Castle Moil located adjacent to Kyleakin Harbour. Isle of Skye Scotland.

Thank you for all your comments and visits

© Ralph Stewart 2014

Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved

Kyleakin, Breakish, Elgol.....all these magical names which I first read about in the Lillian Beckwith books (Sea for Breakfast) It's not hard to fall in love with Skye

Looking over the pretty harbour to the 14th century Castle Moil.

This was the first time I had seen this ruined castle since the storm of October 2018. There was a lightning strike and part of the left stone wall was struck and was damaged. I have still never been over to see the ruin but it something I would like to do.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold...

This excerpt from The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service seemed, somehow, appropriate.

Kyleakin Harbour on the Isle of Skye. The ruins of Castle Moil can be seen in the background.

Thank you for all your comments and visits

© Ralph Stewart 2016

Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved

Near Luib na Moil

The last one in this series

When driving to Elgol we passed this beautiful snow-capped mountain which reflected in the water, so I just had to stop and photo it.

Beinn na Caillich (732 metres), west of Broadford on the isle of Skye, is one of the Red Hills, or Red Cuillin. Its name is translated into English as Hill of the Old Woman. It is often referred to locally simply as The Beinn.

The summit is adorned by an especially large cairn, reputedly marking the site where Saucy Mary, a Norwegian princess and former resident of Castle Moil in Kyleakin, is buried. Local legend claims that she was buried at the top of the mountain so that she could face the land of her birth forever. An alternative version of events suggests the monument was dedicated to "a gigantic woman in the days of Fingal". Thomas Pennant climbed the hill while staying with Mackinnon of Corriechatachan (or Corry); Samuel Johnson and James Boswell did not.

I arrived on Skye about 12.15 and decided to walk out to Castle Moil. I had never walked out to the Castle. The day was overcast but I was pleased it was dry and the autumn colours were still very good.

I enjoyed the views from the ruined Castle Moil in Kyleakin. This view is down Lochalsh with the damp autumn colours.

On the Isle of Skye it is sheltered within the confines of Loch Alsh a tranquil harbour and village looking towards Castle Moil an ancient MacKinnon stronghold built in the 1400's

Caisteal Maol (Gaelic: Caisteal, 'Castle', Maol, 'bare') is a ruined castle near the harbour of the village of Kyleakin, Isle of Skye, Scotland. It is also known as Castle Moil, Castle Maol, Dun Akyn, Dunakin Castle, Dun Haakon and Castle Dunakin.

The castle, an ancient seat of the Mackinnon clan, was a fortress commanding the strait of Kyle Akin between Skye and the mainland, through which all ships had to pass or else attempt the stormy passage of The Minch. The present building dates back to the 15th century, but is traditionally reputed to be of much earlier origin.

According to that tradition, Alpín mac Echdach's great-grandson Findanus, the 4th MacKinnon chief, brought Dunakin into the clan around the year 900 by marrying a Norse princess nicknamed 'Saucy Mary'. Findanus and his bride ran a heavy chain across the sound and levied a toll on all shipping vessels. On payment of the toll, the princess would lower the chain, then thank them by flashing her breasts! The Princess lies buried on Beinn na Caillich on Skye, her face reputedly turned towards Norway.

When driving to Elgol to passed this beautiful snow-capped mountain and just had to stop and photo it.

Beinn na Caillich (732 metres), west of Broadford on the isle of Skye, is one of the Red Hills, or Red Cuillin. Its name is translated into English as Hill of the Old Woman. It is often referred to locally simply as The Beinn.

The summit is adorned by an especially large cairn, reputedly marking the site where Saucy Mary, a Norwegian princess and former resident of Castle Moil in Kyleakin, is buried. Local legend claims that she was buried at the top of the mountain so that she could face the land of her birth forever. An alternative version of events suggests the monument was dedicated to "a gigantic woman in the days of Fingal". Thomas Pennant climbed the hill while staying with Mackinnon of Corriechatachan (or Corry); Samuel Johnson and James Boswell did not.

Ruined building at Cill Chriosd, Isle of Skye: this time with Beinn na Caillich in the background.

www.karlwilliamsphotography.co.uk

The summit of Beinn na Caillich (literally: the Hill of the Old Woman) is adorned by an especially large cairn, reputedly marking the site where "Saucy Mary", a Norwegian princess and former resident of Castle Moil in Kyleakin, is buried. Local lore claims she was laid to rest atop the mountain so that she may forever feel the winds from the land of her birth.

See below for another couple of views of this building.

With Castle Moil in the background

Castle Moil Kyleakin Isle of Skye Scotland

Thank you for all your comments and visits

© Ralph Stewart 2007

Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved

The ruins of Castle Moil (Caisteal Maol) still guarding the narrows of Kyle Akin perched above the harbour at Kyleakin Isle of Skye...... Captured on a dreich West coast summers day.

Eolophus roseicapilla on a power line at Moil Cres, Moil, Darwin, Northern Territory, Australia, Feb. 2017

Just across the bridge in Skye.

The MV Lochalsh pictured here operated on the crossing from Kyle of Lochalsh on the mainland to Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye from 1957 to 1970.

On the isle of Skye Scotland on Loch Aish.

Kyleakin Harbour, Isle of Skye

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,

Where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam

'Round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold

Seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way

That he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way

Over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold

It stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze

Till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one

To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight

In our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead

Were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,

"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you

Won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;

Then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold

Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread

Of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,

You'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,

So I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn;

But God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day

Of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all

That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,

And I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,

Because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:

"You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you

To cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,

And the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,

In my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,

While the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --

O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay

Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent

And the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,

But I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,

And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,

And a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice

It was called the "Alice May".

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,

And I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,

"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,

And I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around,

And I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --

Such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,

And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like

To hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,

And the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled

Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak

Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow

I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about

Ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:

"I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .

Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,

In the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile,

And he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear

You'll let in the cold and storm --

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,

It's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

"The Cremation of Sam McGee"

by Robert Service

Terraced house at Beck Street, Moil, Darwin, Northern Territory, Australia, Feb. 2017

House at Moil Cres, Moil, Darwin, Northern Territory, Australia, Feb. 2017House @ Moil Cres

Thankyou dear friends for all your support, comments and faves. They will all be returned

************NO INVITATIONS OR GRAPHICS, PLEASE**************

Do not reconstruct, use or copy any of my content in any way without my explicit written consent. If you would like to use any of my images please flickr mail me

Water Falls

By Hugh Cook

Re-post

The remains of Castle Moil still guarding the narrows between Kyle of Lochalsh and Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye.

Since being damaged by a lightning strike it has been closed to the public....The high tops of Kintail just visible in the far distance.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caisteal_Maol

de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Castle_Moil

© Copyright 2014, All rights reserved. Do not copy or otherwise reuse my photos.

Castle Moil, Kyleakin, Isle of Skye, Scotland.

The Creel boat Boy Ryan BRD38 entering Kyleakin Harbour.

Thank you for all your comments and visits

© Ralph Stewart 2007

Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved

Very nice place to park your yacht or boat. There were a few people going about. I walked down to the ferry pier and back to bring back some memories. The ruined castle you see is Castle Moil.

Thanks for all your comments on my Skye pictures, I like to go to the places which are not so well known. I hope to return to Skye soon.

It's kind of amusing to see so many people paying atention to their electronic devices not only for communiating but for filming everything too. As a fan of photography and filmmaking I am not against this trend but I do think we should stop paying so much attention to the screens and start filming with our mind.

Once again it's kind of ironic that I criticise this habit when I have it too but I guess we are not in the same place because I want to dedícate my life to this.

Castle Moil and Johan. Scotland.

testing times. This was a test shot to see how well my sensor clean had worked!

Fishing boat "Prosperity" passes Castle Moil returning to Kyleakin harbour.

Thank you for all your comments and visits

© Ralph Stewart 2007

Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved

Keepsake Mill

Over the borders, a sin without pardon,

Breaking the branches and crawling below,

Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,

Down by the banks of the river we go.

Here is a mill with the humming of thunder,

Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,

Here is the sluice with the race running under--

Marvellous places, though handy to home!

Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,

Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;

Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,

Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.

Years may go by, and the wheel in the river

Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day,

Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever

Long after all of the boys are away.

Home for the Indies and home from the ocean,

Heroes and soldiers we all will come home;

Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion,

Turning and churning that river to foam.

You with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled,

I with your marble of Saturday last,

Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled,

Here we shall meet and remember the past.

Robert Louis Stevenson, A Child's Garden of Verses, 1885.

MÚSICA: Philip Glass -The Poet Acts

youtu.be/fca2oXLe9g4

France, Région Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes, Département du Rhône, Les monts du Beaujolais, Col du Chêne (704m)

...

Titre > extrait d'une poésie française en langue d'oïl, de Ruteboeuf (vers 1230-1285)

pour ceux qui veulent approfondir, traductions, etc:

www.labyrinthiques.fr/2008/10/14/en-lisant-en-ecoutant-ru...

ou encore, plus complet:

www.staff.hum.ku.dk:80/hp/apercu/apercu6(2).htm

La griesche d'yver / Le démon de l'hiver

Poèmes de Ruteboeuf (vers 1230-1285)

(extraits):

Contre le tens qu'arbre desfueille

Qu'il ne remaint en branche fueille

Qui n'aut a terre,

Por povreté qui moi aterre,

Qui de toutes pars me muet guerre

Contre l'yver,

Dont moult me sont changié li ver,

Mon dit commence trop diver

De povre estoire.

Povre sens et povre memoire

M'a Diex doné, li rois de gloire,

Et povre rente,

Et froit au cul quant bise vente :

Li vens me vient, li vens m'esvente

Et trop sovent

Plusors foïes sent le vent.

Bien le m'ot griesche en covent

Quanques me livre :

Bien me paie, bien me delivre,

Contre le sout me rent la livre

De grant poverte.

Povretez et sor moi reverte :

Toz jors m'en est la porte ouverte,

Toz jors i sui

Ne nule foiz ne m'en eschui.

Par pluie moil, par chaut essui :

Ci a riche homme !

Je ne dorm que le premier somme.

De mon avoir ne sai la somme,

Qu'il n'i a point.

Diex me fet le tens si a point

Noire mousche en esté me point,

En yver blanche.

Issi sui com l'osiere franche

Ou com li oisiaus seur la branche :

En esté chante,

En yver plore et me gaimante,

Et me desfuel aussi com l'ente

Au premier giel.

En moi n'a ne venin ne fiel :

Il ne me remaint rien souz ciel,

Tout va sa voie.

Growing up, I read all of the poems by Poet Robert Service that were about Alaska and the Yukon. The way he described the wilderness, the way of life there, the more I wanted to live there. One of his more famous poems was "The Cremation of Sam McGee." The cremation took place on the "marge of Lake Labarge."

My wife and I spent the night on Lake Labarge in a tent, rain was falling, the weather was cool. We kept listening to see if we could hear the roar of the fire. Below is the words to "The Cremation of Sam McGee."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,

where the cotton blooms and blows

Why he left his home in the South to roam

'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold but the land of gold

seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way

that he'd sooner live in Hell.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way

over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold

it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze

till sometimes we couldn't see,

It wasn't much fun, but the only one

to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight

in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead

were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap", says he

"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you

won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;

then he says with a sort of moan,

"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold

till I'm chilled clean through to the bone

Yet 'taint being dead-it's my awful dread

of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,

you'll cremate my last remains.

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,

so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn

but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day

of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all

that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,

and I hurried, horror-driven

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,

because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say.

"You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you

to cremate these last remains".

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,

and the trail has its own stern code,

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb

in my heart how I cursed that load!

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,

while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows--

Oh God, how I loathed the thing!

And every day that quiet clay

seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent

and the grub was getting low.

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,

but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,

and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,

and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice

it was called the Alice May,

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,

and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here", said I, with a sudden cry, "is my

cre-ma-tor-eum"!

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor

and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around,

and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared

such a blaze you seldom see,

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,

and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like

to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,

and the wind began to blow,

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled

down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak

went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow

I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about

ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said,

"I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked".

Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,

in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile,

and he said, "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear

you'll let in the cold and storm--

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,

it's the first time I've been warm".

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

It's there and it's broken,

many centuries of battles,

drums and weapons have spoken;

about rocks to stand,

war after war over the land,

but swords will rust,

and hate will erode,

when rivers sing

about peace afloat,

and the caste still there;

broken and small,

under mountains high

to relative

once and for all

MISTY ISLE is a ring netter on the lines of a classic Scottish MFV and was built in 1948 by J. & G. Forbes of Sandhaven. She was commissioned by Macrae & Broadford of Skye for the herring ring net trade and she worked at this for forty years, before moving on to Stornoway Scallops. In her early days, she was skippered by Evander Macrae and her partner in the ringnet trade was a boat called CASTLE MOIL. Later, Evander and Alistair Macrae bought ACORN from Anstruther to be her partner and Alistair took over as captain. She was reputed to be the most sea kindly, safest and fastest boat in this trade and sailed the Minch in conditions which kept the rest of the fleet at home. In later years, she fished for clams, until bought by a private owner.

MISTY ISLE was a museum ship and kept seaworthy by the Scottish Maritime Museum until 1993. Currently under private ownership once more, she is still located at Irvine at the Scottish Maritime Museum's pontoon.

Listed on the National Historic Ships register www.nationalhistoricships.org.uk/register/1667/misty-isle

By Alan Kempster for SMM

Kyleakin with Castle Moil.

Isle of Skye...

Ruin is that of Caisteal Maol (Castle Moil)

Nikkormat FT2 Kodachrome slide copied by Nikon D300 + Sigma 150mm f/2.8 APO macro DG HSM

_DSC8629 Anx2 1600w Q90

Castle Moil or Maol on the Isle of Skye. Apparently one of the owners was known as Saucy Mary if I recall correctly.

(single exposure)

I recently made a modest art-historical discovery when I happened across an obscure reference to early illustrations by the American painter, art school director and art instructor Channel Pickering Townsley (1867-1921).

Chan is best known today for the California Impressionist works and European city scenes he painted in the first two decades of the 20th century.

However, these recently rediscovered pieces, which are not mentioned in Chan's biographies, reveal that he was already an accomplished artist by the mid-1890s.

The small item from the 7 April, 1909, issue of The Great Bend Weekly Tribune, of Great Bend, Kansas, that put me on the trail of Chan's forgotten illustrations appears below.

They appeared in Ellen P. Allerton's Walls Of Corn and Other Poems, collected and published by Eva Ryan.

Astonishingly, the 1894 book is still available through Amazon and other retailers as a modern reproduction of the original. It is likely the quality of the images is higher in the original than in the copy. www.amazon.com/Ellen-Palmer-Allertons-Walls-Other/dp/1164...

Townsley's name appears quite clearly on some of these works. Whether the others bear his name is a matter of conjecture. Marks that resemble indistinct letters can be found in the general area of the lower right corner. For what it is worth, the artist did not sign all his paintings.

Chan was about 27 years old when the book was published. It remains to be determined when these works were created relative to Townsley's considerable formal art education in New York and Paris.

The illustrations appear in the same order as in the original. Immediately below you will find the poem that was the inspiration for the image.

© 2022 A. Davey

=======================

Morning View of Lake Michigan, by Ellen Palmer Allerton

Here on this rugged bluff I stand alone

And look out on the waters. Could I tell -

Which I cannot - all that I see and feel;

Could I but give the swelling thoughts a tone

That press up to my lips a song so sweet,

So thrilling in its tuneful harmonies,

Should send out on the air its rhythmic beat,

That heedless wights should pause amid the street,

And listen with bowed heads and tearful eyes.

My eyes are wet. The beauty of the lake

At this still morning hour, draped in its veil

Of dreamy mist so soft, translucent, pale;

Its music, as the blue waves gently break,

Move me to tears. Yet am I all alone;

No sympathetic glances kindle mine,

No answering eye, where kindred feelings shine,

Another heart interprets to my own.

Ah, well! Here are the softly gleaming waves,

Here are the gold-fringed clouds, above, below,

Which from yon heaven and from the waters glow;

Here is sunshine, which my forehead laves,

And there the white-winged ships go sailing by;

The cool wind blows, and lightly lifts my hair.

Can there be solitude amid a scene so fair?

Can one be lonely with such company?

Behind me lies the city, fast asleep,

Save early workmen going to their toil

With sounding tread. The long day's dusty moil

Clanks not along the streets. The convent bell,

Whose tones above the dreamers softly swell,

Unheeded, troubles not their slumber deep.

The sleeping city and pale blue lake,

The convent bell, the low waves' ceaseless break,

The morning mists all these shall memory keep.

=======================

From:

Ellen P. Allerton's Walls Of Corn and Other Poems

Collected And Published With

Memorial Sketch By

Eva Ryan.

Illustrated.

Press of

The Harrington Printing Co

Hiawatha, Kansas.

Copyrighted, 1894,

=======================

ALLERTON, Mrs. Ellen Palmer, poet, born in Centerville, N. Y.. 17th October, 1835. Her ancestors were of Knickerbocker blood. She received a district-school education and afterwards spent a few terms in academies, but never graduated.

Her marriage to Alpheus B. Allerton, took place in 1862, soon after her removal to Wisconsin. Mr. and Mrs. Allerton were both invalids in Wisconsin, but in 1879, traveled to Kansas in a wagon, cooking their own meals and getting health and happiness out of the journey.

They selected for a home an unimproved farm, a quarter section, on very high land in Brown county, in sight of Padonia, Hamlin, Falls City and Hiawatha.

They now have a handsome home and every comfort that prosperity brings in its train.

Mrs. Allerton composed and recited verses before she could write, but offered little to the press until she was past thirty years of age.

Her first poems were published in "The Jefferson County Union," Ex-Governor Hoard's paper. Later she contributed to Milwaukee and Chicago papers, and was at one time book-reviewer for the Milwaukee "Sentinel."

She has published one volume, "Poems of the Prairies." (New York, 1886). She is considered one of the leading authors of Kansas. As a woman and as a writer she is quiet and sensible.

At her home in Padonia she has a wide circle of loving friends, and throughout the West the hearts that hold her dear are legion.

From:

A Woman of the Century

Fourteen Hundred-Seventy Biographical Sketches

Accompanied By Portraits of Leading American Women in All Walks of Life

Edited By Frances E. Willard And Mary A. Livermore

Assisted By A Corps Of Able Contributors

Buffalo, Chicago, New York

Charles Wells Moulton

1893