Year: 1869

How many thousands have let their
tears fall over these beautiful lines, as
their touching pathos called into recol-
lection the SAD story of other and similar
victims to mans wanton cruelty In
point Of smooth versifcation, and easy
flowing rhythm, through which is almost
heard the p!antiVe wall of woman's ruin
ed honor, our knowledge of English lit
erature brings TO mind no single poem
Of such thrilling interest.
In the early part of the war, one dark
Saturday morning in the dead Of winter,
there died at the Commercial Hospital,
Cincinnati, young woman over whose
head only two and twenty summers had
passed. She had once been possessed Of
an enviable share of beauty; had been, as
she herself said, e 'fattered and sought for
the charms of her face, but, alas upon
her fair brow had long been written that
terrible word, prostitute, Once the pride
of respectable parents, her first wrong
step was the small beginning of the
'same old story over again" which has
been the only life history of thousands.
But the evil hour that proved her ruin
was but the door from childhood and
haying spent young life in disgrace and
shame, the poor friendless one died the
melancholy death of broken hearted
outcast.


Among her personal effects was found
in manuscript the Beautiful Snow"
which was Immediately carried to Enos
B. Reed, gentleman of culture and lit
erary taste, who was at that time edi tor
of the NATIONAL UNION In the col
umns Of that paper, on the morning of
the day following the girls death, the
poem appeared in print for the first time.
When the paper containing the poem
came out on Sunday morning, the body
Of The victim had not yet received burial.
The attention Of Thomas Buchanan
Reade, one of the first American poets,
was soon directed to the newly published
lines, and he was SO taken with their STIR
ring pathos that he Immediately followed
the corpse to it's fna! resting place.
Such are the plain facts concerning her
whose Beautiful Snow" will long be re-
garded as one Of the brightest gems in
American literature


Oh the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and earth below,
Over the housetops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,


Dancing


Flirting,


Skimming alongi
Beautiful snow it can do no wrong,
Flying to kiss fair Iadys cheek,
Clinging to lips in frolicksome freak,
Beautiful snow from heaven above,
Pure as an angel, gentle as loyel
Oh the snow, the beautiful snow,
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go,
Whirlng about in maddening fun,


Chasing,


Laughing


Hurrying by,
1t lights on the face and it sparkles the eye
And the dogs, with bark and bound,
Snap at the crystals as they eddy around
The town is alive and its heart in a glow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow
How wild the crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song
How the gay sleighs like meteors, flash by,
Bright for moment then lost to the eye;


Ringing


Swinging,
Dashing they go.
Over the crust of the beautiful snow!
Snow SO pure when it falls from the sky,
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by,
To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street
Once was pure as the ow-but l fell,
Fell like the snow-fakes from heaven to hell,
Fell to be tramped as filth on the street,
Fell to be scotfed, to be spit on, and beat;


Pleading,


CurSing,


Oreading to die,
Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
Dealing in shame for a morsel 0fbread;
Hating the living and fearing the dead
Merciful God, have | fallen so low
And yet was once like the beautiful snow.
Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like acrystal, aheart like its glow;
Once | was loved for my innocent grace
Flattered and sought for the charms OF my face
Fathers
Mothers,


Sisters,
God and myself, have lost by my fall;
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by,
Will make a wide sweep lest wander too nigh; ;
For all that is on above me l know,
There is nothing that squire as the beautiful snow
How strange it would be that this beautiful
snow


| Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go
| How strange it would be, when the night
comes again,


| If the snow and the ice struck my desperate


brain;


| Painting,
| Freezing,
Dying alone,
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for moan,
| To be heard in the streets of the crazy town,
Gone man in the joy ofsnow coming down;
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and shroud of the beautiful snow


THE EYE OF AN EAGLE.


The eyes of all birds have peouliari-
ty of structure which enables them to see