OL OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON. LIVIA GENEVIEVE LOVELL was born in 1859 in Glendale, Ohio, a suburban village near Cincinnati. She is the seventh child of Oliver S. and Sarah J. (Russell) Lovell. Her father was a distinguished lawyer, an intimate friend of Chief Justice Chase, and the late Justice Stanley Mathews, whose residence was close to the Lovell homestead. For many years Mr. Lovell was chief of an important bureau in the United States Treasury. Delicate health in early years prevented Olivia attending a public school and necessitated a home education. She commenced writing at an early age, and when eleven years old published two short stories in a New-Church paper. She soon became the center of a select literary coterie, and, under the pseudonym of Tobias Tickeltoe, conducted an amateur journal called Saturday Gossip, aided by a sister who, because of her physique, was styled the "Slim Reporter." Under her editorial nomenclature she produced several humorous short stories, and often now writes under this nom-de-plume. The young lady soon developed considerable dramatic talent, which found opportunity for display upon the stage of a home theater conducted by herself, who, in connection with a sister, was the sole representative of the histrionic art. The pieces performed were generally written by her. Miss Lovell about this time dramatized a translation of T. B. Aldrich's" Mere Michel et Son Chat." The piece was called "Mere Michel and Her Cat," and was published by the Harpers in Young People, with elaborate illustrations. It was a very successful play. Many other plays and stories of the author have appeared from time to time in that journal for jueveniles. In 1882 Miss Lovel was united in marriage to Henry Neill Wilson, an architect. They removed to Minneapolis, where Mr. Wilson followed his profession for several years. In consequence of ill-health Mr. and Mrs. Wilson removed from the West, and, after a brief sojourn in the old homestead, they removed permanently to Pittsfield, Mass., where they now reside in a beautiful home called "Ingleside." "THE LITTLE BROWN FIST." L. A. So plump, dimple-dented, covered with tan, In the crease of each finger, the dirty nails small, Go ask the bee, whence the charm and the power, Nay, the bee is too busy. Well! open the hand; Ah! there we must leave the riddle untold, THE SONG OF THE DARNING-NEEDLE. IN and out, out and in, Threading swift and nimble; Gliding thither bright and slim, Coquetting with the thimble. Shining with a kindly gleam Across the wide dimensions Of every hole, or gaping rent, With sharp and keen attention. Out and in; here's baby's sock! Catch each thread and part, In and out; here's Johnie's hose! Out and in, in and out, To do this work of thine, While mother forecasts other stars That on his life shall shine. And here are Nell's hose, Nan's and Sam's! Ah! such weary days Mother and I alone can spend Mending the family ways. But in and out, out and in, With patience, and the thread, We weave the mesh across the way Where ruthless footsteps tread. So out and in, in and out, With glances swift and nimble, I sing the song of mother's love, With needle, thread and thimble. Out and in, in and out, Threading swirtly through, Have patience for the song, I beg, We've holy work to do. TO MY WEE BIT LAD. My own dear lad, my wee bit lad, With eyes like violets sweet with dew, My dear wee lad, my own dear lad, Did ye learn in sooth your secret deep May I never learn the mystic spell, But be content to love thee well, Knowing none ere loved sae true, My wee bit land, as I love you. But, my lad, my wee bit lad, Outlives the dreariest wintry snows, That blight the violet, blast the rose; Abiding midst, like sweet sunshine. Golden on the garden wall, MY SONG. THERE'S a song in my heart, dear love, For my thoughts, like storm-driven birds, For out of the lowering darkness "I love you," and all the space, love, That renders us far apart, Cannot bannish thy face, love, Or thoughts of thee, from my heart. And how would my thoughts find thee? Winging their weary flight, To seek a haven of refuge For their sad part, to-night; Careless, perhaps of their presence, Feeling no fear or alarm, That they in this tender endeavor Should battle the wind and the storm! Nay-you will never forget, love, And when my thoughts reach you alone You will meet them, and greet them, as yet, love, And call them in fondness, your own. And we will be patient and wait, love, Till rendering our lives aright, We may both join the song that so sadly Rings grief in my heart to-night. AN IDEAL. EYES shaded grey, wistful, tender, From life and living love's sweet part; Earnest with the power of giving, A child's faith, but a woman's heart. With mirth in gladness, tears for sorrow, Trusting God in tender wise, For the great unfathomed future, Which unrevealed. before her lies. Jnst a woman, trusting, faithful, Gladdening where her glances fall; Wise by reason of her loving, Just a woman—that is all. SPRING. ONLY the hum of the distant bees Seeking their sweets from the clover; The wind in the top of the apple trees; Heaven's blue arching over. Only the song of the joyous birds Berkshire. MAY SPENCER FARRAND. 'N GLANCING over the columns of the press a poem sometimes catches the eye which touches a chord long silent in the heart; a verse which remains in the memory and we wonder idly who is the writer. One perhaps unknown to fame, but singing on with as sweet and pure a note as that which ripples from the throat of some bird which warbles near our window and charms us with its melody. Among the floating poems of the press for several years past, have appeared from time to time verses from the pen of Mrs. Farrand. May Spencer was born in Philadelphia in 1868. Her early life was passed in Chicago, where she attended school until she was eleven years of age, when she had almost finished the grammar school course. At this period her eyes became affected by study and she left school, never to return. Her mother's ill health rendered a journey to Colorado necessary, and after the mother's death the child became her father's constant companion; more of a woman than a child. At the age of fourteen years we find her in Pueblo, Colo., even then a contribu tor to some of the leading papers of the State. Though having little school education, Mrs. Farrand's natural ability and acquisitiveness, together with her fondness for reading, have endowed her with a knowledge which many graduates of high schools do not possess. As a child her leisure was rather devoted to the perusal of books and crude attempts at verse, than to the usual pursuits of childhood. The first paper to which May Spencer was a contributor was the Denver Inter-Ocean, then owned and edited by the late Henry L. Feldwisch, who first noted and encouraged the aspirant to literary fame. From that time on her poems were printed in the Colorado and Chicago press; no not always of special merit, but containing the germ of a vivid fancy, and often ascending to the plane of true poetic genius. In 1888 Miss Spencer was married to Capt. P. E. Farrand of Denver, and is now a resident of that city. S. W. A PARTING. THE time drew near that our ling'ring feet The ways we had known together. The parting lie all behind us, And our tears, rebellious, started; One to wander the wide world o'er, Nor peace nor contentment gaining; One to dream of the days no more, In sorrow behind remaining. And never on earth, in the ways of men, While the bonds of life shall bind us, Shall we meet, lost love, heart to heart again, And the parting lie all behind us. OUTCAST. FLAUNTING the tinsel of shame in your face, Living and trading upon her disgrace, Pity, not scorning? Matron, with children who flee to your breast When griefs assail them, What if your hands were crossed dumbly in rest, Has she had ever to cheer her, and guide, Looking in scorn npon all that she hath, Her degradation; Spurning the sinner, astray from the path, What wiles have lured her to falter and fall, Is there between you so mighty a wall, Is she not human? When has a hand been outstretched her to save, Not to degrade her. Erring as human she took what ye gave, What man hath made her. Turn then and scoff at the wreck if you will, (Sin-hardened features) Turn, but while scorn doth your scrutiny fill, Know that for all of her faults she is still One of God's creatures! And in the day when all things shall be known, By our temptation, Not by our failures and erring alone, When we stand up face to face at God's throne, Be our salvation. THE KEY-NOTE. SILENT and mute the harp of love is waiting, Unto its music let me list again. Over the future love's illusion cast. Then lift the cloud that o'er that future darkens; Let the sun shine once more upon life's slope, Bring words of love unto the ear that hearkens, Wake in my heart the olden trust and hope; From winter snows recall fair summer weather, From dark'ning shadows summon light once more, Bring back the love that bound us once together, Bring back the days, the happy days of yore. Tune then, with fingers strong, the tender lyre; Breathe from its strings love's sweetest dulcet tone; Let dreams of old its melody inspire, Wafting thy spirit back to days agone. THE SEA OF SILENCE. THE Solem sea of silence is unbroken, No wave of speech or whisper meets the ear, That stretches 'twixt our hearts, so deep and wide, Oh! sea, across thy vast expanse some message A silence deep and vast and never ending, Of no avail were pleading or resistance, The waves grew silent at the word "Farewell." MY RELIGION. HELP to a soul in need, forgiveness, love, That tells how grand and beautiful is life. And bright her twinkling satellites appear, The greed of gold, the form, the rule doth seem, Would turn from these to thoughts of better things. |