M. A. KIDDER.

OW many sympathetic souls there are! souls full of hope and good cheer for all their kind—

souls with a strong faith in God, such as can sing amid sorrow, and see blessings through disguise of pain, and be glad whatever come. Ever since David chanted psalms in the night, humanity has had its sweet hymnal for twilight seasons, as well as for brighter times; and for every down-cast heart, in doubt and struggling, perplexed and questioning as to the end, discouraged and ready to faint, torn and bleeding, it may be, song has been fruitful of blessing. It is soothing as balm; it mollifies like an ointment. Men listen for it as for a promise, and are comforted with the hearing.

Among the bits of melody one oftenest hears by the way, is this entitled

THE BRIGHT SIDE.

There is many a rest in the road of life,
If we only would stop to take it,
And many a tone from the better land,
If the querulous heart would wake it!
To the sunny soul that is full of hope,
And whose beautiful trüst ne'er faileth,
The
grass is green and the flowers are bright,
Though the wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to hope though the clouds hang low,
And to keep the eyes still lifted;

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through
When the ominous clouds are rifted!
There was never a night without a day,

Or an evening without a morning;
And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes,
Is the hour before the dawning.

There is many a gem in the path of life,
Which we pass in our idle pleasure,
That is richer far than the jeweled crown,
Or the miser's hoarded treasure.
It may be the love of a little child,
Or a mother's prayers to heaven,
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks
For a cup of water given.

Better to weave in the web of life

A bright and golden filling,
And to do God's will with a ready heart,
And hands that are swift and willing,
Than to snap the delicate, slender threads
Of our curious lives asunder,

And then blame heaven for the tangled ends,

And sit and grieve, and wonder.

Who first sang it? We asked the question over and over before it found answer. A long time we saw the poem in newspapers with no author's name attached. Later on it appeared credited to Charles Mackay; but some intuition told us Mr. Mackay was not entitled to such credit. Finally we came to know the facts about its authorship, and somewhat concerning its author.

The particular Waif of this chapter was written by Mrs. M. A. Kidder, whose name is often seen in Sunday School Singing Books. Where it first saw the light of print we can not say, or when it originally appeared. Mrs. Kidder is a lady quite well along in life, who supports herself through literary effort, mainly of the rhythmic order. Possessed of an extremely sympathetic nature, and a natural faith in Divine mercy and goodness, she writes such verses as these we have quoted, out of a full heart and abundant experience.

Born in Boston, Mass., and growing up to womanhood in Boston's literary atmosphere, she early took to writing for local periodicals, and continued thus writing, for the pure love of it, year after year. One of her earlier pieces we remember singing to a sad little melody, nearly a score of years ago, and the strains haunt us even now. It was an exhortation to mothers, and thus. it ran:

WATCH, MOTHER.

Mother! watch the little feet,

Climbing o'er the garden wall,
Bounding through the busy street,
Ranging cellar, shed and hall.

Never count the moments lost,

Never mind the time it cost,

Little feet will go astray,

Guide them, mother, while you may

Mother! watch the little hands,

Picking berries by the way,

Making houses in the sands,

Tossing up the fragrant hay.
Never dare the question ask,
"Why to me the weary task?"
These same little hands may prove
Messengers of light and love.

Mother! watch the little tongue

Prattling eloquent and mild,
What is said and what is sung,

By the happy joyous child.
Catch the word while yet unspoken,
Stop the vow before 't is broken;
This same tongue may yet proclaim
Blessings in a Saviour's name.

Mother! watch the little heart

Beating soft and warm for you;

Wholesome lessons now impart ;

Keep, O keep, the young heart true

While extracting every weed,

Sowing good and precious seed,

Harvest rich you then may see,

Ripening for eternity.

Mrs. Skidder received the first money ever paid her for writing, of Nathaniel Willis, father of N. P. Willis, and well known for almost half a century in periodical literature. That was thirty years ago. When war came, her husband, Ellis U. Kidder, entered the army of the Union, and died in defense of his country. Left with three children to care for, what had been largely a recreation became altogether earnest work, and during the

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past decade she has written much for song books and the newspapers, well encouraged by editors in Boston and New York, and by the popularity of her productions. One child was drowned, and her family now numbers one son, of twenty-five years, and a fair daughter, also in her twenties.

One of Mrs. Kidder's songs, entitled " Victory at Last, was sung at Fort Sumter when they raised the old flag on its shattered walls. Of her numerous pieces, but a few are at our hand from which to select in making up this article, yet perhaps those we shall give of the few measure her style of thought, and the range of her poetic art, as well as any others might. She is practical rather than imaginative. In illustration of the fact, we give

BUYING CROWN JEWELS.

Plucking a thorn from the traveler's path,

Turning away a neighbor's wrath ;

Stretching a hand toward the needy soul,

Pointing the way to the distant goal;
Lifting a fallen brother up,

Sweetening the draught in the bitter cup;
Planting sweet flowers on a lonely grave,

Seeking a single soul to save;

Sowing the seed 'gainst the Spring-tide rain,

Watching in love by the bed of pain;

Heeding the orphan's plaintive cry,

Wiping the tears from sorrow's eye;

Shunning to act the liar's part,