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A BOOK OF NEW HAMPSHIRE INTEREST

A stalwart and handsome volume, as stately as "The Frigate Medusa' and as trim and fast moving as "The Speedwell Privateer," is the 412 page book written by Ralph D. Paine of Durham and published by the Century Company, New York, under the title, "Lost Ships and Lonely Seas." The 17 illustrations, from paintings by Waugh and others, and from old prints, add to its interest, but give no better pictures of sailors, seas and ships than are drawn in easy prose by Mr. Paine, who writes of such things with an understanding equalled by few Americans.

In other books Mr. Paine has told of the boxes of iron and steel in which men go over and under the sea today. In reports of facts and in creations of fiction he has given us the most appreciative accounts of what was dared and endured and won by the boys who manned our submarines in the world war. From his own experience he has told the sea side of the Spanish War and has put on paper the reactions of a man in a Yale shell as Harvard changes defeat to victory on the Thames.

But this volume is of different type. In it he goes back a couple of centuries to the days when sailormen still wooed the winds, and mast and spar bloomed for the breezes with great clouds of canvas; to "the roaring days of piracy;" to the days when the Sargasso Sea was still a mystery and the South Seas had been violated by no passionate press agent;

when there were mutineers and castaways, with new lands to find and new peoples to see.

Mr. Paine, like the good newspaper man, he used to be, headlines his 17 tales attractively from "The Singular Fate of the Brig Polly" to "The Noble King of the Pelew Islands." First choice for us must go, to "Captain Paddock on the Coast of Barbary" because it is introduced with a reference to the "frigate, the Crescent, which sailed from the New England harbor of Portsmouth, whose free tides had borne a few years earlier the brave keels of John Paul Jones's Ranger and America," a gift from this government to the Bey of Algiers as part of a "humble tribute to this bloody heathen pirate in the hope of softening his heart."

But, as Mr. Paine says, a little later, "while Europe cynically looked on and forebore to lend a hand, Commodore Preble steered the Constitution and the other ships of his squadron into the harbor of Tripoli, smashed its defenses and compelled an honorable treaty of peace. Of all the wars in which the American Navy has won high distinction there is none whose episodes are more brilliant than those of the bold adventure on the coast of Barbary."

And with those episodes, also, Portsmouth had a connection which we recall through the fact that one of her most gallant and brilliant sons bore the name of Admiral Tunis Craven.

AT TWILIGHT

By Lucy W. Perkins

The twilight softly falls;
A lone thrush calls

Divinely sweet,

As though in rarer sphere

Some spirit dear

Love longs to greet.

Such call my heart would send,
O sweetest friend,

Through space unknown,

Your waiting soul to find

And closer bind

Unto mine own.

WHAT WOULD I MORE?

By Elias H. Cheney.

(On His 90th Birthday, Jan. 28, 1922)
Thou, who e'er thy flock defendest;
Who each added blessing sendest;
Thou who borrowed time extendest;
What thou willest that I borrow;
One year more or but tomorrow,
Fill with joy, and spare me sorrow.

Thou, almighty to deliver,
Gracious, loving sin-forgiver;
When I fathom Jordan's river,
With thy banner waving o'er me,
Roll the waters back before me;

If my Faith grow weak, restore me.

Where God's sun is ever shining;
Where each cloud has silver lining;
Quite completed soul refining;
Where those lost a while will meet me;
Kindly welcome, sweetly greet me-
In thy presence, Father, seat me.

There'll be no goodbyes up yonder;
Friendships sweeter, purer, fonder,
And sincerer! O, what wonder!
Nothing from God's love can sever
Those who enter there; no, never.
With the Lord; at home; Forever!

MORNING IN THE VALLEY OF THE MAD RIVER

By Adelene Holton Smith

Aurora the maid of the dawn
Peeps over the rim of the world,
The maid of the mist is fast asleep
In her gossamer draperies curled.
The maid of the mist is a lily maid,
A lily white and cold

But the maid of the dawn is a golden rose
Most glorious to behold.

The maid of the dawn slips over the rim.
She kneels by the maid of the mist
The eyelids flutter, the draperies stir
The sisters have clasped and kissed.

A DREAM OF MT. KEARSARGE

By Alice Sargent Krikorian.

Thou member of a mighty Titan brood
Of giants, whose cloud-wreathed summits lure
Our pilgrim feet from meadows safe and sure
To woodsy paths the Red Men understood,
O'er rocky cliff, and up thy granite side,
Until we gain the peak, the longed for prize.
There, bathed in silver sheen, afar off lies
The lake of Maine, and proudly, as a bride

Is followed from the altar to the door,

So mountain follows mountain, crest on crest;
Webster, Franklin, Washington,—the rest
Of that Great Galaxy, that pour

Their glory, till our very senses reel;
We gaze in wonder, glad that we can feel
New Hampshire's earth, and if we nevermore
Dear Kearsarge, breathe thy winds that sing
Of Presidential Range and Carter's Dome,
In wintry nights, when winds are whistling,
My happy heart, remembering, will stray
To those sweet summer hours, when alone
Upon thy breast I dreamed the time away.

TO AN ICICLE

By F. R. Bagley

O thou most wonderfully constructed mass
Of ordered matter, destined soon to pass,
Colder than crocodilian tears-aye, colder
Than the proverbial feminine cold shoulder,
Pellucid as a drop of virgin dew

Distilled from vapor chastened through and through,
Brittle as glass, and compact as the dome

Of surly Ajax; whiter than the foam

Cast up by mounting tides upon the sands.
Brilliant as gems upon my lady's hands,-

Pendant from shelving eaves or drooping bough.
Thou art a first-class bunch of beauty now.

But hold, don't get conceited! There's no doubt
That thou art destined soon to peter out.
Thy charms-thy very life-hangs on the weather,
More fickle far than all things else together.
Thy fragile figure fashioned without flaw-
Wait 'till the the weather man declares a thaw!
A few strong, searching calorific rays,
Shot by Old Sol, will surely end thy days,-
Loosen thy frostbound particles, and so
Detach thy grip and lay thee, sprawling, low.
Alas! that beauty such as thine should hold
So little natural warmth and so much cold.

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