grand cross standing, telleth
His truth unto the soul.
Sing, God's war, earth that shakes!
Sing, sing the peace he makes!

JOHANNA AMBROSIUS

(1854-)

Before the year 1895 the name of the German peasant, Johanna Ambrosius,
was hardly known, even within her own country. Now her melodious verse
has made her one of the most popular writers in Germany. Her genius
found its way from the humble farm in Eastern Prussia, where she worked
in the field beside her husband, to the very heart of the great literary
circles. She was born in Lengwethen, a parish village in Eastern
Prussia, on the 3d of August, 1854. She received only the commonest
education, and every day was filled with the coarsest toil. But her mind
and soul were uplifted by the gift of poetry, to which she gave voice in
her rare moments of leisure. A delicate, middle-aged woman, whose
simplicity is undisturbed by the lavish praises of literary men, she
leads the most unpretending of lives. Her work became known by the
merest chance. She sent a poem to a German weekly, where it attracted
the attention of a Viennese gentleman, Dr. Schrattenthal, who collected
her verses and sent the little volume into the world with a preface by
himself. This work has already gone through twenty-six editions. The
short sketch cited, written some years ago, is the only prose of hers
that has been published.

The distinguishing characteristics of the poetry of this singularly
gifted woman are the deep, almost painfully intense earnestness
pervading its every line, the fine sense of harmony and rhythmic
felicity attending the comparatively few attempts she has thus far made,
and her tender touch when dwelling upon themes of the heart and home.
One cannot predict what her success will be when she attempts more
ambitious flights, but thus far she seems to have probed the aesthetic
heart of Germany to its centre.

A PEASANT'S THOUGHTS

The first snow, in large and thick flakes, fell gently and silently on
the barren branches of the ancient pear-tree, standing like a sentinel
at my house door. The first snow of the year speaks both of joy and
sadness. It is so comfortable to sit in a warm room and watch the
falling flakes, eternally pure and lovely. There are neither flowers nor
birds about, to make you see and hear the beautiful great world. Now the
busy peasant has time to read the stories in his calendar. And I, too,
stopped my spinning-wheel, th