How blest the memory of the just!

How sweet their rest on Eden's shore! They know, where we can only trust; They praise, where we can but implore.

If music here of singing birds

And garnish sunshine thrill the heart, What joy must heavenly seraphs' words, Attuned to golden chords, impart!

Why, when our pure and good in peace
Resign this earth for happier skies,
Should sorrow still refuse to cease,
And grief's hot tear drops sadly rise?

But no! Our tear-drops are the soul That bursts in pearls upon the cheek; Good angels watch them as they roll; The eyes of God were mild and meek.

THE BALLAD OF ROSALIE.

'Twas 'mongst the hop-vined glens of Kent And poppied fields of grain,

The May-day sports were broken in
By mighty drops of rain.

Swiftly the May-queen sought the roof,

With all her blooming court,

And with the crown which on her brow Had laid the merry sport.

Wild rolled the clamor of the skies,

The tempest fiercely howled,

Through dark clouds levin flashed, and then The blackened heavens scowled.

The patriarch of the cottage up

The well-thumbed Bible took,

And sought to make the children hear Words from the blessed Book,

When came such crashing bolts that voice
None in that hour was heard,

Sight e'en was blinded, only sobs
At times the silence stirred.

Expected all to hear the crash

Would set their spirits free, First wind, then forked fire, had torn To shreds the nearest tree.

When, all at once, fair Rosalie,
The little four-year-old,

Said, "Father, look! I see her come
Enclosed in gleaming gold!"

"See whom," the father said, "my child?" "The angel, like to those

Are pictured in our Bible, me
She beckons as she goes,

"Her palm-branch waves she, and she means I shall her follow, see,

See, how she nearer comes to earth,

And seems to call to me!"

The father looked, the mother, all
None could the angel see,
But in the blinding storm went forth
The little Rosalie.

And followed all, not doubting fear

Had crazed the beauteous child, And caring nothing in such mood For all the tempest wild.

Crash, crash, and blinding levin smote
Behind them ruin wide,

The child rushed on in ecstasy,
While all with terror cried.

And, in that moment, 'gan to fade
The gold from out the sky,
And left sweet Rosalie's raptured ken
The angel now so nigh.

And looked the terror-stricken crowd, Behind them, and beheld

A burning ruin flat the house

Whence they had been so spelled,

And all owned then the angel sent
By heaven's sweet charity,
To draw them from the danger forth,
Queen, court, and Rosalie.

WHAT IS A SONNET?

WHAT is a sonnet? 'Tis a little bell
Which rings, on paper, melodies of the heart;
Its silvery tones no terrors rude impart
In tinklings clear its quick-wrought numbers swell
And reign in realms where fairy echoes dwell.
'Tis heard in sweet philosophy's path where start
Tear-drops, full oft, when, free from guile or art,
The touched emotions own Sibylline spell.
Huge bells there be which storm or danger clang,
Or with the epic muse sing fame and arms:
Our little bell such numbers never rang;
Its carillons' peals brings only love's alarms,
Like that which from the altar sends its sound,
Or that which says your guest your door hath found.

M

MARGHERITA ARLINA HAMM.

ISS MARGHERITA ARLINA HAMM was born in Montreal, Canada. She is a descendant from a long line of scholarly ancestors. Among her forefathers were literary men, theologians and soldiers. She has in her veins the best blood of southern France. Her maternal grandfather was Rev. Harold Jean Spencer, a prominent Episcopalian clergyman, who was the author of several widely-known pamphlets of the controversial order. Her paternal grandfather was General Pierre Hamm, a leader in the Liberal party in Montreal, Canada. Miss Hamm was only thirteen years of age when she began to write for the newspapers. She found her first regular position on the Boston Herald, and for four years she did all kinds of work on that journal. She then went to New York and joined the staff of the World. Among her notable work was an interview with Mr. Cleveland on the tariff question, in 1889, which was cabled to the London, Eng, Times. Another well-known achievement was her Bar Harbor interview with Mr. Blaine. She has done much "special" work for most of the New York dailies and at the same time corresponded for a number of western journals. She conducted the women's department of the United Press Literary Budget. Besides her prose work, covering everything in the line of daily journalism, Miss Hamm is a writer of much graceful verse, and her poems have appeared in Current Literature, Youth's Companion, New England Magazine and other leading periodicals. Wherever and whenever brought into direct rivalry with male journalists, she had shown her ability to do the work far better than most of the men, and as well as the best of them. In political work she has been very successful. H. A. T.

THE SILENT WITNESS.
Go where I may by night or day
I cannot hide or flee away.
However gay or fair the scene
This spectre makes all glory mean.

Smiles wreathe my lips, and I forget
The gruesome object there-and yet—
Perchance no eye but mine can see
This silent foe that tortures me.

Ah, who can guess the hidden grief
From which there never comes relief.
The sudden terror, guilty start
That inward bleeding of the heart.