LOUISA A. M'GAFFEY. Louisa Amelia Pratt, who is known as Ruth Cratne, was born on the twen- tieth day of January, 1833, at the residence of her parents, Fletcher and Maria Pratt, who are influential among the prosperous farmers of Darby Plains, Madison county, Ohio. Miss Pratt was carefully educated, and she rewarded the care bestowed upon her by attaining unusual excellence, especially in the higher mathematics, and in clas- sical studies. Her poems have been chiefly published in the Ohio Cultivator, the Odd Fellows' Gasket and Review, Cincinnati, and the Ohio Farmer. They have all appeared in print at the earnest solicitations of friends, who recognized in them fresh- ness of thought and style deserving the attention of loyers of poetry. Miss Pratt was married April fourth, 1855, to John McGatfey an attorney of Springfield, Ohio, where she now resides. THE HILL-TOP. Stat, rest awhile, the way was steep ; This shade is cool, this wind is balm, And all the world lies tranced in deep And breathless hush of noonday calm. Sit down, sweet friend — this mossy seat Invites repose — while we recount The long, long miles our weary feet Have measured to this lofty mount. The hidden pitfalls we have passed, By God's good grace, in safety o'er, The bridges frail, on which we've crossed, Above the torrent's sullen roar. The gloomy pines that hid the day. The traceless plains of naked sand, The rugged roughness of the way That mocked our strength on every hand: All these, and more, behind us lie, And in the midst of this fair scene. This circHng glow of earth and sky, Our journey seems a vanished dream. How full of God the blue above. Instinct with God the world below. And radiant stairways made by love. On which His angels come and go, Seem standing between earth and heaven, On days of heavenly peace like this, And softly comes the word " Forgiven," For all, in all, our lives amiss, And then we think our days shall be (How vainly think) white blocks to grace The Temple of our lives, that He May always find a dwelling-place. So looking o'er this toilsome day, On outstretched wings my fancy flies. And as this mount before us lay, The Hill of Life before us lies. I know the morning dew is gone ; That romance can deceive no more ; That the cool baptism of the dawn Our faded flowers can ne'er restore. (660)
