The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-06-02

Reviewers it and spoiled it.
 All the long August afternoon,
 The little drOwsy stream
 Whispers melancholy tune
 As if 1t dreamed of June And whispered in it's dream
 There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead; Only the querulous cricket grieyes And shrilling locust weaves song of summer dead.
 This is a beautiful picture; it is full of suggestion; of beautiful suggestion. The reference to leaves reminds us of little novel recently written by Miss Amelie Rives. This novel begins with description of weather, and in this description we read that the dry leaves were driven hither and thither by the incessant rain.
 That the poet IIowells is all admirer of Longfellow appears in the poems "Drifting Away" and "The Movers" for the ancients spoke truly when they argued that imitation is the sim cerest admiration.
 Parting was over at last, and all the good byes
 had been spoken.
 Up the long hillside the white.t tented wagon Bearing the mother and children, while on.
 ward before them the father TTudged with his gun on his arm, and the
 faithful housedog beside him, Grave and sedate, as ifknowing the sorrowful
 thoughts of hls master"
 The words "grave" and "sedate" appear to be favorites with the poet. They occur again in "The Poets Friends"
 The robin sings in the elm;
 The cattle stand beneath,
 Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes,
 And fragrant meadow breath.
 It seems that in the field of humor and of dialect our Howells once ex- plotted genius whose fire now in- spires the best and most popular of the Hoosier bards-viz., James Whit comb Riley. To the Ohio Farmer, April 13, 1858, MT. Howells contrib uted the following verses, entitled:
 DEEP ROCK. fell'r may live till he reckons he knows
 petty much all wuth knowin', But the longer he lives the more he finds that the we world keeps on a-grSwin';
 my marr'd daughter,
 An there met up with a new -fangled trick
 at folks calls miner'l water. Wasn't feelin' none too pesrt, sperrits was
 kind CT droopn-
 Reckon pint CT tansy gin ud CT fetched me But Lizzie allowed when folks was sick along
 in the spring they'd Orter Doctor their livers with that ere stun 'at
 folks calls miner1 water. Harnsome liquor as ever flowed, an clear as
 the Mamy river
 But stronger'n a yoke CT speckled steers when
 it tackles fell'r's liver; Took one swig on't-thess fir fun-then for a
 a
 Didn't do much but loaf around tendin' that
 minerl water.
 Made all the home folks maddern fire, spe.
 cially Daughter Lizzie
 Didn't hey time for visitn' 'em-water kep'
 keepin' me busy;
 Of all the-say. eff you're feelin' sick or under
 the weather sorter,
 Jes sen to town for bottle or two of that nice, smooth mIner1 water. Since MT. Howells left the west he has written very little verse. It is probable that in the noisy streets of Gotham he finds little inspiration to set the little bird to singing in his heart. We remember to have heard the eminent John A. Cockerill say {: "To the man fresh from the west, life in this great city is oppressive; the high buildings, the multitudes of peo- pie, even the very atmosphere weighs him down." Yet we doubt not that ever and anon the poet Howells wan ders in mind back to the pleasant rural scenes of yore, and that there then comes into his bosom that same yearning that forced from the gifted Ada Sweet the impassioned cry: Oh, for the trill of a robins note And whiff of the new -mown hay, And oh, for book in the quiet nook Of the barn where the dorkings lay.
 To the perusal of Mir. Stedman and his fair collaborateur we would com mend this reference to our poet in a review printed in the New York Sdt- urday Press nearly thirty years ago |: "Mr. Howells is a man of genius. We do him justice; we do not pay bim & compliment. His genius is not, in- deed, of the highest order; but it is genius, nevertheless. All along the chain of his thought play keen lightning jets of poetic passion which illumine the dark places of the human heart as lightning illumes the midnight sky"
 l In "Poets and Poetry of the West'' but three specimens of Colonel Horace Rublee's poetic fire are printed, and these are introduced by predatory note 80 remarkable that we give it fully: "Horace Rublee, to whom poll itics are [sic1 now greater than poetry [this was in 1S60], holds the office of state librarian of Wisconsin and is the editor of the Sfate Journal, published at Madison. He was born about thirty years ago in Vermont; he came to Wisconsin at the age of ten, and is consequently one of the oldest inhab- itants.' We believe he no longer po- etizes, and attributes his former poet ry to youthful impressibility and in experiences. The following pleasant verses indicate the possession of tal-