." Many beautiful short stories have found their way into our
language and periodicals through the medium of her pen.

Her time is well filled with her household duties, her missionary and
church work, and in reviewing new books for the press. She has no
specified time for writing, nor does she neglect her household or social
duties for the sake of it, always having looked upon her literary work
as a recreation. She leads a busy life, yet is rarely hurried; and,
although she enjoys the companionship of many people noted in
literature, it is powerless to weaken her attachment for friends who
have no inclination in that way. All have a warm place in her heart, and
a cordial welcome to her cheerful and happy home.

Mrs. Ireland, contrary to the experience of most writers, never wrote
any poetry until she had attained distinction as a writer of prose.

AT THE PARTY.

I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair;
She picked it to pieces while standing there.

I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes;
She turned them upon me in cold surprise.

Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love;
My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove.

I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown;
She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown.

I asked her to dance in most penitent tone;
On the arm of a rival she left me alone.

This gave me a hint; I veered from my track,
And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back.

I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh,
And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh.

It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life!
This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife.

MOTHER AND SON.

Postman, good postman, halt I pray,
And leave a letter for me to-day;
If it's only a line from over the sea
To say that my Sandy remembers me.

I have waited and hoped by day and by night;
I'll watch--if spared--till my locks grow white;
Have prayed--yet repent that my faith waxed dim,
When passing, you left no message from him.

My proud arms cradled his infant head,
My prayers arose by his boyhood's bed;
To better our fortunes, he traversed the main;
God guard him, and bring him to me again.

The postman has passed midst the beating rain,
And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain;
This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread
That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead.

But hark! there's a step! my heart be still!
A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill;
Did the postman return? my letter for