A leading church paper, in Pittsburg, asked the question some time ago, "Who is the author of the Mitherless Bairn?" It seems unfortunate that Thom is not more widely known, and thus it is that I lift the pen to tell something of his checkered career. The city of Aberdeen, Scotland, claims the poet as one of her honored sons. Of his early life we know comparatively little. Not till the year 1839, at Newtyle, Forfarshire, do we hear of the man and his surroundings. At that period Newtyle was made. up of weaving shops and dwellings for the weavers, and here it is that we find William Thom plying his trade as a weaver. To know something of the many hardships and privations which the poet had to endure in after years, one must understand that a series of failures in America had silenced about six thousand looms in Dundee, thus crippling the weaving industry throughout many of the counties of Scotland. Vast numbers were soon thrown out of employment, only those who had families being retained, and that at greatly reduced wages. Men had to support a family of from four to eight children on five shillings a week. Poverty. therefore, soon reached the home of the poet. Imagine four helpless children, sound asleep at 11 o'clock in the forenoon, with only a handful of meal to satisfy the cravings of hunger. The blinds are drawn to keep out the light, while the father and mother move on tiptoe lest they awake their hungry offspring. But alas! The wolf is at the door, and the problem of future help must be solved. A valuable relic of other

years is examined tenderly and lovingly, but now it must go, that their daily wants may be supplied. To a pawnbroker in Dundee is he indebted for a new start in life. With a few articles of merchandise a pack was made up for his wife, while some second-hand books constituted his own stock in trade. Leaving Newtyle, we find him and his family wending their way through the Carse of Gowrie.

Many times had shelter been denied them, either because they had asked it at an untimely hour, or because some poor unfortunates had reached the dwellings before them. At Kinnaird the scene is pathetic beyond description. Leaving his poor flock on the wayside, he set out to find a night's lodging, but everywhere. he was denied. He returned to his family, and found them huddled closely together, and all, except the mother, were fast asleep.

"Oh, Willie, Willie, what keepit ye?" inquired the trembling woman. "I'm dootfu' o' Jeanie," she added; "isna she waesome like? Let's in frae the cauld." "We've nae way to gang, lass," he replied, and sank helpless beside them. Luckily a peasant who happened to be passing led them to the home of John Cooper, Westtown, and in one of his outhouses they retired for the night. About three o'clock in the morning a scream of despair startled all from sleep. The mother's heart was breaking over her dead child. Poor Jeanie, overcome by exposure and hardship, had quietly slipt away during the night. The neighbors were kind, and assisted at the funeral. In an obscure corner of Kin

naird churchyard lies the poet's favorite, little Jeanie. At Errol he and his family found shelter at a cheap lodging house. Here he stayed for some time, and here he made friendships with some of the gangrel bodies that lasted for many a day. He recognized, as he had never done before, that under a ragged coat may beat an honest, manly heart, while under the folds of gold and lace may throb much that is false and base. At Perth he is entertained by friends, and the rough and thorny path of life seems to have been softened, at least for a while. At Methven, his old friend, poverty, however, comes stalking up the road, and, as a last resort, he makes for the streets with his German flute under his arm. He was almost on the point of selling his melodious friend on his way through the Carse, but now it stands him in good stead. In the gloaming hour, the good old song, "The Flowers of The Forest," ripples through the air, bringing many a head to the windows, and many a copper to his pocket. Music the poet loved, and not only played the flute sweetly and softly, but sang the songs of his native land with great tenderness and feeling. It was during his wanderings, and about this time, that he wrote the following ode, "To My Flute."

'Tis nae to harp, to lyre, nor lute,
I ettle now to sing;
To thee alone, my lo'esome flute
This hamely strain I bring!
Oh! let us flee on memory's wing,
O'er twice ten winters flee,
An' try aince mair that ae sweet spring
Whilk young love breathed in thee.
Companion o' my happy then,

Wi' smilin' frien's around;

In ilka but, in ilka ben,

A couthie welcome found-
Ere yet thy master proved the wound
That ne'er gaed skaithless by;
That gies the flutes their saftest sound,
To hearts their saddest sigh.

Since then my bairns hae danced to thee
To thee my Jean has sung,

And mony a nicht, wi' guiltless glee
Our hearty hallan rung;

But noo, wi' hardship worn and wrung
I'll roam the warld about;
For her and for our friendless young,
Come forth, my faithful flute!

Your artless notes may win the ear

That wadna hear me speak,
And for your sake that pity spare,

My full heart couldna seek.
And when the winter's crandeuch bleak
Drives houseless bodies in
We'll aiblins get the ingle-'cheek
A' for your lichtsome din.

This ode, printed on a sheet of paper, and accompanied by a tune, often brought him quite a revenue. him quite a revenue. But now wending his way northward he reaches Aberdeen, the city of his nativity, and here he resides for a year working at his trade. From Aberdeen, he went to Inverary, and here it was that most of his poems were written. Here, too, his wife diedhis Jean, who had been the faithful partner of all his ills and joys of life. This was a sad blow to him, and so discouraged him, that he thought of moving his family to the Home of Refuge. Just at the critical moment, however, the wheel of fortune suddenly turned in his. favor. His poem, "The Blind Boy's Pranks," was published in the Aberdeen Herald, and was so favorably received, that it was copied by all the leading newspapers throughout the kingdom. Mr. Gordon, of Knockespock, especially

that wild night,

They stood to the line, lost to sound and

to sight;

they bore,

And laurels unfading from fair Balti

more.