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Her characters are remarkable, considering their variety, for fidelity to nature, and her sentiments are marked by womanly delicacy, humanity, and reverence for religion; while over all is the charm of a powerful imagination, with frequent manifestations of the most quiet and delicious humor.”*

"No American woman has evinced in prose or poetry anything like the genius of Alice Cary."

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We have journeyed up together,

Through the pleasant day-time flown; Now my feet have pressed life's summit, And my pathway lies alone.

And, my dear ones, do not call me,
Should you haply be awake,
When across the eastern hill-tops
Presently the day shall break.

For, while yet the stars are lying
In the gray lap of the dawn,
On my long and solemn journey

I shall be awake and gone;
Far from mortal pain and sorrow,

And from passion's stormy swell,
Knocking at the golden gateway

Of the eternal citadel.

Therefore, dear ones, let me slumber-
Faded is the day and gone;
And with morning's early splendor,
I must rise and journey on.

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PAINTER, paint me a sycamore,

A spreading and snowy-limbed tree,
Making cool shelter for three,
And like a green quilt at the door
Of the cabin near the tree,
Picture the grass for me,

With a winding and dusty road before,
Not far from the group of three,
And the silver sycamore-tree.

"Twill take your finest skill to draw

From that happy group of three,
Under the sycamore tree,

The little girl in the hat of straw
And the faded frock, for she
Is as fair as fair can be.

You have painted frock and hat complete!
Now the color of snow you must paint her feet:
Her cheeks and lips from a strawberry-bed;
From sunflower-fringes her shining head.

Now, painter, paint the hop-vine swing
Close to the group of three,

And a bird with bright brown eyes and wing,
Chirping merrily,

"Twit twit, twit twit, twee!"

That is all the song he makes,

And the child to mocking laughter breaks,
Answering, "Here are we,

Father and mother and me!"

Pretty darling, her world is small,-
Father and mother and she are all.
Ah, painter, your hand is still!

You have made the group of three
Under the sycamore-tree,

But you cannot make all the skill

Of your colors say, "Twit twit, twee!"
Nor the answering, "Here are we,
Father and mother and me."

I'll be a poet, and paint with words
Talking children and chirping birds.


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER was born at Burlington, New Jersey, September 15, 1789. At an early age he removed with his father to the neighborhood of Otsego Lake, New York, where he passed his boyhood, "surrounded by noble scenery, and a population composed of adventurous settlers, hardy trappers, and the remnant of the noble Indian tribes who were once sole lords of the domain." *

At thirteen, young Cooper entered Yale College, where he proved himself an excellent classical student: but leaving after a term of three years, he entered the navy as midshipman, and remained six years in the service. He then married, and settled down to a domestic and village life near the city of New York.

Cooper's literary career was begun by accident, as it would seem. One evening, laying aside an English novel which he had been reading to his wife, he remarked, half playfully, that he believed he could write a better one himself. Precaution was the result of this sudden conviction; but, if we may judge of its worth both by its author's and the public's estimation of it, it is not altogether certain that Cooper realized the conceit which gave birth to the effort.

Cooper published, in 1821, what is conceded to have been the first successful American novel, entitled, The Spy, a Tale of the Neutral Ground.

"The rugged, homely worth of Harvey Birch (the Spy), his native shrewdness combined with heroic boldness, which develops itself in deeds, not in the heroic speeches. which an ordinary novelist would have placed in his mouth, the dignified presentation of Washington in the slight disguise of the assumed name of Harper, the spirit of the battle scenes and hairbreadth escapes which abound in the * Duyckinck's Cyclopædia of American Literature.

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