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Let it be some tall oak or pine,
That wind and tempest it may scorn,
Let eagles in its branches sit,

Song birds its lower limbs adorn.

Let it be straight and strong as he,

With all its arms upraised to heaven,
Like him point everyone to thee,
Who seeks to be forgiven.

While warring eagles guard his grave,
Let voice of song birds never cease,
The heart of him who trusts in Thee
Must always have thy peace.
Thus God by nature plainly shows
This life was built upon His plan,
And that the life that he approves
Is when man lives for man.

SING ME OLD SONGS.

SING me old songs, to younger lives
Than yours and mine belong the new;

Sing the old songs you used to sing,
When hearts were light and cares were few.

Sing me old songs, to younger lives,

Strange words, new tunes give greater zest, But to tired travelers on life's way,

The oldest, plainest, are the best.

Sing me old songs, while fashion's crowd
Is charmed with art beyond the sea,
The old deserted lonesome songs,

Grow sweeter still to you and me.

Sing me old songs, upon the new,
Let modern taste bestow encore,
They can not warm to life old hearts,
Nor bring the tears like songs of yore.
Sing me old songs, for from their depths,
We drew again our happiest days,
And from their loftiest height, the soul
Sends forth the purest prayer of praise.

FLORIDA.

Here orange blossom's virgin breaths,
Entice to dreams of nuptial bliss,
Here golden apples fit for gods
Exchange their nectar for a kiss.

Here guava yields her luscious jell,
Magnolia spreads her sheltering shade,
Here the prize berry of the world
Is common as the earth God made.

-Florida and New England.

SUPPOSE, (from the standpoint of reasons own sway,) The "might have beens" realized and living to-day, Materialized fancies in every-day dress,

Incongruous medley, you're bound to confess.

"Maud Muller" so sweet in her "meadow of hay,"
Looks woeful, as wife of his “judgship" to-day;
Grown faded and worn, away from her sphere,
The "judge " grown a cynic, morose, and severe.
For who shall determine, or measure the needs
Of the soul all advancing, that ever upleads
To yet higher levels of fitness and right,
And journeys alone, on its own upward flight?

So the "might have been" fancies with those of today,

Are mingling, and gliding, and melting away,
Our fanciful real, is bubble and foam,
Th' Eternal Ideal, our shelter and home.

THE OLD SONGS.

"How I love the songs you used to sing
In the days of long ago,

While the years flit by with noiseless wing,
We'll sing them, soft and low.

Sweet, careless freedom of youthful day,
With never a darksome night;
We'll keep the gleam in our hearts alway,
And sing in its fadeless light.

Let the songs flow on! yes, ever and aye,
Each day shall bring its theme,
Creating a new, and diviner lay,

For the past was but a dream.

And the beautiful real is here, and now;
We'll sing and be glad to-day,

The morrow is coming, we know not how,
Nor where it will lead the way.

And the songs of to-day, and the "long ago,"
Shall re-echo adown life's stream,
With musical ripple, soft, tender and low,
When to-day shall be-a dream.

SHERMAN D. RICHARDSON.

OL. SHERMAN D. RICHARDSON, is known as the soldier poet, orator and author. His famous battle poems, "Sheridan at Stone River," and "Hancock at Gettysburg," have given him a national reputation as a poet, and wherever he recites them, a position in the front rank of elocutionists. He donned the blue at the age of sixteen, and wore the bars at seventeen,-the youngest officer in his Corps. He bears marks of the war. He is a member of the G. A. R. He resides in Rochester. Editor.

SHERIDAN AT STONE RIVER.

DEDICATED TO THE ARMY OF THE CUMBERLAND.
FOUR miles of Blue and four miles of Gray,
The battle watch stand at the dawn of the day:
The fog lies in banks over river and plain,
No reveille sounding, no bugle refrain.
The silence of death holds its spell o'er the fields,
Save the low muffled sound of artillery wheels;
Or the deep, solemn tread of columns of men
As they march to their stations by thicket and glen.

Four miles of guns pointing east at the foe;
Four miles of flags like the dawn's kindling glow;
Four miles of steel that is gleaming with death;
Four miles of veterans that scarcely draw breath,
Imbued with a spirit sublime as the hour;
Inspired with a courage resistless in power;
A battle front grand 'neath heaven's high doom
Guarding the gateway of Northland and home.

Like a statue of stone in the morning's gray light "Little Phil" and his steed wait the sound of the fight.

Tho' his heart throbs impatient, his face shows no sign,

Save the swift sweeping glance down the dim, silent line.

'Tis the calm of the master, but deep in his breast
A cyclone is sleeping in ever unrest,
That with fury will rouse at the first signal gun,
Unrestrained as the lightening till the battle is done.

One by one the stars vanish as upward on high
The blush of the morning makes crimson the sky,
From out of the brake the awakening breeze
Just moves the cloud banks hanging low mid the

trees:

'Tis the pause before battle-the halting of doom, When carnage is crouching to spring from the

gloom

Have pity, O God of the battle, to day
When the Blue of the North meet their brothers in
Gray.

But hark! from the southward the boom of a gun,
With the flash of its flame tells the fight has begun.
The muskets' loud rattle, the yell of the foe,
Like blood in the fog with an infernal glow-
They are charging our lines-they are met hand to
hand,

They have captured our cannon-no power can withstand:

Brave Davis and Johnson are swept from the field, The "Pride of the West" to the foeman must yield.

"To the foeman must yield?' What, the boys I led?

Repeat but those words and disgrace on your head!
Stand fast every man—it is treason to fail!
We will laugh at the danger tho' hell should assail!
Shot double the guns-swing round the right line,
There is sport in the brake—there is fun in the pine!
See them coming like demons with Weathers
ahead!

Aim low, boys, and give them a breakfast of lead!”

Ah! bravest of brave those words have quick sped To the boys where the bullets are heaping the dead, And the flash of your sword as you ride down the line

Now makes their blood boil as if drunken with wine.

But the flash of your eye is an army in power,
And it holds the men there in this terrible hour,
When the bravest of Southland roll up a fierce flood
To break on that headland in billows of blood.

Closer and closer he gathers his men,
As fiercer and wilder they charge yet again.
The powder is gone, but the steel still is bright,
And he charges them back, like a whirlwind of
might!

But see! there's the signal-thy duty is done-
March back the brave veterans, a hero each one.
The army is saved by the sacrifice grand—
The gateway is closed to the loved northern land.

"Here's all that is left." What are left are but few,
And they would have died in the battle for you.
The stars they shall fall on thy shoulders to-day,
And the sheen of their glory shine on for aye.
Come, Army of Cumberland, roll up a cheer,
Wave flags to the soldier who never knew fear!
Let your cannon speak out, let your drums loudly
beat

To brave "Little Phil," who would never retreat!

DENVER JIM.

SAY, fellers, that onery thief must be nigh us,
Fur I jist saw him carom this way to the right—
Ah! there he is now, right under that burr oak
As fearless and cool as if waitin' all night.
Well, come on, but jist git ivery shooter all ready
Fur him if he's spilin' tu give us a fight;
The birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic,
And that limb hangin' over him slants about
right.

Say, stranger, good mornin'. Why, dog blast my lasso, boys,

If it aint Denver Jim that's corraled here at last, Right aside of the filly. Well, Jim, we are sarchin' All night fur a conple about of yer cast; And seein' yer enter this openin' so charmin'

We thought that perhaps yer might give us the trail.

Havn't seen anything that wud answer description? What a nerve that chap has, but it can not avail.

Want tu trade hosses fur the one I am stridin'?

Will give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot? Say, Jim, that are gold is the strongest temptation, And many a man would say "give it and skoot." But we don't belong to that denomination;

Yer have got to the end of yer rope, Denver Jim. In ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie, And yer will be hangin' right there from that limb.

Have yer got any speakin' why the sentence aint proper?

Here, take yer a drink from the old whiskey flask

Ar' not dry? Well, I am, and will drink to yer,

partner,

And the wish that this court will not bungle its task.

There, the old lasso circles yer neck like a fixture;
Here, boys, take the line and wait fur the word;
I am sorry, old pard, that yer claim has gone under,
Fur yer don't meet yer fate like the low common
herd.

What's that? So yer want me to answer a letter,
Well, give it to me till I make it all right;
A moment or two will be only good manners,
The judicious acts of this court must be white.
"Long Point, Arkansas, the 13th of August,

My dearest son, James, somewhere out in the west,

For long weary months I've been waiting for tidings, Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless.

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"God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money,

Remembering your mother when sorely in need; May the angels from heaven now guard you from danger,

And happiness follow your generous deed. How I long so to see you come into the doorway, As you used to of old, when weary, to rest; May the days be but few when again I can greet you, My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.' Say, pard, here's yer letter. I'm not good at writin', I think you'll do better to answer them lines; And fur fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso, And the hoss yer can leave when yer get to the "Pines."

And, Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her That a wee bit of writin' kinder hastened the day When her boy could come eastward to stay with her always;

Come, boys, up and mount to and Denver away. O'er the prairie the sun tipped the trees with its splendor,

The dew on the grass flashed its diamonds so

But morning's light or evening's star
Shines not upon her coming back!
And where she is I can not tell!
Her cargo was of such a sort
It may be she can neither sell
Nor barter it in any port.

And so she sails in fruitless quest
O'er seas reflecting alien skies,-
Yet sailing east or sailing west

Her pennant never homeward flies.

'T is possible the way she's lost,

Or suffered shipwreck on some shore; But whether she's becalmed or tossed

By tempests, she returns no more!

Therefore I'm looking out alway,

With eyes tear-blinded, o'er the sea; In hope she will sail back some day With rest for my poor heart and me.

DO NOT SLAM THE GATE.

O HARRY! pray don't laugh at me!— But when you go so late,

I wish you would be careful, dear,

And never slam the gate!

For Bessie listens every night,
And so does teasing Kate,
To tell me next day what o'clock
They heard you shut the gate!

'T was nearly ten last night, you know, But now 't is very late

(We have discussed so many things); O do not slam the gate!

For if the neighbors hear you, they

Will say our future fate

We have been talking over, so
You must not slam the gate!

I know 't will only be the truth,
But then, I wish they'd wait
To canvass our affairs until-
Well-pray don't slam the gate!

At least not now. But by-and-by,
When in "our" home, I wait
Your coming, I shall always like
To hear you slam the gate!

For whether you go out or in,
At early hour or late,

They will not care to tease me then,
About that horrid gate!

ANNA STARBUCK JENKS.

THE sea-girt island of Nantucket was the birth

place of Mrs. Anna Starbuck Jenks, wife of Dr. Arthur Elwell Jenks. Although of New England birth, the city of Rochester, N. Y., has been the home of Mrs. Jenks, since early childhood. There she was formerly well known for her prose and poetic contributions to the local press and foreign publications over the name of Anna C. Starbuck. Mrs. Jenks has contributed to the Democrat and Chronicle, Post-Express, Union and Advertiser, and Jury of Rochester, to Judge, Forest and Stream, and to the Cosmopolitan Magazine. Among her literary admirers, she numbered the late venerable poet Whittier, from whom she once received an autograph letter of encouragement and grateful recognition. A. E. J.

ST. MALO'S CAPE.

ST. MALO, hermit of the hills, Let fall his cape of ample fold Upon the dewy mountain grass, The while his orisons he told.

Such holy calm enwrapped him there,
So sweet the smile upon his face,
A timid red-breast came and hid
Her egg within his cloak's embrace.

Then through the hermit's gentle heart
The care for motherhood grew strong;

He left his cape for largess, while
The robin thanked him with a song.

For days she sat upon her nest,

And Malo watched her brooding joy, While mountain zephers fanned his cheek And soothed his life from all annoy.

And, lo! one morning when the sun
Had dried the garment's fringe of dew,.
From out the lining of his robe
A new-fledged birdling upward flew.

And overhead the mother-bird

Made all the air with music ring, While of the hermit's tenderness

She taught her infant bird to sing.

And all the flowerets shook with joy,
And fairy sprites from hill to hill
Sent forth the tidings, gleefully;
And with his name they echo still.

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The hermit turned unto the Lord,

And chanted praise where praise was due,
Well knowing that the Maker's heart
Is author of the good we do.

And Malo raised his beaming eyes,
And thanked the Father over all,
And said, "Without thy guiding care
Not e'en the sparrows earthward fall."

MID-SUMMER.

THE moments come, the moments go;
A subtle fragrance everywhere,
As if the seasons in their flow
Were sowing blessings on the air.

Each tender leaf and clover-bloom Makes ready for the sickle-blade; The sky drops down a sweet perfume Of dew-drops, when the sunsets fade.

The chanting voices of the wood,

The meadow's song of glad assent, Unerring prophesies of good,

Breed cheerfulness and sweet content.

The moments come, the moments go,
A golden halo o'er the hours,
My listening ear can catch the low
Sweet childish laughter of the flowers.

From out her purple velvet hood

The pansy lifts her quiet eyes, While mignonette and brierwood

Are trembling with a rich surprise.

A brooding peace is over all,

A sense of rest, a sense of love, And still small voices seem to call Our kneeling hearts to His above.

So moments come, and moments go,
I do not count the time,

I only know the summer's flow
Is laden with a rhyme.

MARY.

Above the manger, where the Christ-child lay,
There bent a radiant face, in days gone by;
And Mary, mother, felt her virgin heart
Grow strangely soft and patient as she gazed.
And ever since, this sweet and tender name
Seems borne by women who are pure and good.
-A Tender Name.

DR

ARTHUR ELWELL JENKS.

R. ARTHUR ELWELL JENKS has won for himself an enviable reputation as a public speaker. His lectures indicate what might be called literary conscience, both in careful diction and in thoughtful sympathy with his subjects. The titles of some of his popular lectures are “Footprints in Art and Literature," "Master Spirits of our Century," "Dickens' Place in our Hearts and Homes," "On the Lookout," "What will it Amount to?" "The Crucible and the Ingot." Dr. Jenks is of New England ancestry, the son of the late George W. Jenks, and of an eminently intellectual family. On his mother's side he is a direct descendant of the Winslows, of "Mayflower" fame. He was born in Nantucket, Mass., and was graduated from the high school there. He was in dental practice in Nantucket for twenty-five years, going to Rochester in the winter of 1890. He has done a considerable editorial work. A. S. J.

THE MONK'S VISION.

A LONELY monk, so runs an olden story,
Devout and faithful to his art as well,
Whose pictures glimmered with a mystic glory,
Sought out a friendly abbot in his cell.

He held a jewelled cross aloft, adoring The love of Christ that symbol typified: "Would I could paint," he mused, with eyes imploring,

"The face of Him who for my ransom died!

"I would adorn these walls with hues resplendent;
With faces of the martyrs, and Christ's head!"
The abbot, pleased with his designs transcendent,
Looked kindly on the painter, there, and said:
"Bring hither what you choose, so pure and tender,
And let your genius have its perfect sway;
And thus to God, our Father, daily render
Your gifts of adoration while you may."

"But men look at my finest efforts, sneering;

And will He more than these, my work admire? No! I'll destroy them all!" the monk cried, fearing, "If thus I may be purified by fire."

Lo! suddenly, in spotless vestments shining,

Our Saviour blessed the monk on bended knee; "I crown thy labors; henceforth cease repining; Take thou each daily cross and follow me."

The monk looked up, his choicest pictures gleaming With living colors artist never knew;