPPY DAY. O FAMOUS town! thy sweet elm-shaded ways story, Seem to have more than rightful share of glory, When we recall those golden later days, Where flint and fire, by genius struck ablaze, Wakened anew each legend stern and hoary, Making thy landmarks a Memento Mori That brought the world upon thy shrine to gaze. Here the deep shades of "Sleepy Hollow" guard Him of the mountain, wood and sylvan stream, And calmly rests the stern and fiery bard Whose magic touch unveiled the things that seem; Here too, the granite boulder seamed and scarred In truth eternal tells the sage's dream. GRANDMOTHER'S CHAIR. THERE it stands in its wonted place In the window's cool retreat, With the soft old footstool creeping near, As if waiting for weary feet. Old and furrowed the rockers look, For they've measured the march of years, Through the closed lattice come soft sweet sounds The voices of birds and the bee's low hum, Borne in on the soft June breezes, float The spicy health of the fresh green woods And as I sit in this dear old room, I seem to see a familiar face Look up from that well-worn seat, A kindly presence pervades the place, Oh! well may a gracious meaning cling THE WEAVER. WITH Wondrous skill, in the crowded mill, The spinner her shuttle plies, And watches the web with fear and dread, As it forms beneath her eyes; For well she knows that one rotten thread, Inwove in these even bands, Will be traced through the fabric far or near As the work of her careless hands. In the mill of life, full of noise and strife, And the web of each day, by the passion's play, But if, false to ourselves and our Master's name, We fashion the fabric thin, And with its tissue blend sable threads Of slothfulness and sin, To our own account will the mischief come, AUTUMN. THE Summer was dying, and golden-haired Aut umn In rich changeful beauty was gorgeously dressed, That the Day-King, her lover, might catch her last greeting, Ere he sank in his brightness and glory to rest. His parting smile lingered as if loth to leave her, The forests and mountain-tops caught its glad light, As she modestly drew a thin gossamer o'er her, Till her blushes were hid by the favoring night. MR CHARLOTTE L. SEAVER. ADA LOUISE KENDALL. RS. FRED WILLARD KENDALL, formerly Miss Ada Louise Davenport, is closely identified with Buffalo's literary life. She received her education in Pike Seminary and in the Buffalo State Normal School. She was graduated from the latter institution in June, 1888, just after she had passed her twenty-first birthday. On leaving school, she entered at once upon literary work on the Buffalo Morning Express and for two years, until her marriage to Mr. Kendall, city editor of the Express, was actively engaged on that paper. She was a member of the original editorial staff of the Buffalo Enquirer. She is the mother of two lovely children. Mrs. Kendall was recently elected vice-president of the Scribbler's Club. I. A. K. Μ' CHARLOTTE L. SEAVER. 61 ISS CHARLOTTE SEAVER was born in Centralia, Ill., where the first six months of her life was spent. The rest of her childhood was lived in the suburbs of Buffalo, N. Y., where, having few playmates, she sought and found a satisfying companionship in books and nature. Her literary talent is an inheritance, as the same talent was possessed in a striking degree by Miss Seaver's uncle, William A. Seaver, so well known in Buffalo many years ago, when editor of the Buffalo Daily Courier, whose fame afterward became well known, through his connection with the Harpers as editor of Harper's Drawer. It has been Miss Seaver's desire to make literature her life work, but other duties have interfered to such an extent as to make that realization impossible. C. H. W. A SLIGHT MISTAKE. A DANDELION top growing right in my room! A FENCE CORNER. A BEND in the line of the time-browned rail-fence, The rugged backbone of the fields: A bush-covered angle, A fragrant green tangle That only a fence corner yields. Swaying this way and that like a big-sister flower Is Matilda Jane's sun-shade of pink, While swung cross a rail Hangs a gleaming tin pail: There'll be berries for supper, I think. But it happens just now that a trespasser comes, And the fence as a barrier fails. A brace for a swing, Two long legs make a spring, And now side by side hang two pails. I'll not spy, but I think that the mother at home Should make other provisions for tea, For the clank of those pails As they sway on the rails Sounds woefully empty to me. SHADOWS. THE Sun has sunk behind the hills; And tenderly and calm and clear A gondola slow floating through The tiny clouds, that rest like flecks Of foam upon a sea of blue. And here and there a trembling star Like some lone sea-bird hovers near, And looking down I see it all Reflected in the river here; Reflected, fainter, dimmer though, Just as our lives at best can be But faint imperfect shadows of That Life once lived for you and me. Oh, wayward, strange, distorted shapes! 'Tis well His loving eyes can see And judge us not alone for what We are, but what we strive to be! WHEN DAY IS DONE. THE sinking sun; A mass of gold and purple in the West; |