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LAURA A. RICE.

ISS LAURA A. RICE was born July 21, 1856, on the Blanchard Farm in Franklin, N. H., a few miles from the birthplace of Daniel Webster. She is the second of four daughters of E. C. and Janthe B. Rice. Miss Rice lived with her parents in Lowell, Mass., and received her education in the public schools of that city. Her natural talent for painting was developed by a four years course in the Lowell Art School and by study with the eading artists of New England. A few years ago the family returned to Franklin, where they occupy a delightful home in the suburbs of that city, surrounded by the beautiful scenery of hill and vale, and in view of the majestic Merrimack. Miss Rice was for eight years a successful teacher in the public schools of Franklin, but her time is now occupied painting and literary work, for which she shows ability. She is a ready writer of either prose or poetry, expressing her thoughts clearly. Choice productions of her poetry have appeared in many magazines and journals over the pen-name of Ray Lawrence. A poem which she wrote for the dedication of the soldier's memorial building in Franklin, September, 1893, was warmly commended by the press and public. Miss Rice has made a place for herself in the literary world, and she will grow in prominence as her work becomes better known. S. W. R.

THE NORTH WIND.

He comes like a giant of old
From the north-land far away,

Roaring with mighty voice

As he greets the winter day.

He laughs as he shakes his head,
As the icicles thick and white
Gather on roof and ledge

When they feel his breath of might.

He rushes through forest brown,
He hurries across the fields,

And loudly he shouts, hurrah! hurrah!
To me all nature yields.

Away from the northern land

I came a captive free,

I whistle, I shout, I laugh and sing!
Look out! look out for me!

I care not for sunny warmth,
I scorn your fire-side cosy.
From the land of snow and ice
And aurora clear and rosy,

I blow a chilling blast,

For my king comes from afar. And reigns as one triumphant

From the land of the northern star.

WHO IS IT?

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Who is it whistling the long June day,
Down where the waters glisten?

A bird small and brown, a wandering sprite,
O, hear him loudly calling:

"Bob White!" "" Bob White!"

Where are you, Bob, and what have you done,
That he calls you day by day?
Perhaps you strayed away in the night,
And home now he is calling:

Bob White!" "Bob White!"

Maybe you're held by a wood-nymph's spell
A captive in a dell wild and sylvan,
And there you are hid from mortal's sight
While plaintively he's calling:

"Bob White!" "Bob White!"

THE MILKMAID'S SONG.

O, Bonnibel, Bonnibel

Come from the pasture;

The sunset is reddening the west,

The shadows are lengthening

O'er hillside and meadow,

The birds are all going to rest.

O, Bonnibel, Bonnibel,
Queen of the Jerseys,

Your mistress is calling you home.
You have cropped the red clover,
You've wandered fields over,

O Bonnibel, now homeward roam!

A bell tinkles faintly

On yon distant upland
Where sweet-fern is growing so tall,
Then down the green meadow,
Where violets blossom,

Brown Bonnibel comes to my call;

Bess, Hazel and Heather

All coming together,

And Bonnibel queen of them all

Is leading so proudly,

While night birds call loudly

And twilight is falling o'er all.

M

FLORENCE A. D. ATWOOD.

RS. SOLOMON DODGE ATWOOD, formerly Miss Florence Adelaide Dodge, was born in Francestown, N. H., October 12th, 1841. Her father was one of three brothers who came over from England and founded the Dodge family, of which the late William E. Dodge, of New York, was a member. Her mother belonged to the Webster and Emerson families of southern New Hampshire. From her father Mrs. Atwood inherited a love of music amounting almost to a passion and a deep reverence for the beautiful everywhere. Educated in the district school and in Francestown Academy, she early showed remarkable executive ability linked with unusual powers as a leader in whatever path she walked. These traits, combined with rare energy, early placed her in the front rank of the able school-teachers of the day, and won for her merited approbation and honest praise throughout the six years that she followed this vocation. She was married February 4th, 1864, to Solomon Dodge Atwood. Since her marriage she has resided in New Boston, N. H. Her literary work has been like the resistless overflow of a musical nature, for her songs have gushed spontaneously from her crowded life, simply because she could not help singing. Her first poem was published when she was ten years of age; since then she has written for her friends, her town and her State, whenever the occasion has demanded. Only a snatch of the melodies she hears has been uttered; only now and then a strain of her life song has she sung. A. C. C.

SHAVINGS.

SCATTERED about the floor they lie,
Crushed by the feet of passers-by;
Sweet with the breath of spruce and pine,
Round each other they curl and twine,
Crisp and clean, and harmless quite.
Why do I linger at the sight?

Ah! I am carried back again,
With a thrill of joy and a touch of pain,
To childhood's hours of long ago,
When, heedless, 1 wandered to and fro,
Untouched by sorrow, pain or care,
Looking for pleasure everywhere.

And in memory I stand once more
In the dear old shop with littered floor,
Blocks and sawdust, and shavings white,
For boys and girls a jolly sight;
The whizzing saw and whirring plane,
I seem to see them all again.

I listen to catch the whistle clear
That told a loving father's cheer,
And hear again with the hammer's ring,
The grand old tunes he used to sing;
The tender word and the loving touch,
I little knew they were worth so much.

Where now are those who with me strayed,
And with the blocks and shavings played?
Ah me! for many fleeting years
We've mourned for two with bitter tears;
The others, scattered here and there,
In life's great conflict bravely share.

The strong full voice I used to love
Joins in the chorus sung above;
There, with the Christ he followed here,
The dear, dear father knows no fear;
And through that Saviour justified,
He is forever satisfied.

I would not be a child again,
Although so free from care and pain,
For there's a fuller, deeper draught
Than childhood's lips have ever quaffed;
A cup, by joy and sorrow filled,
From rich experience distilled.

For stronger the Father's arms enfold
And bear us up as we grow old;
We learn a trust we never knew
When all was bright, and none untrue;
And memory's treasures richer grow,
As down life's slope our footsteps go.

DEATH OF GARFIELD. DEAD! and a nation weeps to-day Throughout our mourning land; Low lies our leader, stricken down By an assassin's hand.

Toll, bells, our anguish! Joy is hushed In bitter sorrow now,

And weeping thousands o'er the dead In grief and horror bow.

Your banners drape from sea to sea

With emblems of our woe; The cypress with the myrtle twine, Where'er the tidings go.

Weep for our lost, the nation's dead!
Weep bitter tears to-day!
He gave his life for us! To him
Our tears as tribute pay.

H

HENRY TARRING ECKERT.

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ENRY TARRING ECKERT was born in Northumberland, Pa., August 20th, 1842. He attended the public schools during the winter, and in the summer followed the canal. He was not an apt student, possessed little love for books, and was usually found nearer the foot, than the head of his class. During the winter of 185960, for three months he attended the Freeburg, Pa., academy. His education was thus limited to a few months yearly in the public schools and to the brief period named in Freeburg Academy. In 1866 he married Charlotte C. Long, of Catawissa, Columbia Co., Pa., and in 1869 became a traveling salesman for a Philadelphia house, till the first of January, 1886. He was then elected to the State Legislature of Pennsylvania, and after serving his full term with credit to himself and honor to his constituents, he again resumed his occupation as traveling salesman. His faculty for rhyming he inherited from his mother, who composed many humorous local songs, none of which are in print. Of his first attempt at rhyming he says: "I never dreamed of writing verses until sometime in the summer of 1875. My business called for long, lonely drives over mountain roads, through shaded groves, by fertile farms and fields of waving grain. Here it was I wooed the fabled muse and communed with nature as few have the opportunity of doing. Always a lover of nature, I fell to rhyming as naturally as summer follows spring."

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He has written considerable poetry, much of which has never been published, and that which has appeared in prints, confined principally to local papers. In 1877 Susquehanna" and 'The Dream appeared. In 1879 Dawn,' "The Whip-poor-will," "June" and "September" were published. "Milton in Flames," a vivid description of the destruction of that town by fire, appeared in 1882. shortly after the great conflagration. Several of his songs have been set to music, the airs of which are his own composition. His poetry is usually written with a readiness approaching improvisation. Everything he has produced conveys its lesson and possesses a certain evidence of spontaneous sentiment. His productions are such as a writer hustling in the world, engrossed in business, and emerging occasionally into notice, keeps alive by his own personal energies and influence. His versification is his own, and is formed after no certain model. He has never studied prosody and has never had any other direction than his own ear, but, notwithstanding defects in slight particulars, his poetry possesses

real merit and will be read with pleasure and interest. C. D. O.

A DREAM OF YOUTH.

I DREAMED that I was young again,
And the sky was blue and fair,

That I stood once more by mother's side,
And she stroked my sunny hair;
The robins sang in the apple-boughs
As they sang in the days of yore,

And the silver waves on the pebbles white
Murmured and laved the shore.

'Twas a summer day, a perfect day,

And the dandelion feathers flew;

The sun from the orient, young and bright, Silvered the sparkling dew;

A meadow lark sang above me,

The daisies covered the ground,

And I basked in the rays of other days
Mid familiar scenes around.

I heard the shouts of boys and girls,
As I rested under the shade

Of giant white-lined button-wood tree

That stood by a path to the glade,

Where the cool crystal spring from a mossy rock
Burst forth as I stood by its brink;

The face of a sad old man looked up,
As I bent o'er the waters to drink.

The face and form of a bent old man,
That I never had seen before,
But yet there was something familiar
In the countenance he wore,

And the scanty locks of steel-gray hair
That over his face were blown

By the summer breeze, fell back again,
And the face was all my own.

"The dream" was ended, I bowed my head

And wept for the buried past,

And the golden opportunities

And shadows that folly cast

Over days of duty, and work undone,

That darken through life my track;

And I cried in deepest anguish:

"Come back; Oh! youth come back!"

WHERE APPLE BLOSSOMS BLOW.

(A SONG.)

WHEN the days of spring are long,

And the robin is in song,

And when breezes o'er the meadow come and go,