To the ocean in its grandeur;
Then in clouds return again,
Blessing thirsty-throated prairies,
With your sweet, refreshing rain.

Never resting, thus you travel,

Down the canyons, through the air,
First as misty clouds of moisture,
Then as rippling wavelets fair;
Always moving, never idle,

Blessing earth, and beast, and man;
Yet a servant of Dame Nature,
In her all-embracing plan!

THE BLUE-BACK SPELLER

By MISS FANNIE E. S. HECK

['Select Poetry of North Carolina,' 1904, compiled by Rev. Hight C. Moore.]

M.D. and D.D. doctors

And M.A.'s full a score,
And editors and teachers,

And of lawyers several more.

'T was funny then to see 'em,

As the hard words came like hail,
A pausin' and a stammerin'
And a turnin' almost pale.
But, law! it all came to me
Like it used to long ago,
And I saw the blue-back speller,
With each long and even row.

And I gave 'em, with the column,
The place, the side, the page,
For I saw those words like faces
Of old friends that do not age;
But those learned folks kept droppin'
Like the leaves off any tree,
And at last there was n't standin'
But a D.D. up with me.

And then there came a poser,

And the doctor he went down,
And a shout went up that startled
Half the sleepy folks in town.
But I did n't care for prizes—

The thing that made me glad
Was to down 'em with the blue-back
I studied when a lad.

THE KINVAD BRIDGE

By WILLIAM HURD HILLYER

['Songs of the Steel Age,' 1907. By permission.]

At the end of the path that all men tread, at the end of the

road called Time,

Where the land slopes off to the cliffs of death, and the dol

orous vapors climb,

Over the cloudy gulf of hell and the chasm of dim despond, The Kinvad Bridge swings frail and far to the heavenly heights beyond.

Nine javelins wide is the Kinvad Bridge when passeth a righteous soul;

Royally ample and safe it leads to the distant shining goal; But when others come to the cliffs of death-ah, yes, the bridge is there

But oh, what a narrow thread that spans the gray gorge of despair!

THE PASSING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY December 31, 1900

By WILLIAM HURD HILLYER

['Songs of the Steel Age,' 1907. By permission.]

Misty and sad the stars, and the wind a requiem sigheth:
To-night is the last of the year, and to-night the Century dieth.
Century greatest of all-magician and ruler sublime-

Grandest of all that have passed along the Appian Way of

Time;

Vast was his triumph, and splendid with silver and gold and steel;

Proudly he rode, with the Thunderbolt chained to his chariot

wheel.

Dark and deserted the streets; but across in the neighboring

square

The windows are blazing with light where mingle the brave and the fair.

They are dancing the old year out; there is music and laughter within

Cadence of mel'sonant flute and lilt of the wild violin.

But listen! the dolorous bell! At last it is striking the hour: Vibrant and full and clear it sounds from the gray church

tower.

And the song of the viol and flute dies out with a sigh in the gloom,

And solemnly stroke after stroke peals forth the Century's doom,

Twelve! and the bird called Midnight, that flies at the edge

of to-day,

Passes, formless and silent, swift on his westward way:

And the East Wind, suddenly rising, blows fresh from Atlantic deeps,

And over the continent wide the Twentieth Century sweeps!

Many there are who tell us that man's best moments are o'er, Saying, "The rose of his pride shall wither to bloom no more. Not so; for the day draws nigh, by the Hebrew seer foretold, When Peace shall interpret the Law, and Love shall be better than gold.

And though there be sickness and famine, and wars and rumors of wars,

Yet still through the darkness the future shines forth in the steadfast stars.

So hail, thou cycle of hope!-Remember, the world is young! There are victories yet unattained, there are songs that are still unsung!

FRUITION

By CHARLES WILLIAM HUBNER

['Poems and Essays,' 1881. By permission.]

Let thy life be like the day,

Dying 'mid the sunset's roses

Fairest when about thy way
Death's eternal shadow closes;

Let it be like summer time,

Season of supernal splendor!

Full of promises divine,

Love, and joy, and music tender;

Like the autumn let it be,

When the world's aglow with beauty

Rich with golden sheaves, for thee

Ripened in the field of Duty.

TO A MOCKING BIRD

By CHARLES WILLIAM HUBNER

['Wild Flowers,' 1877. By permission of Authors' Publishing Co., N.Y.]

Sweet bird! that from yon dancing spray

Dost warble forth thy varied lay,
From early morn to close of day
Melodious changes singing,
Sure thine must be the magic art
That bids my drowsy fancy start,
While from the furrows of my heart,
Hope's fairy flowers are springing.

As changeful as the sounds thy throat.
Sets on the charmèd winds afloat,

Till valleys near and hills remote
Attest thy peerless powers,

Have been to me the sights and scenes,
The cloudy thoughts and starry dreams,
The winter and the summer gleams,
Of life's ephemeral hours.

But all thy sad or merry lays,

Sweet bird! in thy Creator's praise

Thou pourest from the trembling sprays,

With love's delicious art;

Thus, too, will I, whate'er my fate

In sorrow prone, or joy elate

To God my being dedicate,
And give to Him my heart.

WHEN SHE COMES

By JOSEPH W. HUMPHRIES

[Detroit Free Press, May 7, 1905.]

Like a princess spring will greet her,
When she comes;

And her loyal friends will meet her,
When she comes;