y wing.

Back to their home, the songsters come,
And gaily, blithely sing,
The sun looks gay, I love the day,
The sweet and early spring.

HOPE.

When storms arise, and tumults jar,
And wreck this mortal form,
There is a bright, a lovely star,
That shines above the storm.

'Tis hope that buoys our spirits up,
Along the chequer'd way,
And when we drain the bitter cup
It points a brighter day.

Though all the ills of life stand by,
It proffers still to save;
And when the shades of death are nigh,
It looks beyond the grave.

AUTUMN.

How sad the breath of autumn sighs,
With mourning and decay;
The woods are clothed in varying dyes,
Of funeral array.

Where beauty bloomed of late around,
On mountain top and vale,
Now wither'd foliage strews the ground,
And tells a piteous tale.

And summer birds are on the wing,
Bound for a warmer sky,
They greeted us in early spring--
They bid us now good bye.

So pass away our early years,
Youth sinks into decay,
And age, like autumn soon appears,
And quick we pass away.

MRS. IDA McCORMICK.

Mrs. Ida McCormick was born at Cameron Park, the family
homestead, one mile south of the pleasant little village of Zion,
Cecil county, Maryland, December 31, 1850. She is the daughter
of William Cameron (of Robert,) and a cousin of Annie M. Biles;
her mother Anna M. Oldham, being a sister of Catherine R. Oldham,
the mother of Annie M. Darlington, whose biography may
be found in this volume. She was educated at the Church-side
Seminary, at Zion, and at an early age engaged in teaching in the
public schools of her native county. She commenced to write
poetry when quite young, and for some years occasionally contributed
to the columns of the _Cecil Whig_.

On the 7th of August, 1873, she married James McCormick, of
Woodlawn, and for about a year after her marriage resided with
her husband near that place. In 1876 the family removed to
Philadelphia where they have since resided, except short intervals
when traveling.

MY FANCY LAND.

I'm roaming to-day in a far-away land
Where the roses and violets grow,
Where white waves break on a silvery strand,
And are lost on the cliffs below.
High up in a palace of sparkling gold
Where voices are hushed and still,
Where lips are silent and hearts are cold,
And the days are rich with a glory untold,
And no one disputes my will.

The walls are rich with an ambe