There was held, in honor of Mrs. Howe’s eighty-sixth birthday (May 27, 1905), a meeting of the Boston Authors’ Club, including a little festival whose plan was taken from the annual Welsh festival of the Eistedfodd, at which every bard of that nation brought four lines of verse—a sort of four-leaved clover—to his chief. This being tried at short notice for Mrs. Howe, there came in some sixty poems, of which I select a few, almost at random, to make up the outcome of the festival, which last did not perhaps suffer from the extreme shortness of the notice:— BIRTHDAY GREETINGS, LIMITED Why limit to one little four-line verse Each birthday wish, for her we meet to honor? Else it might take till mornrise to rehearse All the glad homage we would lavish on her! JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. THE “NONNA” OF MAGNA ITALIA Within the glow shed by her heart of gold, Warm Southern sunshine cheers our Northern skies, And pilgrim wanderers, homesick and a-cold, Find their loved Italy in her welcoming eyes. VIDA D. SCUDDER. FIVE O’CLOCK WITH THE IMMORTALS The Sisters Three who spin our fate Greet Julia Ward, who comes quite late; How Greek wit flies! They scream with glee, Drop thread and shears, and make the tea. E. H. CLEMENT. Hope now abiding, faith long ago, Never a shadow between. White of the lilacs and white of the snow, Seventy and sixteen. MARY GRAY MORRISON. In English, French, Italian, German, Greek, Our many-gifted President can speak. Wit, Wisdom, world-wide Knowledge grace her tongue And she is _only_ Eighty-six years young! NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. How to be gracious? How to be true? Poet, and Seer, and Woman too? To crown with Spring the Winter’s brow? Here is the answer: _this_ is Howe. MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE. If man could change the universe By force of epigrams in verse, He’d smash some idols, I allow, But who would alter Mrs. Howe? ROBERT GRANT. Lady who lovest and who livest Peace, And yet didst write Earth’s noblest battle song At Freedom’s bidding,—may thy fame increase Till dawns the warless age for which we long! FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Dot oldt Fader Time must be cutting some dricks, Vhen he calls our goot Bresident’s age eighty-six. An octogeranium! Who would suppose? My dear Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, der time goes! YAWCOB STRAUSS (CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS). You, who are of the spring, To whom Youth’s joys _must_ cling, May all that Love can give Beguile you long to live— Our Queen of Hearts. LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.