LONE

IONE L. JONES.

ONE ELIZABETH LUSK was born at Coxsackie, on the Hudson, and was the eldest of a family of six girls. Her mother, dreaming over her first child, used to wish there might be a writer in the family, and, as if in response to the unspoken desire, Ione began scribbling verses at an early age. She is a person of warm sympathies, ready tact, possessing much of that charity which in the Book of books is writ "Love." In 1872 her parents removed to Catskill village, N. Y., and shortly after, Ione was married to G. Howard Jones, a young lawyer of that place, where, with their two children, aged nine and eleven, they now reside.

Mrs. Jones is one of the best of companions, possessing a keen and ready wit and a quiet sense of humor, appreciating all that is interesting in human life. From childhood she has indicated the possession of many gifts, and now uses pen, brush, and piano or violin (and housewifely broom,) with readiness. Her first verses were published in 1884, and though she has written chiefly in a lighter vein, some of her unpublished poems show deeper channels of thought which speak of wider scope for her future work.

HOME.

A MAN can build a mansion

And furnish it throughout;

A man can build a palace,

With lofty walls and stout;

A man can build a temple,

E. F. B.

With high and spacious dome; But no man in the world can build That precious thing called Home.

It is the happy faculty

Of woman far and wide,

To turn a cot or palace

Into something else beside

Where brothers, sons and husbands, tired,
With willing footsteps come;

A place of rest, where love abounds,
A perfect kingdom-Home.

MARCH.

BOLD March! Wild March!

Oh! you saucy fellow!

Even though your voice is rough. We know your heart is mellow.

Hush! You'll wake the children up,

They are sweetly sleeping,
Daffodil and Buttercup
Still are silence keeping.
Sing, then, low, softly blow,
Whisper sweetly, softly-so.
So now.

There now.

Listen to the clatter!

Pink Arbutus stirs in bed
And wonders what's the matter.
All the icy fleets set free,
Down the streams are rushing;
Toward the everlasting sea
Wildly, madly pushing.

Blow, then, blow! Let them go!
Winter's reign is o'er, we know.

Up hill, down dale,

Over moor and mountain;

Shout and sing "Awake! 'Tis spring!"
Burst forth, O laughing fountain!
Bend, tall elms, your graceful heads!
Swing low, O weeping willows!
Stretch, little blades of grass; for March
Has come to air your pillows.
Arouse, O, Pine! Awaken Larch!

And greet spring's trumpeter-brave March.

A SPRING IDYL.

FAIR young mother, with children three,
What may the names of your jewels be?
Whisper, I pray, the secret to me.

My first-born treasure is brave and bold,
Warlike and blustering. In him behold
March, my soldier! in pride be it told.

Fickle and wild, running over with fun,
Her tears born of rain-drops, her smiles of the sun,
Is dear little April-my sweet, wayward one.

Enshrouded in flowers from her head to her feet,
Comes my own dainty darling in contentment

sweet

May. Of all blessings, my own most complete.

And the fair young mother, on time's swift wing, With her jewels so rare, passed on; and the ring Of their footfalls was all that was left me of Spring.

A NOVEMBER DAY.

A DAMP gray blanket hides the mountain's blue, The day is sad and long;

The East Wind blows no hint of sunshine through, And hushed the wild bird's song.