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The dear ones at home, she prayed God to bless,
And when she had prayed for all of the rest, "God pity the poor all around our doors,
Send ravens each day from his boundless store, With bread in their mouths for the hungry poor, As the prophet was fed in the days of yore."
The robber stole out from the house that night
But richer by far in a something else
He could not have bought and would not have sold. And he sat him down by his fireless hearth,
Yet not in despair as he'd done before,
But trusting the morn would bring to his door
And the children stopped in their hungry cry
To stare at the maid with her strange behest;
The lily-white dove with the golden crest
MISS KATE C. WAKELEE.
ISS WAKELEE is one of those talented women who have yet to make a literary career. A friend of hers says: "Of all shrinking and modest women, Miss Wakelee is most so.” For twelve years she has written constantly, but, mimosa-like, has shrunk from the ordeal of publication. A story from her pen appeared in the “Saturday Evening Post," Philadelphia, and one in the " American Union," Boston. In 1863, the novelette of "India Morgan; or, The Lost Will," was a successful competitor for a prize offered by the "Southern Field and Fireside" newspaper. A novelette entitled, "The Forest City Bride," a tale of life in Savannah and Augusta during the war, furnished to "Scott's Magazine," was a lifelike narrative. Miss Wakelee is very natural indeed in her delineations of life and manners. She needs a friendly, encouraging hand, and I honestly believe is destined, at no distant day, to take a front rank among the writers of our land.
Before the war, Miss Wakelee wrote only to please her friends. The following tribute to the brave commander of the ill-fated steamship "Central America," printed in Godey's "Lady Book," December, 1858, was from her pen:
TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN HERNDON.
A song for the brave-let it roll like the sea
From every red lip that has pillowed a prayer,
Re-echoed by angels through viewless air,
An anthem of praise for the hero who stood,
Undaunted and firm, in the battle of death---
Above him, in fury, the wild tempest's breath;
A single thought stirred his heart's quivering strings-
Down, down in the depths of the deep he may lie,
The spot all unmarked to the swift passer o’er,
Bright angels descend to his pillow at even,
There keep watch until Earth shall melt into Heaven.
Now, like most of our Southern women, Miss Wakelee is comparatively impoverished, and her pen must become a "mighty instrument."
Miss Wakelee was born in Connecticut, a great-granddaughter of Governor Law, of that State; but she has lived so long in Georgia, has so thoroughly identified herself with the interests of that State and the South, that no one ever remembers she was not to the " manor born."
Miss Wakelee is elegantly educated, polished in manners, of a cheerful and sympathizing temperament, making her, as a gentleman remarks, the friend and favorite of everybody. She is charming in conversation, and her manuscript is the neatest and most legible of any of the "Southland writers."
Her home is in Richmond County, Georgia noted for the intellect of the fair daughters thereof.
a county that is
Gather to-day the blue-bird is ringing
The day the graves of the "Confederate" dead are dressed with flowers.
Give to the soldiers who nobly have perished;
Gather the old, with locks silver-sprinkled ;
Even the lambs of the flock should be there;
All of the brave, the noble and fair.
Roll back the years to the dark days of battle,
Learn what we are to the brave hearts who stood Serried like steel with the foemen contending, Marching to death like heroes unbending,
Only surrendering with their heart's blood.
Reverent hearts the death-roll should number,
NOT AT HOME.
"Not at home!"
'T was a night when the sky seemed to wear
The air, clear and cold, like a sabre was keen,
Without, all was splendor and winter and night;
That rippled like threads of spun gold, when unbound,
Or braided all glossily, circled around
Her well-moulded head: her small pearl-cut ear,
Here would we might pause. Strange that aught should mar
Creation so faultless, so dazzlingly fair.
Woe, woe, that the mandates of fashion should rule!
Poor Melanie's mother and she were twin-born,
For ten pleasant years, the child scarce had known