People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 June 1894 — The Wood Thrash. [ARTICLE]

The Wood Thrash.

When to the inmost secret of the wood I do betake myself, and therein find A mossy seat, tiowor-broidered to my mind, Whereon to muse of little understood And vexing questions: Whether God be good To send snch pain and toil to all mankind; Or if the world be ruled by nature, blind And deaf and callous to her crying brood. Sudden the silence breaks into a song Such as to summer woodlands doth belong, A song that hath a soul and speaks to mine In heavenly parlance: by that holy sign My faith that tottered is made strong and whole. Nature is God, if nature hath a soul. —Danske Dandridge, in N. Y. Independent. The'Blumberera. They do not care, who sleep beneath the snow, How wild the winds of wintry tempests blow; It matters not to them the driving rain Frets on the headstones like the tears of pain; They heed not anything—ln placid peace They slumber in the city of Surcease I They do not care, who sleep beneath the grass, How tenderly the summer zephyrs pass: It joys them not that valley lilies bloom In saintly spotlessness above their tomb; The cricket’s creering ohirp, the warbler’s psalm, Intrude not on their everlasting calm I They do not care, bless God, they do not care. The grave-girt slumberers, for our despair; The passion of our pain disturbs them not, For in their safe retreat we are forgot I Bless God for this! It comforts our distress That our keen grief grieves not their blessednoss! —Philadelphia Ledger.

The of the Bobln. Oh, the raln-sbng of the robin! How it thrills my heart to hear The rain-song of the robin In the summer of the year I How I long for wings to Join him where his carol poureth free, And for words to beg the secret of his maglo minstrelsy! Does he sing because he revels in the fury of the storm? In the thunder and the lightning does he And a hidden oharm? \ Or with prophet eye, enraptured, doqs he see the darkness past, And the beauty which shall blossom when the clouds disperse at last? When Thy rain on me descendeth, and Thy clouds about me roll, Grant, O God, the power of singing to my tempest-shaken soul! May I see Thy mercy shining far behind the outer gloom! May I hear Thine angels chanting! May I see Thy lilies bloom! \ —Kate Upson Clark, in Harper’s Bazar. Dead on the Field of Battle. Dead on the field of battle! Still we seek Remembrance here when we have gone from here; Oh, may our latest deed ourselvos bespeak, And breathe about the world our wonted cheer! Dead on the field of battle! Heaven send If trust was given us. we keep that trust; If brave, we may be brave unto tho end; So valor shall be kindled from our dust. On some still morn, at calling of tho roll, When storm and stress for me are well gone by. Amid the silent e may some comrade soul, Dead on the field of battle, then reply!, —Edith M. Thomas, in Youth’s Companion. Phoebe. When skies are blue And threaded through With skeins of sunlight spangles, And breezes blow Quite soft and low Amid the tree-top tangles; When summer has tho world in thrall, And joy is sovereign over all, ‘T is curious that a little bird Should utter such a wistful word As "Poor me! Poormel” When days are long, And limbs are strong, And blithe with youth the season; When everything Is tuned to spring And and not to reason; When life is all a holiday With naught of care and much of play, ’T is sinful that a little maid Should such complaining words have said As "Poor mo! Poor me!" —Julie M. Lippman, In SU Nicholas.