Our gifted young townswoman, Miss Garrard, who has often entertained us with her rare dramatic talent, has contributed, for a number of years, articles in prose and verse to well-known magazines and journals, notably to _Lippincott's Magazine_ and _Life_. In _Lippincott_ for June, 1890, we find a very pretty poem embodying a clever thought and ent.i.tled "A Coquette's Motto". In a previous number appears "A Trip to Tophet", which is a sparkling and graphic description of a descent into a silver-mine at Virginia City, California. In it occurs the following picture of the visitor's surroundings:

"The next few minutes will always be a haunting memory to me. The long, dark pa.s.sages, the burning atmosphere, the scattered lights, the weird figures of the miners appearing, only to vanish the next moment in the surrounding gloom, all recur like some infernal dream".

We select to represent Miss Garrard, the first poem she published in _Life_:

THE PLAQUE DE LIMOGES.

You hang upon her boudoir wall, Plaque de Limoges!

She prizes you above them all Plaque de Limoges!

Yet do your blossoms never move, Although she looks on them with love, And treasures your hard buds above The gathered bloom of field and grove, Insensate, cold Limoges!

Brilliant in hue your every flower, Plaque de Limoges!

Copied from some French maiden's bower, Plaque de Limoges!

But still you let my lady stand-- The fairest lady in the land-- Caressing you with her soft hand, Nor breathe, nor stir at her command, Cold-hearted clay--Limoges!

Would that I in your place might be, Plaque de Limoges!

That she might stand and gaze on me, Plaque de Limoges!

I'd live in love a little s.p.a.ce, Then--fling my flowers from their place, At her dear feet to sue for grace, Until she'd raise them to her face, Happy, but crushed Limoges!

Miss Julia E. Dodge.

Though Miss Dodge finds her place naturally and kindly in the society of our poets, all readers of _The Century_ will remember a charming prose paper of hers called "An Island of the Sea", beautifully ill.u.s.trated by Thomas Moran and published in 1877. Before and since that time, her pen has not been idle, for short, prose articles have been scattered here and there, in various periodicals, and it is difficult to select from the number of thoughtful and delicate poems now before us, one to represent her. The poem, "A Legend of St. Sophia in 1453", is full of spirit and fire. It was written in 1878, when the advance of the Russian forces towards Constantinople seemed to point to the fulfillment of ancient prophecy and the restoration of Christian dominion over the stronghold of Islam. The poem ent.i.tled "Satisfied" was first published in _The Churchman_ and afterwards placed, without the author's knowledge, in a collection called "The Palace of the King", published by Randolph & Co. Among the other poems are: "Our Daily Bread", "Spring Song", "Telling Fortunes", "September Memories", and "To a Night-Blooming Cereus", which last we give princ.i.p.ally because, besides being a beautiful expression of a beautiful thought, it was written under the inspiration of a flower sent to the writer from an ancient plant in a Morristown conservatory.

TO A NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS.

O fleeting wonder, glory of a night, Only less evanescent than the gleam That marks the lightning's track, or some swift dream That comes and, vanishing, eludes our sight!

How canst thou be content, thy whole rich stream Of life to lavish on this hour's delight, And perish ere one morning's praise requite Thy gift of peerless splendor? It doth seem Thou art a type of that pure steadfast heart Which hath no wish but to perform His will Who called it into being, no desire But to be fair for Him; no other part Doth choose, but here its fragrance to distil For one brief moment ere He bid "Come higher"!

Charles D. Platt.

Mr. Platt, the faithful princ.i.p.al of our Morris Academy, has of late, "at odd moments and in vacations," as he says, written verses of local reference and others, upon various subjects, which have been published in our local papers and elsewhere.

Born at Elizabeth, N. J., Mr. Platt lived there until 1883. He was graduated at Williams' College in 1877, taught in the Rev. J. F. Pingry's School in Elizabeth for six years, came to Morristown and took charge of the Morris Academy in 1883, and has retained that position to the present time.

Among the poems which refer to local interests are "Fort Nonsense," which we give in the opening chapter on "Historic Morristown"; "The Old First Church"; "The Lyceum" and "The Washington Headquarters", which last will follow this short sketch, as embodying so much that is interesting of that historic building and its surroundings.

Other of the poems might, perhaps, for some special qualities, better represent Mr. Platt than this; there is the excellent and gay little parody, which we would like to give, of "That Old Latin Grammar". "The Wild Lily" is charming. Then there are "Memorial Day"; "Easter Song"; "Modern Progress"; "A Myth"; and "John Greenleaf Whittier", the last written and published upon the occasion of the poet's death September 16th, 1892.

Besides these, there are the "Ballades of the Holidays" which form a series by themselves, dealing in part with the subject of popular maxims, and including poems for Christmas, New Year's Day, Discovery Day and other holidays. We give

THE WASHINGTON HEADQUARTERS, MORRISTOWN, NEW JERSEY.

What mean these cannon standing here, These staring, muzzled dogs of war?

Heedless and mute, they cause no fear, Like lions caged, forbid to roar.

_This_ gun[A] was made when good Queen Anne Ruled upon Merry England's throne; Captured by valiant Jerseymen Ere George the Third our rights would own.

"Old Nat",[B] the little cur on wheels, Protector of our sister city, Was kept to bite the British heels, A yelping terror, bold and gritty.

_That_ savage beast, the old "Crown Prince",[C]

A British bull-dog, glum, thick-set, At Springfield's fight was made to wince, And now we keep him for a pet.

Upon this gra.s.sy knoll they stand, A venerable, peaceful pack; Their throats once tuned to music grand, And stained with gore their muzzles black.

But come, that portal swinging free, A welcome offers, as of yore, When, sheltered 'neath this old roof-tree, Our patriot-chieftain trod this floor.

And with him in that trying day Was gathered here a glorious band; This house received more chiefs, they say, Than any other in our land.[D]

Hither magnanimous Schuyler came, And stern Steuben from o'er the water; Here Hamilton, of brilliant fame, Once met and courted Schuyler's daughter.

And Knox, who leads the gunner-tribes, Whose shot the trembling foeman riddles, A roaring chief,[E] his cash subscribes To pay the mirth-inspiring fiddles.[F]

The "fighting Quaker", General Greene, Helped Knox to foot the fiddlers' bill; And here the intrepid "Put." was seen, And Arnold--black his memory still.

And Kosciusko, scorning fear, Beside him n.o.ble Lafayette; And gallant "Light Horse Harry" here His kindly chief for counsel met.

"Mad Antony" was here a guest,-- Madly he charged, but shrewdly planned; And many another in whose breast Was faithful counsel for our land.

Among these worthies was a dame Of mingled dignity and grace; Linked with the warrior-statesman's fame Is Martha's comely, smiling face.

But look around, to right to left; Pa.s.s through these rooms, once Martha's pride, The dining hall of guests bereft, The kitchen with its fire-place wide.

See the huge logs, the swinging crane, The Old Man's seat by chimney ingle, The pots and kettles, all the train Of bra.s.s and pewter, here they mingle.

In the large hall above, behold The flags, the eagle poised for flight: While sabres, bayonets, flint-locks old, Tell of the struggle, and the fight.

Old faded letters bear the seal Of men who battled for a stamp; A cradle and a spinning-wheel Bespeak the home behind the camp.

Apartments opening from the hall Show chairs and desks of quaint old style, And curious pictures on the wall Provoke a reverential smile.

Musing, we loiter in each room And linger with our vanished sires; We hear the deep, far-echoing boom That spoke of old in flashing fires.

But deepening shadows bid us go, The western sun is sinking fast; We take our leave with footsteps slow, Farewell, ye treasures of the past.

A century and more has gone, Since these old relics saw their day; That day was but the opening dawn Of one that has not pa.s.sed away.

Our banner is no worthless rag, With patriot pride hearts still beat high; And there, above, still waves the flag For which our fathers dared to die.

[Footnote A: Inscription on this Cannon:--

Gun made in Queen Anne's time. Captured with a British vessel by a party of Jerseymen in the year 1780, near Perth Amboy. Presented by the township of Woodbridge, New Jersey, in 1874.]

[Footnote B: Inscription on "Old Nat:"--

This cannon was furnished Capt. Nathaniel Camp by Gen. George Washington for the protection of Newark N. J. against the British. Presented to the a.s.sociation by Mr. Bruen H. Camp, of Newark, N. J.]

[Footnote C: The inscription upon it is as follows:--