FANNY KENNISH-EARL.

FANNY

ANNY KENNISH-EARL is the wife of a busy physician in the beautiful little village of Lake Mills in Southern Wisconsin. She is a writer of poems and short stories, but one or two productions from her pen have almost reached the size of books. Her childhood and early years were passed in the neighborhood of a forlorn and forsaken little town upon the Wisconsin River, near what is known as the Dells of the Wisconsin. The deserted and forlorn condition of the village, perhaps, brought a shade of melancholy into her life which gives a somber tint to many of her compositions. She found in the companionship of nature much of her enjoyment and a great deal of her education.' Naturally of an artistic mind, with a rare appreciation for the beautiful in the world about her, she sympathized very deeply with the nooks and glens which make the Dells of the Wisconsin River noted to all lovers of romantic scenery. Some of her short stories indicate rare insight into the workings of human nature. One who reads between the lines will note that she is no idle dreamer, but that she sympathizes intensely with all questions of reform, of public interest, and whatever will make the world better and brighter. The sunshine and shadows of thirty-six years have left her hopeful and happy. There is no bitterness, no complaining in her words. Her nature is healthful and her writings show forth its healthful workings. To her, life is happy, God a reality and heaven a certainty. F. W. H.

THE DEAREST.

I GRANT you that my boys are tall and fair,
My girls are winsome,-to a mother's eyes
At least. Such wealth of bonny hair

A miser, gathering gold, might surely prize.

The house is gay with laughter; every nook
Re-echoes to a bit of childish song.
Some broken toy, some ragged, dog-eared book,
Among my choicest bric-a-brac belong.

My all is theirs; no treasure is too rare

For their small hands. My recompense is this, They gather round my idle easy-chair

At dusk of evening, for a mother's kiss.

And which is dearest? That were hard to tell.
I look at Philip, bright and eager-eyed,
With fair, wide brow and pleasant smile. Ah well,
You do not wonder at a mother's pride?

And Alice calm, with quiet, woman-ways

Beyond her years. My heart may surely rest On her. You question by that sudden gaze, "Is this the one the mother loves the best?"

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Then Bernice, merry, romping, careless child,
Whose dancing feet I watch with growing care;
The summer wind is not so free and wild,
Nor is the flower it tosses half as fair.

If love is born of anxious, prayerful thought,
Or fond affection is by patience nursed,
Or treasures dearer grow by dangers fraught,
Then little Bernice surely might be first.

But then comes little Hugh, my rosy pet,

So tall and sturdy for his few, sweet years; His plump, pink hands have baby dimples yet, His long-lashed eyes grow full with baby tears. You urge me still? Ah, then, come with me, friend,

In one small room the children never play; And guest scarce enters, save the morning sun Or east wind, fragrant with the new-mown hay.

The rose-leaf scented drawer is over-full

Of creamy robes, and folds of yellow lace, A silken shawl, a hood of snowy wool That sometime framed a fairer baby face.

The sweet, wee things. You see they're almost

new.

A little book,-nay, two,—she never read; Some bits of ribbon and a toy or two, A ringlet, severed from a tiny head.

'Tis near a score of years since that sad morn,
But still my eyes long for that baby face.
They all are dear; but, friend, the sweet first-born,
Can any other ever take her place?

THE SONG OF THE CYCLONE.

THE summer air is hot and still,

Brown turn the waving grasses;
But see, the leaves have felt a thrill,
And down the long and dusty hill
A gentle zephyr passes.

Across the deep and shining blue
The clouds in white robes flutter,
Then slowly darken in their hue,
And like some black-browed Titan crew
Their sullen threats they mutter.

From east, from west, they gather fast;
Now fierce and fiercer growing;
They call their troops with sudden blast,
Their banners to the breeze they cast,
With din and trumpets blowing.

The dark-robed armies wheel in haste, Now fast and faster flying;

And lo, the meadows are laid waste, The oak that many storms has faced Lies rent and crushed and dying.

They laugh to scorn each foe they meet,
Their fiery lances throwing,
They sweep along the city street
With dead and dying at their feet,
And mad with slaughter growing.

But hush! The birds begin to trill,
A zephyr only passes;
The buttercups, along the hill,
Hold up their shining faces still,
Among the dripping grasses.

BABY-BLUE.

SONG.

YOUR eyes are blue, your hair is gold,
No blushing rose-bud ever told
To kissing sunbeam from the south,
One-half the sweetness of your mouth;
But eyes will fade that flash and burn,
And gold to silver surely turn,
And sadder lines of age replace
The dimpled beauty of your face.

CHORUS.

Your pretty ways, your baby-blues,
May give you right to pick and choose;
But after five-and-twenty, you
Won't look so sweet in baby-blue.

Your brows are arched into a frown,

With scornful lips you laugh me down,

Your bright eyes pierce me through and through From fleecy folds of baby-blue;

But though you laugh at lover's vow,

And broken hearts amuse you now,

Some day will you be left forlorn

While Fate will meet your scorn with scorn.

CHO.-Your pretty ways, etc.

Repent, sweet girl, ere angry Fate Shall whisper in your ear, "Too late."

You'll find a loving heart more true
Than changing tints of baby-blue.
A love beside you day by day
Will never see your hair grow gray;
And years of toil and added care
Will only make your face more fair.
CHO.-Your pretty ways, etc.

TO A TELEPHONE GIRL.

THE rich and the great bow down to hear you,
At sound of your voice the whole world draws

near you;

You've the ear of the city-if not of the nationOh! telephone girl at the Central Station.

A NEW YEAR'S THOUGHT.

LIGHT fall the flakes of snow. The midnight bells
Ring out the message of the glad New Year
Each heart interprets to its seeming need.
To one there cometh strange and vague unrest,
As if the coming year must be too full
Of joy or sorrow. One with brow serene
Looks calmly out upon the world's mad strife
As one whose heart has chosen higher things.
One waits with folded hands One eager stands
To strive and win. But all have common need;
One cry goes forth across the waste of seas;
The world's light laughter strikes a single chord;
And in our common life we needs must learn
The lesson that the new year teaches all,—
Of patient toil, and eager hope and faith
That looks beyond our small horizon's rim
Into the wideness of the perfect plan,-
That reaches upward e'en to Heaven's gates
And shapes our lives to higher destiny.

SPRINGTIME.

BUTTERCUPS blossoming out of the meadows,
Starry white daisies deep down in the grass,
Little blue violets nodding and trembling,
Kissed by the warm summer winds as they pass,
Bend to the music that thrills through the forest,
Music of bird-life in meadow and tree,
Music of water let loose from its fetters
Leaving the mountains to seek for the sea.
A fair little maiden, with eyes like the daisies
Hair like the gold of the buttercup's rim,
Voice like the bird-song in sunny May weather
Sings to the music of springtime, her hymn.

NELLIE F. CORNELL.

HE writer of the poems which follow has always

first in the old home on an estate which had been several generations in her family, and then, leaving Middleborough for the adjoining town of Bridgewater, she made her home with her husband on the banks of the Taunton River, in one of the most beautiful spots in that region. She was for some years before marriage a teacher. A portion of her married life she was an invalid, unable to leave her room. It seemed to be the constant care of her devoted husband and her own grateful response to his care and to the attentions of some near friends that brought from the sick room thoughtful and tender verses, written for the sake of expressing what was in her heart rather than for literary purposes. When a friend, who was editor of the NewJerusalem Magazine, asked leave to print a poem which had come to his notice, she reluctantly consented, and has given others to the public through the same channel. She is a member of the New Church, and is by nature of a devout spirit. Her love of the fields is that of a true poet, and she has made a specialty of marine shells, of which she has a large collection, accurately classified.

T. F. W.

MORNING AT THE FARM.

SWEET Summer morn! a fragrant breeze
Comes floating past the orchard trees,
Where robins piping loud and clear,
Proclaim the sunrise hour is near.
On every side, around, o'erhead,
From clustering vine or grassy bed,
The happy insect chirps and trills,
The atmosphere with music fills.
Their tiny notes scarce stir the air,
And rest seems brooding everywhere.

Now from the broad, gray barns a-near,
A restless, moving sound we hear,
With thoughts of meadow grasses sweet,
The rested kine mount to their feet,
For through the open door comes flowing
Breaths from rich knolls, with clover growing;
And loud, exultant, shrill and clear,
Ring out the notes of Chanticleer.

Now, opening doors, the well-sweep creaking,
Voices, quick steps the sharp scythes seeking;
And forth the hardy farmers go,

Rich swathes of waving grass to mow,

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And Charles, with swinging milk-pails glistening, Adown the lane comes, gaily whistling.

While in the cool, sweet dairy, Ann
The golden cream skims from each pan,
And, luscious treat although the least,
Pours the skimmed milk for piggies' feast.

In the cool porch is table spread
With snowy cloth; there nice brown bread,
And golden butter, doughnuts, cheese,
While through the open door, the breeze
Of morning, sweet with fragrance, blowing
O'er roses round the windows growing.
From the out-kitchen Mother brings
The smoking viands, fit for kings.
Snowy potatoes, eggs and bacon,
Crisp cucumbers from cool vines taken,
And then, to crown the feast, some sweet
Rich cream, with strawberries to eat.

Outside the door, beneath the shade
Of an old apple-tree, is laid
On rustic bench, so handy, cool,
Basin and soap, as 'tis the rule,
Returning from the hay-fields near,
To pause for their ablutions here.
Refreshed, then round the board they gather,
Talk of the "grand, good haying weather,"
Think "the thick grass in lower field
Will three tons to the acre yield."
The while they speculate and plan,
They reinforce the inner man,
And pay ere from the board they rise
Just dues to health and exercise.

Sweet, happy, blissful hours, thus spent

In honest labor, peace, content.

O, who can picture half the charm
Of a June morning on the farm.

EVENING PRAYER.

THE fleeting hours have brought the close of day;
The light is fading from the western sky.
Here from my couch I watch each changing ray,
While evening shadows softly gather nigh.

Beautiful twilight! rosy, misty veils

Seem draped around, excluding anxious care And all unrest; calm, trustful thought prevails. Be hushed, my soul! it is the hour of prayer.

"Our Father." All that's loving, wise and kind Is thus expressed, deeply the heart to move;