THIS

ANNIE E. TYNAN.

ANNIE E. TYNAN

HIS young poetess was born in Paterson, New Jersey, in 1870 about the time that that flourishing city began to be conscious of municipal greatness. She is the daughter of Joseph C. Tynan, inventor and silk manufacturer in this Lyons of America. Entering the Paterson High School in 1884, she became the class poet of the graduating class of '87, delivering the Salutatory Poem at the Commencement. She was a member of the High School Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle during the best of its days, and by her talent as an elocutionist often added to the enjoyableness of its meetings. J. A. R.

RETURNED.

Down in the orchard

'Neath the gnarlèd trees, Sunshine is streaming,

Soft is the breeze; Gently the clovertops Nod to and fro, Casting their sweetness Abroad as they go.

Softly the butterfly

Sails on the breeze, Over, then under,

The old apple trees, Till, with a flutter,

She deigns to alight

On a white bordered daisy, Or buttercup bright.

Down in the orchard

Under the trees, Wrapped in the fragrance

Borne on the breeze, Watching the blossoms Nod to and fro, Sweet little Bertha

And Isabel go.

What is your errand,
Dear little lasses,
Down in the orchard

'Mongst the long grasses?

Why do you hasten

So swiftly away

From the boys and the girls In the meadow at play?

Seek you the berries

That grow on the hill?

Seek you the brook
By the side of the mill?
Or, dear little maids,
Do you wander so far
To gather clematis
For Nannie's blue jar?
Onward they haste,

Nor pay heed to my call;
Onward they haste

To the old orchard wall, And something between them They carefully hold,

In a handkerchief blue
With a border of gold.

Bertha now climbs

To the top of the wall Reaching for branches That over her fall, While with the treasure Held in her hands,

Close at her side

Little Isabel stands

Now they have found

79

Under a mother's wing,

In a brown nest.

GOLDEN-ROD.

FAIR Golden-rod, that decks the field,
And ornaments the grove,
Thou art the summer's parting gift,
The autumn's treasure-trove.

Thy blossoms turn toward the sky,
When fall just tints the trees;
Thy bloom is in the gentle sigh

Of the September breeze.

Though last of all the dainty flowers
That grace the smiling lea,
Thy coming, lovely Golden-rod,
Will ever welcome be.

THE OLD MAN'S REVERIE.

THE spring, with budding flowers and leaves, Has passed away;

The summer, with its harvest sheaves,

Has passed away;

The autumn, all its beauties sped,
With all its charms and grandeur fled,
Gives place to winter, dull and drear—
Yes, darksome winter now is here.

Life's spring, with budding hope and joy,

Has passed away;

Life's summer, sweet without alloy,
Has passed away;

Life's autumn, filled with gentle peace,
To chilly winter gives release,

And all my way seems dull and drear-
Yes, darksome winter now is here!

But soon the winter, dull and drear,
Will pass away;

And spring once more, with blithesome cheer,
Will hold her sway;

My pains and cares are fading fast,
My woes and ills will cease at last,
No more my ways are dull and drear,
For life's eternal spring is near.

Yes, Death come nigh

And grasp me by the hand!

The sunset sky tells of a fairer land;

Thy name is joy,

Thou bring'st with thee no fearYea, death is nigh,

Eternal spring is here.

M

MARGARET E. O'BRIEN.

ARGARET E. O'BRIEN was born in Montgomery, Alabama, November 19, 1870. Her love of and her capability for the practice of literature as an art and life-work is in great part, we must believe, an inheritance. Her father, Mr. Frank P. O'Brien, is the well-known, influential, eager, warm-hearted and enthusiastic editor of one of Alabama's great dailies, the Age-Herald, of Birmingham. Her paternal ancestor was Michael Andrew O'Brien, editor of Dublin Nation. Miss O'Brien was educated at Loretto Convent, Kentucky. From this convent-school she was graduated in 1888. It was in the year of her graduation that Miss O'Brien first gave her literary work to the public. Much of her work has been done for the Age-Herald. To this she contributes, and has contributed for two years or more, many noteworthy sketches and stories, and poems full of sweet accord. Miss O'Brien has also done good work for The American, the New York Journal, and the New York Review, and other periodicals. The chief work from her pen, "Judith, the Daughter of Judas," has just been issued. It was written when its author was barely eighteen years of age. Miss O'Brien is a devout Roman Catholic, and many of her poems are flavored with her religious beliefs. In person she is of medium height, slender and girlish. She has dark wavy hair, and eyes of a changeable gray. M. Y.

83

A day-a gloomy, misty day it was,
Moaned to me once, and wailed-"Go forth
And cheer thy friends who sorrow know and feel,
The wind will sing thy deed thro' west and north.”
But I was weary and my heart was cold,

And so, I stayed and nursed my grief all day
And friends in heavier woe their burden bore

Unshared, nor brightened by a cheering ray, And when night came, remorse hung like a pall On one more day that was "beyond recall."

Another day came slyly to my heart,

And knocked for entrance to its sacred room; And when it entered in it said "Atone For all those days thou passed in silent gloom." I stole me out into the soft sweet day,

And scattered deeds of kindness here and there, And thought that never day was born and lived With sun more bright, or flowers half so fair. Night, smiling, came-peace o'er my heart did fall, But still I sighed for days "beyond recall."

PERHAPS.

PERHAPS, beyond that blue mount far away,
There lies a vale where man has never trod;
Where sunbeams play at "hide and seek" all day,
And feathered songsters carol praise to God;
Where silvery brooks o'er pebbly beds soft glide,

And croon a slumber song to sweet wild flow'rs,
Which nod and now float sleeping on the tide,
Now wake to shed their fragrance thro' long
hours.

Perhaps, beyond the ken of man, there waits

A vale of rest, where strife to peace gives way; Where soul meets soul, and joy each heart elates, And night ne'er comes to shade eternal day. "Perhaps,” said I! A voice within me cries, "Thou Didymus!"—my wayward doubting

chides,

I almost see the veil that hidden lies,

And thus, my heart content, believes and bides.

BEYOND RECALL.

A DAY a sunny, cheerful day it was,
Smiled on me once, and said: "To thee I bring
A golden chance to twine a crown of lays,
Of which the coming bards will love to sing."
But I was weary of the sun's bright rays,

And longed to rest on night's star-bordered gown,
And so, with petulence, I bade "begone"
The day and chance-in silence, sat me down;
But when, for both, my heart would peril all,
The wind complained and sighed—"beyond recall."

MY HEART AND I.

I SAID to my heart one summer day,
(The morn was bright and fair.)
"To-day, my heart, we will be gay,

And as free and light as air."

But the sun grew dim, and the storm-clouds came, And the winds did so moan and sigh,

That my soul grew faint with an unknown dread And we sighed—my heart and I.