Miss Mabel Porter Pitts, poet, was born near Flemingsburg, Kentucky, January 5, 1884. Her family removed to Seattle, Washington, when she was a girl, and her education was received at the Academy of the Holy Names.
Miss Pitts lived at Seattle for a number of years, but she now resides at San Francisco. Her verse and short-stories have appeared in several of the eastern magazines, and they have been read with pleasure by many people. Her first book of poems, _In the Shadow of the Crag and Other Poems_ (Denver, Colorado, 1907), is now in its third edition, five thousand copies having been sold so far. This seems to show that there are people in the United States who care for good verse. Miss Pitts is well-known on the Pacific coast, where she has spent nearly all her life, but she must be introduced to the people of her native State, Kentucky. Her short-stories are as well liked as her poems, a collection of them is promised for early publication, and she should have a permanent place in the literature of Kentucky.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Overland Monthly_ (January; December, 1904; April, 1908).
ON THE LITTLE SANDY
[From _In the Shadow of the Crag and Other Poems_ (Denver, 1907)]
Just within the mystic border of Kentucky's blue grass region There's a silver strip of river lying idly in the sun, On its banks are beds of fragrance where the butterflies are legion And the moonbeams frame its glory when the summer day is done.
There's a little, rose-wreathed cottage nestling close upon its border Where a tangled mass of blossoms half conceals an open door, There's a sweet, narcotic perfume from a garden's wild disorder, And the jealous poppies cluster where its kisses thrill the shore.
From across its dimpled bosom comes the half-hushed, careful calling Of a whippoorwill whose lonely heart is longing for its mate, And the sun aslant the sleepy eyes of fox-gloves gently falling Tells the fisherman out yonder that the hour is growing late.
From the branches of the poplars a spasmodic sleepy twitter Comes, 'twould seem, in careless answer to the pleading of a song, And perhaps the tiny bosom holds despair that's very bitter For his notes are soon unheeded by the little feathered throng.
Then the twilight settling denser shows a rush-light dimly burning-- Ah, how well I know the landing drowsing 'neath its feeble beams, And my homesick heart to mem'ries of the yesterday is turning While I linger here, forgotten, with no solace but my dreams.
 Copyright, 1907, by the Author.
MARION FORSTER GILMORE
Miss Marion Forster Gilmore, the young Louisville poet and dramatist, was born at Anchorage, Kentucky, November 27, 1887. She was educated at Hampton College, Louisville, and at a private school in Washington, D. C. At the age of fourteen years she wrote a poem while crossing the Rocky Mountains that attracted the attention of Joaquin Miller and Madison Cawein, and won her the friendship of both poets. When but fifteen years old she had completed her three-act tragedy of _Virginia_, set in Rome during the days of the Decemvirs. This is purely a play for the study, and hardly fitted for stage presentation, yet it has been praised by William Faversham, the famous actor. Miss Gilmore contributed lyrics to the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ and _Leslie's Weekly_, which, with her play, she published in a charming book, entitled _Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1910). _The Cradle Song_, originally printed in the _Cosmopolitan_ for May, 1908, is one of the best of her shorter poems.
Miss Gilmore has recently returned to her home at Louisville, after having spent a year in European travel and study.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1909); _Current Literature_ (August, 1910).
THE CRADLE SONG
[From _Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1910)]
Adown the vista of the years, I turn and look with silent soul, As though to catch a muted strain Of melody, that seems to roll In tender cadence to my ear.
But, as I wait with eyes that long The singer to behold--it fades, And silence ends the Cradle Song.
But when the shadows of the years Have lengthened slowly to the West, And once again I lay me down To sleep, upon my mother's breast, Then well I know I ne'er again Shall cry to God, "How long? How long?"
For, to my soul, her voice will sing A never-ending Cradle Song.
 There are two other young women poets of Louisville who should be mentioned in the same breath with Miss Gilmore: Miss Ethel Allen Murphy, author of _The Angel of Thought and Other Poems_ (Boston, 1909), and contributor of brief lyrics to _Everybody's Magazine_; and Miss Hortense Flexner, on the staff of _The Louisville Herald_, whose poems in the new _Mammoth Cave Magazine_ have attracted much attention. Miss Flexner is to have a poem published in _The American Magazine_ in 1913.
 Copyright, 1910, by the Author.
MRS. AGNES E. MITCHELL
Dr. Henry A. Cottell, the Louisville booklover, is authority for the statement that Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell, author of _When the Cows Come Home_, one of the loveliest lyrics in the language, lived at Louisville for some years, and that she wrote her famous poem within the confines of that city. The date of its composition must have been about 1870. Mrs. Mitchell was the wife of a clergyman, but little else is known of her life and literary labors. It is a real pity that her career has not come down to us in detail. She certainly "lodged a note in the ear of time," and firmly fixed her fame with it.
WHEN THE COWS COME HOME
[From _The Humbler Poets_, edited by S. Thompson (Chicago, 1885)]
With Klingle, Klangle, Klingle, 'Way down the dusty dingle, The cows are coming home; Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, The airy tinklings come and go, Like chimings from some far-off tower, Or patterings of an April shower That makes the daisies grow; Koling, Kolang, Kolinglelingle, 'Way down the darkening dingle, The cows come slowly home; And old-time friends, and twilight plays And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways, When the cows come home.
With Jingle, Jangle, Jingle, Soft sounds that sweetly mingle, The cows are coming home; Malvine and Pearl and Florimel, DeCamp, Red Rose and Gretchen Schnell, Queen Bess and Sylph and Spangled Sue, Across the fields I hear her OO-OO, And clang her silver bell; Goling, Golang, Golinglelingle, With faint far sounds that mingle, The cows come slowly home; And mother-songs of long-gone years, And baby joys, and childish tears, And youthful hopes, and youthful fears, When the cows come home.
With Ringle, Rangle, Ringle, By twos and threes and single, The cows are coming home; Through the violet air we see the town, And the summer sun a-slipping down; The maple in the hazel glade Throws down the path a longer shade, And the hills are growing brown; To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleingle, By threes and fours and single, The cows come slowly home.
The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, The same sweet June-day rest and calm, The same sweet scent of bud and balm, When the cows come home.
With a Tinkle, Tankle, Tinkle, Through fern and periwinkle, The cows are coming home.
A-loitering in the checkered stream, Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, Starine, Peach Bloom and Phoebe Phyllis Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies In a drowsy dream; To-link, to-lank, to-linkleinkle, O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle, The cows come slowly home; And up through memory's deep ravine Come the brook's old song--its old-time sheen, And the crescent of the silver queen, When the cows come home.
With a Klingle, Klangle, Klingle, With a loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle.
The cows are coming home; And over there on Morlin hill Hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill; The dew drops lie on the tangled vines, And over the poplars Venus shines.
And over the silent mill; Ko-link, ko-lang, ko-lingleingle; With a ting-a-ling and jingle, The cows come slowly home; Let down the bars; let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, For dear old times come back again When the cows come home.