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In 1884, Mrs. Converse was formally adopted by the Seneca Indians, as had been her father and grandfather before her. It was on the occasion of the re-interment, by the Buffalo Historical Society, of the remains of the famous Red Jacket. Her adoption made her the great-grand-daughter of Red Jacket with all the rights and honors pertaining to the relation.

The poetical work of Mrs. Converse has won high praise. Lord Alfred Tennyson and Dom Pedro emperor of Brazil, each sent to the author graceful letters of commendation on the publication of "Sheaves." Mrs. Converse is also an industrious

writer of prose, and has two volumes nearly ready for the press, one to be entitled " The Religious Festivals of the Iroquois Indians," the other "Mythology and Folk Lore of the North American Indians." In the prime of life, she has doubtless her best work before her.

Mrs. Converse resides in New York City. Personally she is attractive, genial and generous. Her friendships are warm, enthusiastic and abiding, while her heart is sympathetic and her hand open to the needs of her kind. In her presence you forget that she is literary, which is perhaps the most satisfactory social trait any literary woman can exhibit. MRS. G. A.

And weary of her laurelled dust),
Oh! give her faith that shall endure,
And make her waning strength more sure!
Haste then the Morn with swifter flight,
Thou tardy Night!

If in some hour unknown before,
Within the threshold of thy door,
With face so fair, yet unrevealed,
Whose silent lips are yet unsealed,
Love's messenger, with patience waits,
Conduct him to thy Morning's gates
In crimsoned garments; like the rose
Adorned with dews, that blushing glows
With warmth and trusting tendance wooed,
With Life's dear light through dawn renewed,
And bring Love's day - Love's promised light,
Thou welcome Night!

LIFE. I.

LIFE'S whirl and din! The sands run in; Work, busy brain; Toil, care, and pain Encompass thee; Mortality

Thy destiny,

Humanity

Thine equity,

Divinity
Thy God!

TO THE NIGHT.

THE west is barred with hurrying clouds,
Within whose deep vermilion shrouds,
While soft winds whisper mournful sighs,
In fickle lights the dear Day lies;
With dreams of distance in her grace,
She met her Morn with glowing face;
Deserted glory in her glance,

She swoons to death, in languid trance
And thy uncertain light-

Thou hastening Night!

If o'er thy broad and darkling land Day's ghost go wandering, hand in hand With some sad secret of Life's years, Keeping her vigils through her tears, With uncreated Morrow's day

Thy inward light), make fond delay, And kiss, with lingering, fragrant breath, Sweet Sleep- the image of this deathTo dreams of worlds more bright, Thou friendly Night!

If from the solitudes of pain-
Through veiling mists of sorrow's rain -
To thy lone shrine, where tapers burn,
In quest of peace, some hope return
(Her future lost-through loss of trust-

DEATH.

II.

DEATH solves the doubt!
The sands run out;

Rest, weary brain,
From care and pain,
Anxiety,

And agony,
In harmony,
Tranquility,
Eternity,
Of God!

UNFOLDED HOPES.

MANY a bud enfolds a hue that never sees the sun; Unfriendly thoughts have blasted hopes that love

has just begun;

Many a rose unwatched hath grown where summer sunbeams lie,

That left its thorns unbared and brown to face the winter sky.

Many a stream has babbled love to neighboring flowers in dell,

That running seaward lost itself in moan and surging swell;

Many a tree disdains to bend that falls before the storm,

While flexile reeds submissively to frigid blasts conform.

Many a life with pride is launched that bears a golden name,

And drifts through waste of watery woe a wreck of bitter shame;

While adverse winds have tempests blown o'er craft

of humbler sail,

That, tossed through spray of lashing waves, outrode the angry gale.

Many a growth of flaunting ease betrays a sterile soil,

While generous impulse shackeled dies in ruin of despoil;

Many a heart its glory wins e'en through a chast'ning rod,

And yields its sorrows, tears, and sighs to will of gracious God.

THY EASTER MORN.

IN the dark Gethsemane and sackcloth of thy soul, Beneath the shadowed olive tree, thy face toward the goal,

Didst thou seek release in vain and, humbly trust

ing, pray?

Press to thy lips the cup of pain that would not pass away?

Waiting in thy Judgment-Hall thy life reviewed,

arraigned,

While the wormwood and the gall its piteous pangs sustained,

Didst thou in thy Sorrows yearn for Morning's eastern skies,

Fondly to thy Christ Star turn thy mournful, tearstained eyes?

Watching on thy Calvary, adoring at His feet, What sacrifice hath come to thee to make thy life

complete?

Receiving of its holy dust, within its saintly ground, The triumphs of thy lowly trust, was martyrdom so crowned?

In the sighs of mortal breath enshrouded in thy

woe,

Hath thy heart some mortal death that Death alone can know?

Watch not in thy Life's array its sepulchre of gloom, Thy Lord will roll the stone away from off its darkened tomb!

Doth His Easter radiance glow within thy life's full years

And with unturning hallowed flow, bring gladness to thy fears?

Hope that sought thee in thy pain with flowers thy brow adorns!

To-day the roses bloom again where yesterday were thorns!

MAY PEACE WITH THEE ABIDE.
MAY peace with thee abide!
Though dreary seems the way,
No staff, no scrip, no guide,

And all thy heart astray.

May peace with thee abide!

And when thy burdens grow, Fear not, faint not; beside

The rock the waters flow!

May peace with thee abide! With care and toil oppressed, Submit; He will provide

For thee His grace and rest.

May peace with thee abide!

On thee may God's light glow' His peace is not denied, Although thou falter so.

IN MEDITATION.

WITHIN her fair white hands the Good Book lies;
As reverently slow she turns its leaves,
The violet shadows veil her wistful eyes,

And as the nightfall sure and slowly weaves,
I hear her dear voice clear and strong-
Set me as a seal upon thy heart,
As a seal upon thy arm,

For love is strong as death!"

And as she reads the Israel song

Her lips are like a roseleaf curled apart

In spicy sweetness warm

With incense of its breath.

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WILLIAM WILSEY MARTIN.

WIL

́ILLIAM WILSEY MARTIN was born at Reading, in Berkshire, England, on the 11th of October, 1833. He was destined for the legal profession, but while serving with a solicitor, was offered an appointment in Her Majesty's Civil Service which he accepted, and in 1854 commenced an official career which has proved a successful one.

He has found time amid his exacting duties to indulge his natural love of literature and to make many a contribution in prose and verse to journals and magazines. In addition to the collection of poems under the title " By Solent and Danube" he has written many verses of a humorous character, and is the author of several plays.

He is known to a large circle as an elocutionist of great power and brilliancy: perhaps, as an oral interpreter of Tennyson he has never been surpassed. A. N. J.

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And caught their subtle odors in the spring?
Pink buds pouting at the light,
Crumpled petals baby-white,
Just to touch them — a delight!
In the spring!

Have you walk'd beneath the blossoms in the spring?
In the spring?

Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring?
When the pink cascades are falling,
And the silver brooklets brawling,
And the cuckoo bird is calling,
In the spring!

Have you seen a merry bridal in the spring?
In the spring?

In an English apple-county in the spring?
When the bride and maidens wear
Apple blossoms in their hair,
Apple blossoms everywhere
In the spring!

If you have not, then you know not, in the spring,
In the spring!

Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring.
No sweet sight can I remember

Half so precious, half so tender,
As the apple blossoms render
In the spring!

SYMPATHY.

How shall I breathe to thee
From my worn heart,
Words of sweet sympathy,
Thoughts that shall solace thee

In thy hard part?

How shall I preach to thee

The sacred strain;

Tell thee, thy loss is gain;
Tell thee, thy grief is joy;
Tell thee, thou'lt meet thy boy

In Heaven again?
This part is not for me,
Mine, silently shall be,

To weep with thee. When slips away

The dreary day

Behind the rounded hills, and solemn night,
Enthroned amid her stars of argent light,
Rules the still world - the mourner's cherish'd hour,
Sacred to grief, and that mysterious power
Which we call memory —

Then, my part shall be

To weep with thee.

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