The dear ones at home, she prayed God to bless, Send ravens each day from his boundless store, 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 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 Wide spreading in beauty, and swelling with might, An anthem of praise for the hero who stood, 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 a county that is noted for the intellect of the fair daughters thereof. * APRIL TWENTY-SIXTH.* Gather to-day the blue-bird is ringing Over the aisles of the forest his singing, Sunshine with roses and music is wed; The day the graves of the "Confederate" dead are dressed with flowers. Give to the soldiers who nobly have perished; Give with spring blossoms to garland each grave; Fill up the ranks, an unbroken column March with bowed heads in reverence solemn, 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, Echoing still with musketry's rattle, 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, Worthy the dust, for this sweet consecration, "Not at home!" NOT AT HOME. 'T was a night when the sky seemed to wear With glorious effulgence the light of each star, Some clustering together like Eastern pearls strewn, And some like a diamond burning alone. The air, clear and cold, like a sabre was keen, While icicled spears, in their glittering sheen, Were pointing a roof with frost-moss overspread Moss purely white, as the brow of the dead. The roof of a mansion that loomed to the sky, Of pure Doric marble, with pillars so high, With groining and arches, with turrets and towers, The broad entrance twined with white marble flowers. Without, all was splendor and winter and night; For sunshine streamed down from the bright lamps, that swung Through rich damask curtains, with roseate glow Bloomed Melanie Maxwell, sceptred and crowned That rippled like threads of spun gold, when unbound, Her well-moulded head: her small pearl-cut ear, Was curving with loveliness, graceful and warm. 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! Let an angel be sent to a French boarding-school, 66 Its feet placed in stocks, its wings laced in stays, Poor Melanie's mother and she were twin-born, For ten pleasant years, the child scarce had known She woke with the flowers at earliest dawn, |