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RAY RICHMOND. RAY RICHMOND is hardly more than a school girl, and is at present finishing in music and painting at the Boston N. E. conservatory.
A REVERIE. Faintly, softly fades the light Of the chill November day, Slowly, surely creeps the night O'er the hill-tops far away. Grayer, darker grow the clouds, O'er the brown hills, lowering With the first snow of the year, Sullen, dismal, glowering. All, at last, dies from the sight And the darkness, falling Ushers out another day Ever past recalling.
IN ANSWER. A little message comes to me From o'er the distant rolling sea: A message, sweet, that gladdens me. My kindest friend has sailed away, Beyond the wide and glistening bay, To distant lands, far, far away. His going leaves me saddened, too, For fear of dangers on the blue, Yet sailor lads are brave and true.
But light of heart I'll strive to be,
RAY RICHMOND. She has already edited the juvenile department of two monthly publications, and is a paid contributor of short stories for two or three other publications.
MORNING The purple mists of morning
Float o'er the sunlit space With white smoke interwoven
Like filmy, frost-work lace. The dark clouds on the river
Rise up and disappear, The pearly beams of sunlight
All greet the morning here.
Heavy-laden with fragrant air,
Met I, Love most wondrous fair.
I was fishing by the brook;
She gave back a startled look.
And our looks said more than aye.
Blushing red, she turned away.
May perhaps, she smiled for naught;
Would I change for their's, my lot ? For I love her and she knows it;
And she loves me, I can tell, Not by words of adoration
But by looks I know so well. If our love is hot or scorching
Who about us need complain?
Ever will our love remain,
Never chilled by autumn air,
DAWN Blushing morning is at hand; Rosy tints light up the land. Distant hills against the gray -Silent watch they for the day. Dreaming cities lie in sleep Close beside the murmuring deep, On whose breast the mists still play Waiting for the coming day.
BUTLER S. SMISER. BORN: OLDHAM CO., KY., JULY 6, 1862. MR. SMISER is now engaged in publishing the Indian Citizen at Atoka, Indian Territory.
While I court another's shadow,
Lingering 'neath its folds 'till night. Then it is I'll fondly cherish
Sweetest thoughts of olden times Spent in calm communion with thee
And some poet's pleasant rhymes. Lovers fondly seek thy shelter,
Seal their vows beneath thy shade; For no one will ever shun thee
'Till thy vines are all decayed. Now, I leave thee, lovely rustic,
To thy future friends and fates But I'll ne'er forget thy friendship,
Though I roam in other states.
Turn my locks to aged white,
MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. I love to sit on a calm, clear night, When the moon is hid and the stars are
bright; And ponder the depth and power of love That prompted the God of nature above To fashion this world by his wondrous might, And give it such gems of peace and light, Till I see in the east the nightly Queen As slowly she rises, so calm and serene; And ghostly shadows of peering height Are made by the flickering, misty light. All nature is clothed in peace, profound; Made more sublime by the distant sound. Of a bugle song, on some neighboring hill; Or the gurgling eddy of a rippling rill; Or the mournful howl of a lonely hound That echoes back from the hills around. My soul seems to rise and float with the wind, While to tangible things my vision is blind. On, on through eternity's ages I roll. As I follow the steps of my wandering soul.
BUTLER S. SMISER. He has been reading law for the past few Fears, and intends to follow that profession.
TO THE MEMORY OF A RUSTIC. Dear old rustic, famous rustic,
Oft I've on thy lap reclined
Copperfield and Old Hard Times;
With thee, 'neath the cooling shade
When its fruit red-ripe is made.
Hoeding not the flight of time;
Musing o'er some pleasant rhyme. Heat and sun were all forgotten,
Neath thy cool and balmy shades As the downy breeze came rustling
Through thy green inviting blades. How I grieve to know that early
You and I are doomed to part, But I'll always cherish fondly
Sweetest memories in my heart. Other friends will hover 'round thee, Seek thy shade with calm delight,
MAY DAY. Oh! the chattering children, with faces so bright;
[delight! How they frolic and ramble, with childish The time has seemed ages, as day after day, They looked for the coming of the merry
The mind and the heart are the soul of a man, Which recks not of sin in its beautiful plan; But the body is human, and wars with the
soul; As it passes through time to eternity's goal. We dream of the future, we dream of the past; The one we have blasted, the other we blast. We hope while we live if we die in despair, And trust all the future to mercy, through PHIL HOFFMANN. BORN: OSKALOOSA, IOWA, AUG. 16, 1868. IN 1885 Phil Hoffmann entered the field of journalism; he also about this time tended the Penn college for several terms. In 1887-8 he acted as correspondent of the Oskaloosa Daily Herald, during the session of the legislature at Des Moines. So thoroughly pleased were the proprietors of the Herald that he was installed upon the editorial staff, a position he still retains with merit. He is a fre
These words from the lips of a poor ballad
boy, As he poured out his heart in a song: - To honor in life your neighbor and friend
You may struggle the best that you can, Yet you'll find in the hour of trouble and
need A Mr. 's not always a man." Though years have sped by since that after
noon, And time wrought her changes below. Yet somehow those words still ring in my ears
And court me wherever I go.
Those phrases should oftentimes rise?
And error is all that e'er dies. • To honor in life your neighbor and friend,
You may struggle the best that you can, Yet you'll find in the hour of trouble and
need A Mr.'s not always a man."
I sat by my window alone,
Far into the great unknown.
With its thousand, thousand skies, Seemed bursting with laughter in basking
Before my wistful eyes.
That beautiful gem of gems,
Through all the heavenly realm.
This wonderful universe,
With beauties so grand and diverse.
With a gentle and lenient hand
And will be after its end.
For his credits of reverence calls ---
Each poor little sparrow that falls. Ah! Sweet were the visions that thrilled
me, Each atom seemed laden with joy! As loudly I cried in my musings
With a feeling that knew no alloy. Vain spirit of mortal polluted
Look up at the heavens above And tell me, Oh! how canst thou battle, Against yon fountain of love?
A MR.'S NOT ALWAYS A MAN. As I sat in my room one bright afternoon
With the shades of my window thrown high, And watched far below midst the dust and the
din The crowd as it hurried fast by, I caught from the breeze that silently stole On angelic wings o'er the throng,
MRS. M. ALEXANDER. BORN: POSEY CO., IND., JUNE 14, 1842. MRS. ALEXANDER married in 1863, and three years later she was left a widow with one child, since that time she has devoted her
Scatter destruction abroad in our land. Impotent man oft his reverence concealeth,
Seeking alone this world and its gain, Till the Omnipotent power revealeth
All of his weakness, his terror, his pain. Wasted by famine and stricken by fever;
Lashed by the storms of disaster and woe, Cast between friends the dead line separation,
Now in our hearts bitter anguish doth flow. Yet far above the bright stars are still shining Steadfast and true, while death sweeps our
shore, And lifting our hearts above grief and repin
ing We follow the Father, and trust evermore. While down through the darkness, the valley,
the shadow, The bright ray of promise illumines our
night; Beyond death and flood and earth's awful
sorrow There gleams in its radiance a heavenly
Echoes afar in its desolate woe;
Calling for many not ready to go. In the dark night while the storm king is
brooding, Fearful in might and awful in wrath, Down from the mountain the torrent comes
flooding, Strewing the valley with death in its path. Wild shrieks of torture and sad cries come
thrilling Souls in deep agony on every side. Fond wife and husband; loved parents and
children, Parted for aye, by death's rolling tide. While in the bright sunny land of sweet liv
ing, Falls the light sorrow we scarce understand,
All ye, who have a freeman's home,
And gladly bids the stranger come. But ever bear within your minds,
No traitor horde or vandal mars The civil rights our country gives,
Beneath its floating stripes and stars, School house and church and college rear
Their lofty domes unto the sky,
His heart-throbs beat in liberty.
But height and breadth can measure not The love of freedom in our hearts.
Of our own homes, earth's dearest spot To civilize and Christianize,
We open wide our doors to-day,
To our loved land America.
And where no Christian love can reach
Tho statutes of our law doth teach. And twenty thousand glittering swords,
All sheathed and shining lie to-day, Ready to defend our country's rights
From anarchists' unlawful sway. No crimson horde or tyrant throng
Dare desecrate our sacred sod, But liberty its peans strong
Lifts up its anthem to our God.
WILLIAM ROBERT FISHER. BORN: JEFFERSON Co., Iowa, JULY 12, 1865. WILLIAM commenced writing poetry at the age of sixteen, and two years later published a volume of poems in pamphlet form. At the age of twenty he wrote a poem of one thou
Though lessened is his manhood's claim,
SIGHT. The eyelids cannot dim the sight, – Nay when they're closed 'tis far more
bright, Both in day dreams and dreams of night. In dreams of day mine eyes may see, A castle and an icy tree, Glassed by the sun all gorgeously. In dreams of night a thousand things. Wondrous as Saturn with his rings, O'ershadow me with condor wings.
TOO LATE. O mock me not with glorious eye,
Too late, too late; Nor pity to a soul deny
Accursed of fate.
Thou be elate,
Too late, too late.
WILLLAM ROBERT FISHER. sand lines, and has written ten times as much more since that time, of which there are a number of translations from German, Danish and Norwegian authors. Mr. Fisher has high aspirations, and his literary career has yet but just begun.
EQUALITY Our fathers told us long ago, And pledged to die for what we know, That all are equal born; Among the nations let it fly, And shout that message to the sky Till earth hath learned to scon.
THE SONG OF YOUTH AND AGE. There's potency in youthful dreams,
As Keats, and White, and Drake attest, Who dared to touch immortal themes
Ere their frail beings sank to rest. Yet highest glory is for him
Who like old Milton sings with power, The song which Meditation grim, Has given in life's silver hour.
To scorn the despot on his throne,
THE DWELLING PLACE. Where would you dwell my love ? said I,
Your dwelling place where would it be? In mansion on a mountain high, Or in a cottage by the sea ? A dwelling place," my love replied,
« On mountain or by ocean blue, Would be the same if by your side;
If living there, my love, with you."