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KATE TUCKER GOODE.

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.

M

It may be when your eyes look into mine

You only say, “How dear she is to me!” Oh, could I read it in your softened glance,

How radiant this plain old world would be!

Perhaps, sometimes, you breathe a secret prayer

That choicest blessings unto me be given; But if you said aloud, “God bless thee, dear!”

I should not ask a greater boon from Heaven.

I weary sometimes of the rugged way;
But should you say, “Through thee my life is

sweet,"
The dreariest desert that our path could cross

Would suddenly grow green beneath my feet.

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.

'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 that true love which crowns our earthly lot, Go praying with white lips from day to day

For love's sweet tokens, and receive them not.

IN MEMORY OF JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

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ANNIE E. HUBBART BARKER.

A

At last we took our separate ways,

Our hearts with anger burning; Each longed to call the other back,

But scorned to think of turning. Ah, me, had we but read aright

The omen clear before us,
We had less lightly held the faith

No future can restore us;
Nor sighed to think how better far

For both of us 'twould be If I had crossed the fields with her,

Or she its hills with me.

WHAT HE SAW AT THE BALL.

So you say you must hear all about the affair,
And first, which of fashion's gay leaders were there?
Let me see! The assemblage was brilliant, no doubt,
And the lions, I heard some one say, were all out;
But as nonchalantly I passed the throng through,
Noting faces and forms, I looked up and missed you;
And the belles of the evening—'tis strange I forgot,
What beauties were there, but I knew you were not.

Weren't the dresses magnificent? So it was said,
And confusions of pink, blue, yellow, and red,
Worth's best, for aught I know, bedizened the hall;
But glancing among them I chanced to recall
Some white, foamy fabric I'd seen upon you,
With soft knots of ribbons, or something in blue;
It is odd I forget the costumes of last night,
I remember so well how you looked in pure white.

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

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.

And the music? Delicious! So dreamily sweet,
'Twould have wooed into motion a fairy's light feet;
But one chord's vibrations suggested the tune
You sang on the river that evening in June.
At first low and longing, it made my heart thrill,
Then, joyous and gladsome, it came at your will;
So it rose o'er the waltzes, and still through my

head
Its passionate sweetness resounded instead.

There were flowers and follies—whatever should be
At such an affair—there was bright repartee;
There was laughter and popping of corks, I believe,
And clinking of glass, still I could but perceive
It was wanting in something-somehow incom-

plete-
So I lit my cigar and strolled into the street.
Yes, I did leave too early. Yet, strange as it seems,
It was no face I'd seen there that shone through my

dreams.

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 risen above us,

As our Father knows His own, Face to face with those that love us

We shall know as we are known: Love, beyond the orient meadows

Floats the golden fringe of day,
Heart to heart we bide the shadows
Till the mists have cleared away.

CHORUS.
We shall know as we are known,

Nevermore to walk alone,
When the Day of Light is dawning

And the mists have cleared away.

WHEN THEY GO SILENTLY.

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