JOHN T. BEECHER.

BORN: SANDUSKY, OHIO, JULY 23, 1831. MR. BEECHER follows the profession of law in his native city, where he resides with his family. He has contributed poetry since his youth to the periodical press, which has attracted much widespread admiration.

CAT TAILS.

See the little cat tails,

Look how.Swell" they grow,

What's broke loose in this small world, To cause this warlike show?

Fluffy little cat tails,

Waving in the weather,

Right upon the house-top,
There they are together.

Angry little cat tails,

What have they of grace,

White and black, maltese and gray,
Each fastened to its place?

Naughty little cat tails,
Standing in the night,

Each one waving vengeance

And ready for a fight.

But what if every cat tail

So bristling and tall,

Should all at once be taken off,
And leave no tail at all?

Why every little cat tail
That in fighting bravely fell,

Should make that cat a hero grand,
A feline general swell."

We'll shout and we'll dance on that grand old

day!

Let the cannons roar and the bands all play! And we'll honor the boys who cleared the way For the old starry banner they bore through the fray.

And well may we shout, for the world knows why,

While our eagle screams in his course through the sky

O'er the flag of the free with the sun in his eye.

For not only in name, but in truth we are free

We'er a nation of peers, every man that you

see.

We've no slaves to be beaten by brutal

"Legree;"

Our flag waves for freedom on land and on

sea;

It's the hope of the world the dream that's sublime;

It's the banner of glory in earth's every clime And our eagle screams in his course through the sky

O'er the flag of the free with the sun in his

eye.

It's the gift of our fathers those heroes of old

Whose names on the pages of fame are en

rolled,

Whom no hardships could conquer so daring and bold,

No Monarch could frighten, no Kingdom

could hold.

For our children for aye may this flag be un

furled,

The pride of their hearts and the hope of the world,

While our eagle screams in his course through the sky

O'er the flag of the free with the sun in his eye.

EXTRACT.

The law that keeps you out of trouble, my sister and my brother,

Says that while you have a wife or husband you cannot have another;

That you must not leave the dear one to loneliness and fears,

And wilfully absent yourself for the period of three years;

That you must, aye, be true, too, in weather cold or sultry,

And never, so the law says, must you commit adultery.

And if you read the statutes carefully, you'll find the law is bent

To preserve you in your manhood. You must not be impotent.

EUGENIE E. CLARK.

BORN: PADUCAH, KY., DEC. 10, 1867. THE young lady whose picture and name appear here is one of the quite accomplished young ladies of Paducah. Graduating from college, Miss Clark has devoted much of her time and her talent since to literary pursuits, mostly over the nom de plume of Geneva. Her writings on various subjects, both in prose and poetry, have won for her a very enviable reputation, both at home and abroad. Her first literary effort was at the age of ten, when she wrote a poem which promised her subsequent literary ability. She has lately

EUGENIE E. CLARK.

written an opera, which she is now setting to music, and which competent critics who have examined it pronounce a sure success, as the public will soon have a chance to verify. Miss Clark has also written a novel, which Eastern publishers have examined and declared full of power and great promise. As a contributor to the local literature of the city her articles have been most flatteringly criticised, and show a graceful and easy flow of language and thought. There is evidently quite a brilliant future before Miss Clark if she shall decide to utilize the talent she has for authorship. Her poems have been widely read and admired by lovers of the muse throughout the United States.

Long and wearily I waited,

Waited Jamie for thy coming,

Listened for thy loved footsteps

Tearful leaflets sighed: " He comes not."

Long and wearily I waited;

Pitying skies wept all day with me;
E'en the birds were silent, while I
Watched and waited, but you come not.
Shall I ever feel your hand-clasp
Warm my blood like wine, and tingle
Through my veins like drops of ichor?
Feel your warm lips' tender clinging?
Yes, I hear your solemn promise,
And a soothing peace falls o'er me
Like a heavenly benediction;
And my waiting heart hath patience.

ALONE.

Oh! golden moon, that sifts thy yellow dust
In gleaming mist o'er all the silent earth,
Tell me, dost look upon another face
So sad as mine, another heart so sad?

Your light falls soothing as a mother's touch On fevered brow in childhood's nervous dream,

For well I know upon another form
That wanders in far lands you smile to-night.

Oh, one bright star that looks into the room
Where he has been; but, ah, so silent now,
You seem to waver on with my despair;
You hear me sigh and say, He is not here."
And sweet south-wind that comes across the
flowers

Of my own sunny southland in its bloom,
You whisper to me in soft, fluttering tones
As faintly low as pulse of dying fay.

You bid me rest. Your message from my love
Sheds boundless peace and joy ineffable.
Thy fragrant breath is warm from off his lips;
Oh, touch my face and leave his heart-breath
there.

Touch thou mine eyes, my lips, oh, sweet south-wind,

And gather there the kisses that are his;'
Oh, waft them to him on thy scented breath
To where he wanders- far from love and me.

Oh, golden moon, and stars, and fragrant winds,

Shine brightly-gentle blow upon my love:
Oh heaven-lights, in safety guide his steps
To where the heart he knows is true awaits.
And winds, take from my lips its guarded
kiss;

Fly swiftly with it to my lover's lips,
For linger, lest the greedy air absorb
One heart-throb of that passionful cares.

Ye whispering winds that fill my heart with praise,

Till all my soul speaks in a jubilante,
Ye bid me rest; and peace thrills every vein,
And restlessness falls swooningly away.

EXTRACT.

With closed eyes, I think of thee, my sweet, Thy spirit hovers near this pensive hour; Again I seem to see thy dark head bend, Above me - feel thy dark eyes' wondrous

power.

Again I feel thy whispers on my cheek,
My hand in thine, strong to thy bosom prest,
Till I could feel thy heart's blood surge and
throb

'Neath where my pulsing fingers flutt'ring rest.

Again we wander near the river's brim, With sedgy grass caressing love-light feet; With soughing willows waving dreamily The moon light kissed the wavesyou kissed me, sweet.

LEON ROBERT.

BORN: NEW ORLEANS, LA., AUG. 26, 1861. MR. ROBERT has had a varied career; and although a book-keeper by profession, he understands photography, has been a jewelry drummer, book canvasser and advertising agent. He has also been employed on the Chicago Current; has been a regular contributor to the Arkansaw Traveler, and besides | his poems has written a few humorous papers.

CHATTERTON.

Behold! from countless caldrons of the air Calm tempests boil, and blackest fumes arise That darkly infold the stifled heavens. Midnight's terrific stillness, as dreadful At e'er haunted the pulseless solitude, Stirs with quiet tumult athwart the gloom. As ev'ry awful pause, silence inly storms In fearful tranquility, that so noise th' horns, And broods o'er things most dark, drear and doleful. [night, And are, the legion stars this mourning In clouds of sorrow hid, deeply weeping 'Hind a veil of darkness at th' wondrous youth [well. Who gives this cheerless world his last fare

THE VISION.

One eve a luti! sat in solitude,

On th' terrace of the king, in pensive mood,
Scarce heeding from his gloomy, love retreat,
The glorious hues of Nature at his feet.
The lilies, hyacinths, roses that close bloom
To rosemary, favorite of the tomb;
While mellifluous zephyrs idly play
Amid trees that in plaintive sweetness sway.
Through wild delightful vales, awiding slopes,
Parting,impulsive,hasty breeze elopes [storm,
From threat'ning, avenging, approaching
In the distance thund'ring his dread alarm.
Soon the thoughtful luti is in a trance:
Confused, amazed, a vision claims his glance.
Lo! mid far, solemn forests, black with night,
Discerns, in a ling'ring, uncertain light,
A shadowy, surging throng that seems
As of the delicate fabric of dreams.
Then sudden rise the chant of ziraleet,
And harmonions cadence of fairy feet,
Echoed by mimic voice of Kashan wells
And tooba trees, and wondrous champak vales.
In vestments of clear, hazy texture made,
Like the light around, but of goldener shade,
Sees lithe bazigers of etherial race
To the melody dance with sylvan grace.
Now here, now there, in merry, sportive flights
O'er dim-lit swards, or misty airy heights.
While the Peribanon with streaming hair,
Breast all nude and beauteous limbs half-bare,
Reclining on billowy clouds among,
Queenly surveys the gay and joyous throng.

115

MRS. MARTHA E. WHITTEN.

BORN: AUSTIN, TEXAS, OCT. 3, 1842.

AT twelve years of age Martha contributed to the press, and from that time on her pen has been kept busily employed. Marrying young, she was left a widow at twenty-four with three children, and teaching was her only support. After five years she again married, and has now a large family. Mrs. Whitten's poems are

MRS. MARTHA E. WHITTEN.

full of thought and pathos; they were collected in 1886 and published under the title of Texas Garlands, which work was followed by the Drunkard's Wife, a temperance poem in pamphlet form. She has written numerous other poems that have received a wide circulation, and consequently is a writer of whom Texas may well be proud.

THE SNOW! THE SNOW!

The snow, the snow, oh the beautiful snow!
Falling so softly, so gently below;
Hiding the rubbish in by-way and street;
Bridging the road for the traveler's feet-
Silently, solemnly eddying down
Robing the hillside and shrouding the town.

The snow, the snow, it is with us again,
It is drifting in heaps o'er valley and plain;
'Tis spoiling the paths our feet loved to tread,
Winding its sheet o'er our dear precious dead-

Whisking and whirling and sailing around, Filling the doorway and whitening the ground.

The snow, the snow, how we hail its return, As higher the fires on the hearthstone burn; The young and the merry, with fond hearts aglow,

Welcome thy coming, thou beautiful snow!
Flitting and frisking and flying about
'Mid the sleigh-bell's jingle and the school
boy's shout.

The snow, the snow, unsullied it comes-
In its vesture of white 'tis draping our homes;
'Tis heaping a grave for the dear dying flowers,
Wreathing in beauty this bleak world of ours-
Till the woodland sparkles with crystalized

It mocks their wants with a broad, cold grin,
As through crevice and crack 'tis hurrying in-
It heeds not their tatters, but pierces through
all;

God pity the poor when the snow-flakes fall!
The snow, the snow, the pitiless snow!
Unheeding the pauper, bereft and low;
He dies alone in the cold dreary street,
With naught but the snow for his winding
sheet.

Like an angel kind with a delicate wing,
It bears him away to the home of the King.
The snow, the snow, by wayward winds toss'd,
Soon in the mire of the street to be lost,
An emblem thou art of man's primitive state
Ere yet the drawn sword guarded Eden's lone
gate.

EDWIN H. BARNES.

BORN: MARATHON, N. Y., MAY 13, 1849. APPOINTED Marathon postmaster at the age of twenty-one, a position he filled for eleven years, he next entered the railway mail service. He is now resident agent of the Phoenix

EDWIN H. BARNES.

Insurance Company in his native city, where he resides with his family. Mr. Barnes has issued a beautiful little volume of verse entitled A Wild Bouquet, by Leon Claire--his nom de plume.

BENEDICITE.

Sleep peacefully my little one,

Under the azure swell of skies,
Where daisies bend their starry eyes-
Beneath white fringes of the sun.
Thy soul with Christ; thy spirit here,
Thy rosy lips that now are dumb,
By death's dark siren overcome,
Leaves earth draped in a mantle drear.
Why woo thee back? Were it unjust?
The voice of all the world is such
That none would care.. not overmuch,
Save one who broods above thy dust.

The winter's wind, the summer's breath,
The pearly tears of June's sweet flow'rs,
Drag slowly out the weary hours,
That throbs between a life, and.. death.

Come back to me, my own, my fair!

I reach out hands in bitter pain To clasp you, sweet, all mine again; But reason mocks at my despair. My blue-eyed pet, my precious one, Could I but hear your baby voice, How greatly would my soul rejoice, None happier beneath the sun. The stars go out, the moon sleeps low Beneath yon fringe of stalwart pines, The weary night, in dull, dark lines, In mantled blackness hides my woe.

MINE.

My heart broods o'er a coffined lid:

The truest, purest, best of all

Is in its narrow limits hid;

And I,

well, life seems all of gall,
More bitter far than anything,
The saddest morsel Time can bring.
There is a grief too deep for tears,
A wild, corroding sense that eats
Full deep into the heart, and sears
The soul, where gladness seldom beats.
It is a grief that none may know,
Save those whose hearts are full of woe.
Sweet, sainted mother, truly mine;
Your boy whose breast is full of woe,
Who loved you deeply, purely so,
Bends low beside a broken shrine.
The blue bent sky so full of stars
A wild uncertain light sends down
Upon the mantled earth of brown,
Blown full of deep volcanic scars.
Do angels weep? Do angels grieve?
Full soon there comes so much of dread,
Full much-full more. Can I believe
My darling one lies cold and dead?
Lies still and white
so better far
Than I... beneath a baleful star.
Christ is a mystery- --- a breath,
A holy dream- a pure sweet trust,
Whose promises are truly just;
But why, oh why, did He bring death?
I would that tears of mine might flow,
Strive though I may they will not come;
My very soul seems coldly dumb,
So bitter, deep, this cruel woe.
O loving smiles that all for me,
Awoke within my breast such bliss,
A love far deeper than the sea,
And pure as any angel's kiss:
Inwoven dreams full bright and fair,
As rainbows braided in the air.

O sweet, pure lips, all voiceless now,
Kissed into silence - sadly mute-
By the pale angel's cold salute,
Christ help me bear this woe, somehow!