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THE COTTAGE FLOWER.

I KNOW a spot where I love to go,

The dearest of all to me,

'Tis where, when the zephyrs gently blow,

They bend the tall poplar tree!

Where the waves of the streamlet dancing play

O'er the rocks like a tiny sea;

Where the moon looks down with her sweetest ray On the cot by the poplar tree!

But 'tis not the tree, nor the cot that's there,
That I love the best to see;
For I know a flower more sweet and fair,
That blooms by the poplar tree!

I've gazed on the flower of many a spot And still was wild as the bee,

But I've seen the one that lives in the cot That stands by the poplar tree!

INVOCATION.

O LOVE! by thee we breathe and live,
All mystery revealing;

Without thee life could not survive,
Nor soul, nor heart, nor feeling,
Nor passion, nor emotion, thought,

Nor joy, nor consolation;
Without thy spirit these were naught,
Thou parent of creation!

LIFE.

The summer, autumn, winter, spring, Forever come and go,

And with them take away or bring

Our happiness and woe.

Around the globe the seasons sweep, The night succeeds the day;

We play and love, we work and weep, Then hope, and pass away!

HAR

HARVEY N. BLOOMER.

ARVEY NELSON BLOOMER was born in the City of New York, 12th January, 1871. After receiving a good education he obtained a position with Chas. Scribner's Son, of New York City. During his school life he wrote several poems and edited a school paper, but after entering the Scribner's employ his love for literature was increased by the literary atmosphere in which he was. As part of his work was to look over the papers in which were reviews of all current literature, he thus acquired a very good knowledge of what was going on in the world of letters. He soon became very ambitious to have his name in print, and his poetical genius soon brought his hopes to reality. His first poem was published and paid for by the Young Men's Journal, and he was requested to become a regular contributor. Since then he has improved wonderfully and has written steadily. Among the perodicals to which Mr. Bloomer has contributed are: Puck, Judge, Young Men's Journal, Boston Budget, Western Rural, The Jury, Overland Magazine, Riveside Magazine, Golden Days, New York Herald, and he has lately become sporting editor of the Outing Magazine, leaving the Scribners' March 11th, 1891. Love for literature has kept him from going into business with his father, who is a member of the New York Produce Exchange. Mr. Bloomer's later poems show most remarkable improvement. He is well known by all the city editors and has a large number of friends, who seem to see a great deal to admire in this young journalist. A. M. S.

RINGS.

I GAVE my lady a moonstone ring; It is for luck, they say;

And I wish her well,

Sweet Isabel,

Until her dying day.

-Home and Parents.

BROTHERHOOD.

A noble boyhood, free and frank,

A noble manhood makes;

'Tis not the name, nor blood, nor rank,

That either saves or wrecks.

For all mankind are not of blood

Born to a common right;

All have one common Father, God,
Who rules us in his might!

-Childhood and Age. |

To match her bonny eyes;

It is fair, forsooth,

But the eyes of youth

Naught matches but the skies.

I gave my sweetheart a crimson ring,
A ruby, deep and true,

Like a drop, blood-red,
From the heart, I said,
That will live or die for you.

But a gold band now can I give my love; From that she will never part;

Love's golden gains that through them shine.
So do not heed these written signs,
For you must read between the lines
To gather all my meaning.

And the setting 'twill be

Of what is to me

The rarest of gems-her heart.

KISS MY EYELIDS DOWN.

THE light is fading down the sky,
The shadows grow and multiply,
I hear the thrush's evening song;
But I have borne with toil and wrong
So long, so long,

Dim dreams my drowsy senses drown,
So, darling, kiss my eyelids down.

My life's brief spring went wasted by,
My summer's ended fruitlessly,

I learned to hunger, strive and wait;
I found you, love, O, happy fate,
So late, so late;

Now all my fields are turning brown,
So, darling, kiss my eyelids down.

O, blessed sleep! O, perfect rest!
Thus pillowed on your faithful breast;
Nor life nor death is wholly dear;
O, tender heart, since you are here,
So dear, so dear,

Sweet love, my soul's sufficient crown;
Now, darling, kiss my eyelids down.

A CORRESPONDENT.

DEAR friend, I sit alone to-night,
And so to you I fain would write,
But not in hum-drum black and white,
With common ink and paper.
Such words as I would say to you
Should blazoned be in tender hue, .
As monks of old in missile drew
Initials tall and taper.

If I could borrow just a part
Of all their quaint, symbolic art,
I might translate what's in my heart,
Perhaps, in fitting fashion.

But where's the modern pen can hold
Sufficient store of red and gold
To paint the leaflet, snowy cold,

With tints of pain or passion?

In vain you'll seek them on this page,
Fair fancies form a by-gone age;
Yet if you wish my thoughts to gage,
There is a sort of gleaming,

JAMES BALL NAYLOR, M. D.

[AMES BALL NAYLOR, was born in Penn

1860. His opportunities for acquiring education were limited, but he took a thorough course in the common schools and re-inforced that by extensive reading. Soon after attaining his majority he began the study of his profession and was graduated from Starling Medical College, Columbus, Ohio, in March, 1886. Since his graduation Dr. Naylor has devoted himself to active practice, and has already taken high rank in his profession. He is a hard student, a close observer and an untiring worker in whatever field of labor he enters. In 1889 he began to write for the press, and from the beginning his poems as they were published in the Morgan County Democrat, attracted attention and were the subject of favorable comment. They had in them the ring of the genuine metal, and the public were not slow to appreciate that fact. Since then Dr. Naylor has written a number of poems for many of the best daily and weekly papers in the country, as well as for several leading medical journals. His growing reputation has in no way spoiled his disposition for earnest work, and that he has as yet but fairly started in a successful literary career is the measure of the belief shared by those who have watched his efforts closest and who know him best. J. B. T.

AN AUTUMN IDYL.

THE mid-day sun rises overhead,
His smiling face a copper-red,

And through the crisp, frost-bitten air,
From grassy knoll to hill-top bare,

A hazy vapor breaths;
Like one, who, laughing at a joke,
Exhales a puff of fragrant smoke,
And hiding half his jolly face
Behind the folds of floating lace,

Peeps through the filmy wreathes.

Adown yon hazel-lined ravine,
The ragged sandstone cliffs between,
Where fallen leaves, all gold and red,
Are clogging fast the stony bed,

A silver ribbon shines;
And through the smoky atmosphere
There floats aloft, now dull, now clear,
The water's tinkling sound, and then
It whispers through the rocky glen,
Like night wind in the pines.

Among the shocks of bladed corn,
Where Plenty fills her lavish horn,
A flock of black-birds speeding south
Have paused to feed each hungry mouth,
And chatter, fight and scream.
Across the plowed and seeded fields,
Where fresh-cast grain a harvest yields
The chipmunk, sleek and brown, a pair
Of south-bound geese divides the air;

Their snowy pinions gleam.

The year is growing rich and old,
The yellow corn, like heaps of gold,
And purple grapes, whose clusters shine
Like amethysts from Asia's mine,
Are riches vast, untold.
The luscious apples overhead
Are precious rubies shining-red.
The hale year hums a harvest song,
Enjoys his wealth, thinks life is long;
But he is growing old!

BLUE EYES ARE PEEPING AT ME.

283

WHEN the birds sing their songs in the gray morning light,

And the blushing east heralds the sun;
When my spirit awakes from the slumber of night,
And rejoices that day is begun;

I hear a sweet voice-'tis a dear little girl's,
Shouting in innocent glee,

And a pair of blue eyes, from under brown curls,
Are roguishly peeping at me.

I'm at work in my office, I hear a low sound,
And the door on its hinges swings wide;

I cease from my labor and, turning around,
Find a wee, bonny form at my side.

A sweet, childish face is uplifted to mine,
A small hand caresses my knee,

And from under brown tresses, so silken and fine,
Two blue eyes are peeping at me.

'Tis night, and ensconced in my big easy chair, I'm perusing a late magazine;

A small graceful form has ascended the stair,
And will quickly appear on the scene.
Then a speedy farewell to both paper and book,
Au revoir to all sweet reverie,

For sparkling with fun, from yon shadowy nook,
Blue eyes will be peeping at me.

And so I imagine, whatever I do,
Or wherever I chance to be,

That those little eyes so surpassingly blue,
Are continually peeping at me.