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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.

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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,
And send my thoughts across the sea,
To him whose friend I hope 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.

A SONNET.
As the sweet warm days of summer,

Heavy-laden with fragrant air,
Bade farewell to spring's bright sunshine

Met I, Love most wondrous fair.
She was tripping thro' the meadow;

I was fishing by the brook;
I gazed long, and long upon her

She gave back a startled look.
Afterward we met together,

And our looks said more than aye.
Deep into her heart I gazed, 'till

Blushing red, she turned away.
May perhaps, my looks meant notbing,

May perhaps, she smiled for naught;
What care I, if people prattle ?

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?
Perfect love is never freezing;

Ever will our love remain,
Warm and pleasant, as the summer,

Never chilled by autumn air,
How I love my darling sweetheart,
Who is always wondrous fair.

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.
Time may leave its marks upon me,

Turn my locks to aged white,
But I'll never cease to love thee
While my eyes have earthly sight.

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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
While I read the works of Dickens-

Copperfield and Old Hard Times;
Many a peaceful hour I've lingered

With thee, 'neath the cooling shade
Of that old grape vine, so precious,

When its fruit red-ripe is made.
Day by day I've kept thee company,

Hoeding not the flight of time;
Hour by hour I lingered with thee,

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

spring May.

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

prayer.

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.
But why should I marvel if into my mind

Those phrases should oftentimes rise?
For truth like the sea can never be stilled,

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."

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IN REVERENCE.
Last night in the beautiful moonlight,

I sat by my window alone,
And peered with an awful pleasure,

Far into the great unknown.
And each little constellation,

With its thousand, thousand skies, Seemed bursting with laughter in basking

Before my wistful eyes.
While Venus, the star of the evening,

That beautiful gem of gems,
Seemed singing in tones that resounded

Through all the heavenly realm.
And I thought of He who created

This wonderful universe,
With movements so silent, so perfect,

With beauties so grand and diverse.
Of He who masters creation

With a gentle and lenient hand
Who was, ere time was unfolded,

And will be after its end.
He who upon worlds without number

For his credits of reverence calls ---
Yet who sees and tenderly cares for,

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,

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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

light.

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CALLING
Calling by flood and by fire, the voice

Echoes afar in its desolate woe;
Calling by pestilence, tempest and torrent,

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,

WELCOME.
Welcome, yes welcome, to our shore,

All ye, who have a freeman's home,
America calls out for more

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,
And humble though the man may be,

His heart-throbs beat in liberty.
Our land is broad, our mountains high,

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,
A welcome give to rich and poor,

To our loved land America.
Our prisons strong, our scaffold high,

And where no Christian love can reach
It is a traitor's doom to die,

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,
For being duped with notions tame
His blood right"- such a thing.
of blood right” and man's only one,
Is right to live as man has done
In fellowship with man;
To have his dangers, hopes and fears,
With him rejoice, with him shed tears,
Win honor if he can.
But not alone we scorn the base,
For love hath claims upon the race,
That love called charity,
Which earth must have ere that bright day
When knowledge bath eternal sway
And all mankind are free.

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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’rt victor, let thy slave forbid

Thou be elate,
I cannot hope as once I did,

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,
But not the royal born alone,
The usurer as well;
The triumpher o'er innocence,
Ill-gotten, blood-bought eminence,
And all that speaks of hell.
With them are no low nor high,
And we are brothers, you and I,
And brothers of the king,

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."

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