Mrs. S. Watson Hamilton

On taking up a volume of Byron, the careful reader will feel that the author had chosen Edmund Spenser as his model. And while some of the proofs for his opinion may be so subtie as to baffle analysis, yet the inevitable conclusion will the that he is correct. So, in reading "The Angel of the Covenant" for the first time, the reader will feel that the authoress has taken Milton as her model, developed a theme, and then written the book with her Bible on her knee. "The Angel of the Covenant" is probably the longest religious epic written in Oregon. The peculiar nature of the subject and the lengthy treatment given it has destined the poem to resemble the "Paradise Lost," in that its number of admirers will probably exceed its number of readers. It is not at all presumptuous to assert that the poem will live a century; hence it must be a satisfaction to believe that one's writings will go on preaching some immortal truth to the children of men long after the author has finished her work.

Throughout the poem Mrs. Hamilton deals with stern religious truths as eloquent facts, and exhibits a devotional spirit directed by that wisdom that comes from philosophy and interpretation; her poems are therefore intellectual. She rarely alludes to nature, but, if she were to enjoy a bouquet of flowers, she would revel in their variety, arrangement and beauty, and be delighted with their fragrance, which would be poetical; unconsciously she might go a step further and ask why are they beautiful. This would still be poetical. But when she begins to analyze their aromas to ascertain the kinds and the proportion of each that pleases her she enters a realm of investigation which causes most minds to think so intensely that the heart loses its opportunity to feel.

Hence, at times the poem becomes somewhat metaphysical, and consequently appreciated by those who read it more as mental than as spiritual food. It is worthy of a place on the center table of every Oregon home where religious thought is given.

E. S. McComas

THE OLD PIONEERS.

They have come from the valley, and from the mountains down,

They are gathered from the country, from the city and

the town,

They came to swap reminiscences of time now on the

wane,

Of the anxious months of dangers, of "the trip across the plains."

Their ranks are getting thinner and their forms are bending low,

Their eyes are growing dimmer and their locks are white as snow,

Give them every comfort, tho' they carry well their years, They are grand old men and women, these "Old Pio

Let their annual reunions continue ever on

Until the last old pilgrim among them is gone!

They have sown the golden wheat where the camas once

did grow,

And the palace car now follows the trail the pack mule

used to go.

The school house takes the place of the Indian "Wickeyup,"

And they who wrought the change deserve the "Golden

Cup."

Scatter flowers in their pathway, adown declining years, They are grand old men and women, these "Old Pio

neers.'

Blanche Fearing

All peoples have had their blind bards who gave the world some message that was withheld from those "who having eyes yet see not"; and we say this is a Homer who inspired the soldiery of the world, or an Ossian who made Scottish legends more precious, or a Milton who "undertook what no man ought to have undertaken, and did with it what no other man could have done”—-described heaven. It would be presumptuous to claim that we have had either of these, but we have had a blind poetess who like a comet swept suddenly across our orbit. Her name was Lilian Blanche Fearing. No one knew whence she came or whither she went; but some time in the quiet City of Rosburg she learned of a sleeping infant and left these lines, which may be found in her book entitled "The Sleeping World":

LET HIM SLEEP.

Oh, do not wake the little one,
With flowing curl upon his face,

Like strands of light dropped from the sun,
And mingled there in golden grace!

Oh, tell him not the moments run

Through life's frail fingers in swift chase!
"Let him sleep, let him sleep!"

There cometh a day when light is pain,
When he will lean his head away,
And sunward hold his palm, to gain
A respite from the glare of day;
For no fond lip will smile, and say,
"Let him sleep, let him sleep!"

Hush! hush! wake not the child!

Just now a light shone from within,
And through his lips an angel smiled,
Too fresh from heaven for grief to win;
Oh, children are God's undefiled,

Too fresh from heaven to dream of sin!
"Let him sleep, let him sleep!"

B. J. Hawthorne

UNIVERSAL EDUCATION.

When many people at the same time manifest great interest in an object, a strong current of popular opinion sets in towards that object-an irresistible current. When the balance of ignorance in a community is greater than the balance of knowledge, it is certainly time that the current should be formed. Yes, even before the community begins to suffer for want of knowledge.

The interest manifested in education by this country is an indication of our high appreciation of the necessity and benefits of schools. The schools are a power for good. Whatever a citizen can do to aid popular education, aids the development of the community in which he lives; aids it materially as well as spiritually.

I would beg leave to state that the moral and intel lectual welfare, that the material welfare of this mighty Nation is in the hands of the school teachers-is dependent upon the education of its citizens.

The safety of our republican and democratic form of government will be found in universal education. It is not enough to teach reading, writing, and arithmetic, but philosophy, literature, aesthetics and higher culture in all the branches of human knowledge. The foundation of our educational establishment was laid on a rock near the Atlantic-additions to the original have been built until now it reaches the far-off Pacific. May the structure rise and rise until it reaches heaven.

Jesse Applegate

AN EVENING ON THE PLAINS.

But time passes; the watch is set for the night, the council of the old men has broken up, and each has returned to his own quarter. The flute has whispered its last lament to the deepening night. The violin is silent, and the dancers have dispersed. Enamored youth have whispered a tender "good night" in the ear of blushing maidens, or stolen a kiss from the lips of some future bride for Cupid here as elsewhere has been busy bringing together congenial hearts, and among these simple people he alone is consulted in forming the marriage tie. Even the doctor and the pilot have finished their confidential interview and have separated for the night. All is hushed and repose from the fatigues of the day, save the vigilant guard, and the wakeful leader who still has cares upon his mind that forbid sleep.

He hears the ten o'clock relief taking post and the "all well" report of the returning guard; the night deepens, yet he seeks not the needed repose. At length a sentinel hurries to him with the welcome report that a party is approaching-as yet too far away for its character to be determined, and he instantly hurries out in the direction seen. This he does both from inclination and duty, for in times past the camp had been unnecessarily alarmed by timid or inexperienced sentinels, causing much confusion and fright amongst women and children, and it had been made a rule, that all extraordinary incidents of the night should be reported directly to the pilot, who alone had the authority to call out the military strength of the column, or so much of it as was in his judgment necessary to prevent a stampede or repel an enemy.

Tonight he is at no loss to determine that the approaching party are our missing hunters, and that they