M' KATE TUCKER GOODE. ISS KATE TUCKER GOODE (known in the literary world as "Bert Ingliss "), daughter of Colonel Thomas F. Goode, of the Buffalo Lithia Springs, Virginia, and grand-daughter of the late Hon. Edward R. Chambers, was born in Mecklenburg county, Virginia, November 22, 1863. The first composition that attracted the attention of the public to Miss Goode as a writer of poetry, was a piece written in 1883, "In Memory of John Howard Payne." The author has very happily woven the title of Mr. Payne's beautiful poem, "Home, Sweet Home," into her memorial lines. This piece first appeared in the Richmond Dispatch, and was afterwards copied by the Richmond State, and complimented by that paper. About eighteen months later "A Woman's Complaint" appeared in the Chicago Advance. This poem, illustrating so beautifully the value the wife places upon loving words and loving looks from her husband, attracted a good deal of attention, and was finally incorporated by Mr. Slason Thompson in his volume of "The Humbler Poets." In 1889 Miss Goode won the third prize for the best Quatrain, offered by the publisher of THe Magazine of POETRY. Miss Goode's strength as a versifier lies in her power to dress homely every-day themes in lovely clothes, and make even "A Very Old Mirror in a Drawing Room" reflect back the scenes upon which it has gazed. Without undertaking to discuss what are termed the topics of the day, she has the happy art of rendering attractive the topics of all days, and making those who view her subject through the medium of her verses, feel that however circumscribed may be its sphere, still there is poetry in it. J. A. D. A WOMAN'S COMPLAINT. I KNOW that deep within your heart of hearts And yet, dear love, through all the weary days You never speak one word of tenderness, Nor stroke my hair, nor softly clasp my hand Within your own in loving, mute caress. You think, perhaps,. I should be all content To know so well the loving place I hold Within your life, and so you do not dream How much I long to hear the story told. You can not know, when we two sit alone, And tranquil thoughts within your mind are stirred, My heart is crying like a tired child For one fond look, one gentle, loving word. It may be when your eyes look into mine Perhaps, sometimes, you breathe a secret prayer I weary sometimes of the rugged way; The dreariest desert that our path could cross 'Tis not the boundless waters ocean holds That give refreshment to the thirsty flowers, But just the drops that, rising to the skies, From thence descend in softly falling showers. What matter that granaries are filled With all the richest harvest's golden stores, If we who own them can not enter in, But famished stand before the close-barred doors? And so 'tis sad that those who should be rich IN MEMORY OF JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. He did not touch the sacred lyre to flatter kingly pride, Nor herald with triumphant strains the conqu'ror's onward stride; He did not wake the swelling tones in praise of tyrant's power, Nor join the rout in joyful shout in might's victorious hour. He did not gaily strike the chords for beauty in its bloom, Nor sound the mournful requiem o'er fallen hero's tomb; He did not summon with his song the happy bridal train, Nor breathe on air the wild despair of love bestowed in vain. He sang of home the fair and blest, of home the placid isle, Where only bluest skies look down and greenest valleys smile; Where faint and dying comes the sound of the storm-king's angry roar, And the waves of life in surging strike, break softly on the shore. He sang of home, where world-worn hearts forget that earth hath woes; He sang of home, where weary souls may rest in sweet repose; Where tender hands and gentle words make ever glad the day, And come no fear or starting tear love can not soothe away. He only breathed it soft and low, as grateful prayers ascend, Yet millions listening caught the sound and hushed and still attend; And they the loving ones of earth in tears their voices raise; "He felt as we feel, he knelt as we kneel, sweet home, to sing thy praise!" Who grasp the prize know not its worth, but those who vainly long; The raptures that we may not know flow freest in our song; And he who best the incense poured for "sweet home's" altar-stone, On the pitiless strand of a far-away land met death and died alone. Where shall we lay his sacred dust? With the departed great, Where princes, kings and patriots are sepultured in state? No, not for him a gorgeous sleep 'neath spacious marble dome; Lay him to rest on the peaceful breast of his dear-loved "Home, sweet home." I WANT YOU SO. DEEP in the cool and quiet grass, All things wrapt in a silent deep; All through the slowly passing days I have not shunned life's "tender grace," And peaceful quiet reigns o'er all, What wrong to breathe, since none can know, "I want you so! I want you so!" I have not turned away my eyes The splash of stream and song of bird. I've wished no other's laugh less free, No other's heart less glad for me, And I have turned with sudden fear Lest man should mark the unshed tear, Or note the quivering that came When careless voices spoke your name. But where no footstep passes by, Dear, is it wrong to make this cry: "Thank God, dear love, you can not know, I want you so! I want you so!" THE PATH THROUGH THE CLOVER. WE strayed together where the path Goes winding through the clover, All ready for the mowing, And felt the fresh winds blowing, But at the brook our ways diverged, In mood half vexed, half. laughing, we If I should cross the fields with her, At last we took our separate ways, If I had crossed the fields with her, WHAT HE SAW AT THE BALL. So you say you must hear all about the affair, Weren't the dresses magnificent? So it was said, And the music? Delicious! So dreamily sweet, Its passionate sweetness resounded instead. There were flowers and follies-whatever should be So I lit my cigar and strolled into the street. A ANNIE E. HUBBART BARKER. NNIE ELVIRA HUBBART was born in Leon, Cattaraugus county, N. Y., June 26, 1842. Through her father, Levi B. Hubbart, a pioneer farmer, her lineage may be traced through sturdy English branches to German stock; on her mother's side, through the names of Hall, Arnold and Ball, to a French ancestress proscribed by the Revolution, who in England contracted a mesalliance in the eyes of her family, though she married a good and honorable man, and with him shared the hardships and heroisms of colonial life in Connecticut. In childhood, love of books was a passion with Miss Hubbart. At the age of four she ran away from home to school, a distance of a mile, indignant that a sister nineteen months her senior was allowed to go to school while she was kept at home. Thereupon gaining the coveted permission to go, she mastered the alphabet by the old process in less than a week. In early girlhood her health failed so that she could no longer bear the fatigue of attending the district school. She kept abreast of her mates by studying and reading at home, often on her invalid's couch, having always the warm coöperation of her mother, a woman of marked intellectual gifts and spiritual grace. At the age of fifteen she received her first certificate as teacher at the hands of Senator N. M. Allen, then School Commissioner, and by a remarkable exercise of will in one so fragile, taught her first school in the log school-house of her earliest memories. Her last term of teaching in her native state was in Chamberlain Collegiate Institute, Randolph, N. Y., where she had previously been a student under the management of Prof. S. G. Love. She subsequently taught a year in Newbern, N. C., as representative of the Buffalo Freedmen's Aid Society. Miss Hubbart's first published poem appeared in the Waverly Magazine. It was written when she was scarcely sixteen. "When the Mists have Rolled Away” was written in Oconomowoc, Wis., in 1872, while the author was seriously ill at the home of Dr. Lafayette Lake. "Annie Herbert," the presumedly correct form of her surname, was used first as a nom de plume, and she was compelled thereafter to answer to it or waste time in explanations. After a varied experience in teaching, Miss Hubbart made a special study of the art of expression in the schools of Buffalo, New York and Boston, and won success as a recitationist. After Miss Hubbart's marriage to James Barker, a merchant of Montana, she lived for more than eight years among the grand scenes and silences of the Rocky Mountains. Like Walt Whitman, Mrs. Barker deemed these years of separation from crowds and nearness to Nature in her sublimest moods among the best of her life. Here she received a prize for "My Round Tower in the West" from the Helena Herald, by unanimous consent of the judges, and wrote gratuitously for Montana papers, sometimes over the signature of "Serena." Three years since she went to California for the hopeful restoration to health of her invalid husband. After a year of careful journeyings from one health resort to another, Mrs. Barker was left a widow at San Rafael, Cal., which place has since been her home. Mrs. Barker is slowly recruiting her depleted energies, and has many unpublished poems which she hopes to use. Her best work has not yet seen the light of the press-room. J. G. C. WHEN THE MISTS HAVE ROLLED AWAY. WHEN the mists have rolled in splendor And the sunshine warm and tender CHORUS. We shall know as we are known, In the dawning of the morning If we err in human blindness And forget that we are dust, And the mists have cleared away. CHORUS When the silver mist has veiled us From the faces of our own, Oft we deem their love has failed us, And we tread our path alone; We should see them near and truly, We would trust them day by day, Neither love nor blame unduly If the mists were cleared away. CHORUS |