I know a vast amount of stocks,

A vast amount of pride insures ; But Fate has picked so many locks

I would n't like to warrant yours. Remember, then, and never spurn

The one whose hand is hard and brown,

For he is likely to go up,

And you are likely to come down.

Another thing you will agree,

(The truth may be as well confessed)

That "Codfish Aristocracy"

Is but a scaly thing at best.

And Madame in her robe of lace,
And Bridget in her faded gown,

Both represent a goodly race,

From father Adam handed down.

Life is uncertain-full of change;

Little we have that will endure; And t' were a doctrine new and strange That places high are most secure ;

And if the fickle goddess smile,

Yielding the scepter and the crown,

'T is only for a little while,

Then B. goes up and A. comes down.

This world, for all of us, my friend

Hath something more than pounds and pence;

Then let me humbly recommend,

A little use of common sense.

Thus lay all pride of place aside,

And have a care on whom you frown;

For fear you'll see him going up,

When you are only coming down.

The author of these two poems was Mary Frances Tyler, a young girl of seventeen, small in figure, with curling hair and bright gray eyes, living in Michigan. She had early manifested a poetic taste, and, though so young, had written considerably for local papers. Her first published poem was penned when she was but ten years old; and several poems written between her thirteenth and fifteenth years attracted considerable attention, and drew forth complimentary letters from distinguished people.

In 1856 Miss Tyler was married to Dr. E. L. Tucker, who practiced his profession in Macon, Mich., until the war broke out, and then went to the front as Lieutenant in the Fourth Michigan Cavalry. He died at Chattanooga, October 5th, 1863, after gallant service -one of those fallen heroes whom the country lovingly remembers, and left his young wife a widow, with three small children to care for. Something of the bereaved one's loneliness speaks through this tender tribute, which was written for The Saturday Evening Post :

INDIAN SUMMER.

Just such a day in autumn,

Hazy and soft and sweet,
With the Indian Summer walking
Abroad with her sandaled feet,

Her dusky locks disheveled,

Her dun robes trailing about

Just such a dreamy, golden day,

The light of a life went out

Afar on a southern hillside,

Where the sycamore branches wave,
Where the sweet magnolias blossom,

They hollowed and shaped a grave.

Oh, beautiful, perished darling!

Oh, tenderest heart and true!

If only its narrow chamber

Had folded and sheltered two!

Year after year the grasses

Curtain that lowly bed;

Summers garland their roses

Over the precious head:

Softly the sentinel cypress

Weaves with the mournful yew;

Would that their whispering branches
Shielded and shadowed two!

Again the Indian Summer

Goeth abroad as of old,

Bearing her gorgeous banners,

Crimson, and flame, and gold.

But alas for her royal beauty!

She is girded around about

With the weeds of an awful sorrow,
For the light of a life gone out.

Several years ago Mrs. Tucker removed to Omro, Wisconsin, her present residence. Always writing more or less for publication, her life is still a retired one, and she rather shrinks from than desires recognition. None of her later efforts have met with such popularity as has been accorded the two poems specially referred to, yet

she has written many things far superior to those in real poetic merit. Her recent poems show increasing delicacy of thought and expression, and give evidence that these years of womanly devotion to the child-life in her charge are bearing worthy fruit. Very daintily done is this, which first appeared in The Phrenological Journal:

A PICTURE.

I want to make a picture with my pen,

And though the unskilled limner's hand may blot,

It can not be disguised, for there is not

Another like it in the world of men.

A face of faultless beauty. Every line

Princely and peerless; royal-browed and fair,
Framed in the splendor of such sun-touched hair

As artists copy, making art divine.

Clear well-like eyes, whose yearning tenderness
Proclaims the poet-passion, strong but fine,
And more bewildering than ancient wine—
Compared with them the very stars look less.
Nor dazzling ruby, pearl, nor amethyst,

Combine the beauty of the perfect mouth;
Dewy and fragrant as the tropic south,

Oh, sweetest lips that ever woman kissed!

And far surpassing symmetry of lines,

The rare expression, the peculiar grace,
Lighting it all, as an illumined vase,
Reflects the hidden glory it enshrines.

So I have made my picture. And what then
If it hath fallen far and far below

Mrs. Tucker has been editorially connected with several local journals, and displays much ability as a writer of prose. Several stories from her pen have been well received. A member of no church, she has long been to some extent identified with the Universalist denomination, having contributed considerably to its publications, and uniformly worshiping with it. But though making no profession of religion, not a little that she writes is warm with religious feeling, and breathes of a heart religiously inclined. The following is a comprehensive recognition of divine presence :

THOU

Father, O Fathe:! surrounded with ills,
Dangers beset me, and evils betide,
Yet through the valleys, and over the hills,
Thou art my guide!

Wearily bearing my burden of woe!
Helpless humanity, sorely distressed;
On toward the heavenly mansions I go,
Thou art my rest!

When through the stormy and perilous night,
Feebly with faltering footsteps, I grope;
Having no refuge, nor shelter, nor light;
Thou art my hope!

What though the world my deficiency knows,

What though it cavil, and censure and laugh ;