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CAROLINE DANA HOWE.

AROLINE DANA HOWE was born in Fryeburg, Maine, but has resided in Portland since early childhood. Her pleasant house, on one of the most beautiful streets of the city, now shared with the family of her nephew, was the home of her parents, and she has lived in it more than thirty years. There has been written most of the poems that have given her a position among the leading singers of a state that enjoys the peculiar distinction of having furnished a large proportion of the best lyric verse of our country. A Massachusetts critic, in enumerating the eight songs by American women sung everywhere, calls attention to the fact that four of them were written in Maine, and one of them, "Leaf by Leaf the Roses Fall," by the subject of this sketch. This popular song was written by Mrs. Howe in 1856, and first published in Gleason's Pictorial. A few years later it appeared in another Boston paper, set to music, the composer claiming the words as his own. Several other composers have been equally unscrupulous, and it was not until after many years that the question of authorship was finally settled, through the efforts of Mr. Oliver Ditson, and proper credit given thereafter by various publishers.

Her first literery work appeared in the Portland Transcript, and in this, as in other leading publications her contributions of prose and verse have long been favorably received by the public. She has written for many important occasions, and been ever ready to lend the aid of her versatile and gifted pen to charitable enterprises. In 1862, the Massachusetts S. S. Society published in book form a story written by her, which has passed through several editions.

Her verse is characterized by lyric power, by grace of dicton, by religious fervor and aspiration, and a sincere heartiness that reaches by the surest path the hearts of all readers. It has been found admirably adapted for music, and more than thirty of her hymns and songs are published in collections for church choirs, and in sheet music, and have become very popular.

We cannot give a better idea of the feeling she inspires among her friends and intimates, than by quotations from a letter written by her sister-insong, Mrs. Frances L. Mace, who first met her at a literary gathering in Portland. She says, "I shall never forget my first view of her. There was that in the greeting that made me strangly desirous for her further acquaintance. Bright, sympathetic, witty and kind, she made every one happy, and was the right hand of our hosts. In three years correspondence I find her a perennial fount of fresh and sparkling thought, and wide intelligence. She sees the comical side of people

and things, and her pen has a diamond point; but her keenest hits are without malice."

In 1885 a collection of Mrs. Howe's poems was made under title of "Ashes for Flame and Other Poems," in a handsome volume which was warmly welcomed by her many friends, and met with ready sale. S. T. P

ASHES FOR FLAME. THE amber waves of sunset drift Majestic, up the western skies! They burn, they deepen, as they sift Their glowing coals through vein and rift, Wherein strange altars seem to rise And call for living sacrifice! The picture fades. The clouds uplift

Their mantles gray, with purple dyes, And twilght brings its slow surprise, Ashes for flame! The day's last gift!

Silence through all! The senses reel !

Oh, for a breath, a voice, a sound, To tell that there is life! To feel Where sotitude has set its seal,

A Presence in the deeps profound! Still motionless are earth and air!

Are there no life-springs centred there,
To move their pulses swift and strong
To grand old harmonies of song?

Too long the Sabbath-hush has lain
On fevered brow, and aching brain!
Bright-bird shake out thy plumage rare,
And smite the silence like a prayer.

A single note! a wave! a trill!

High up the quivering leaves among, And hark! a crystal burst of song, Caught up by forest, vale, and hill,

In glad pulsations borne along, Its destined mission to fulfill, Until all Nature is athrill!

O singer at the set of sun,

With recognition still unwon, Upon whose weary heart and brain

The bitter sense of loss has lain, Who gave thee voice, in ways recluse, Hath power to hold it to His use ! Haply thy spirit, brooding long, May smite the silence with a song, That into weary hearts shall drift,

In glad pulsations pure and high, Like living coals through seam and rift, To warm, and light, and beautify!

If thou the simplest song can sing,
By which another's thought may rise
To animate and crystalize,
Although thy song unseen takes wing,
Sing on! And sing unfaltering!
Ere purple shadows onward drift,

And twilight brings its slow surprise, Ashes for flame! The day's last gift.

Fold not thy hands, and in the shadows sit;
Gird on thy faith, and in its might arise!
Hath God in vain this lamp of being lit?
Give answer thou, with soul made sorrow-wise!

One great resolve -one struggle for the true,
One generous purpose blooming in the breast—
A heart to know-a hand to dare and do,
Be these thine own, and leave to heaven the rest!

LEAF BY LEAF THE ROSES FALL.

LEAF by leaf the roses fall,

Drop by drop the springs run dry, One by one, beyond recall,

Summer beauties fade and die; But the roses bloom again,

And the springs will gush anew In the pleasant April rain,

And the summer's sun and dew.

So in hours of deepest gloom,

When the springs of gladness fail, And the roses in their bloom

Droop like maidens wan and pale, We shall find some hope that lies Like a silent germ apart, Hidden far from careless eyes, In the garden of the heart.

Some sweet hope to gladness wed,
That will spring afresh and new,
When grief's winter shall have fled,
Giving place to sun and dew.

Some sweet hope that breathes of spring,
Through the weary, weary time,

Budding for its blossoming,

In the spirit's silent clime.

DROOPING VISIONS.

THE heavens have glory for uplifted eyes, But drooping visions never see the stars. Take thou the lesson, thou made sorrow-wise, And bid thy soul ope wide its prison bars.

Seek light within; where duty bids thee go,
Go thou, with steps unfaltering and firm;
If but one ray of sunshine lends its glow,
That ray shall wake to life some sleeping germ.

What though the Past shows only ruins nigh!
A cheerful courage may rebuild again
A nobler temple, facing toward the sky,

Above whose columns storms shall rage in vain.

A GRAND OUTGROWTH. THROUGH deepest grief, may Love be manifest! For, when the trial and the conflict come, And twin-born Joy and Hope are standing dumb, If we, within the temple of each breast, Shrine faith in God, as knowing what is best, The griefs we bear will hold no martyrdom; For we rise up to entertain His guest,

With calm repose, Love's grand outgrowth therefrom.

And His chastisements cannot fall in vain,
Since grief itself, like an unmeasured chain,
Whose end we see not, as clouds intercept,
Linked to our hearts, may draw them nearer
Heaven,

As toward the shore where Love despairing wept,
Some helmless barque by storms is haply driven.

GOLDEN ROD AND ASTERS.

GOLDEN rod! in autumn splendor,
With your torches all ablaze,
Have you gathered up the sunshine,
Golden sunshine!
From the morning's jewelled sprays,
Rising up to greet September

In its soft and slumberous haze?
Smile you still! but we remember
You are counting off the days,

Heralding November!

Purple asters! sad-eyed, silent,

Do your leaves in tears unfold?
Have you gathered up the shadows,
Purple shadows!
From between the bars of gold,
Making sad your fair young faces
As with sorrows half untold?
Stand you loyal in your places!
With all life, the life we hold,

Blends and interlaces.

R

ness.

ROBERT KIDSON.

OBERT KIDSON is a wage-earner in one of

our big metropolitan stores, and as such he desires to be known. In London, Chicago, New York and Brooklyn he has held good positions in the largest store in each place, in his line of busiHe is a retail carpet salesman. If the voice of the singer in him ever gains the public ear he wishes it to be recognized as "a voice from the crowd," as his sympathies are mainly with the millions amongst whom his lot is cast. He is a lover of streets, and crowds, and vast cities. Nature he worships; human nature he takes to his heart. He has worked like a Hercules for the good of his. kind, and was chiefly instrumental in bringing about the agitation which resulted in the passage of the Saturday Half-Holiday law for the State of New York.

The subject of this sketch is an Englishman, but coming to this country sixteen years ago at twentythree years of age, he soon became enthusiastically American, and a firm believer in a republican form of government. From time to time he has written verses for different magazines and newspapers. Although he has never very persistently pushed his way to the front, yet the fact that he has always been ready at short notice to respond to any demand upon his resources warrants his friend in the belief that he has a reserve store of good things in manuscript which they would like to see in the form of volume. The first of his poems to be copied far and wide were a series of "Trade Rhymes" which appeared some years ago in the pages of The Carpet Trade Review, the organ of the carpet trade of the United States published in New York. Many naturally thought this was his only vein, but were soon surprised to read lyrics from his versatile pen as far removed from the marts of commerce as the sunny isles of the Pacific are distant from London docks.

He says that the reason he has never forsaken a mercantile career for that of literature is because he desires his muse to be free as air, untrammelled and independent. He also says that he likes his business because it compels him to take sufficient physical exercise to insure good health, necessitates steady habits, and returns an income which satisfies his simple tastes, with sufficient left over to provide moderately for old age. He positively scorns riches, not only for the pride engendered thereby, but because of the wasted lives spent in procuring them. He enjoyed a few short years of happy married life, and being left single I have every reason to believe he will remain so, for the idol of his heart is Song, and she is a jealous misMr. Kidson has in preparation a volume of poems to be entitled, "A Voice from the Crowd Poems of Nature and Human Nature." A. F.

tress.