CHARLES C. ARNOLD. BORN: MONROE CO., N. Y., JUNE 8, 1857. ALTHOUGH but recently has Mr. Arnold commenced to court the muse, his poems are attracting universal admiration in the state of his adoption - Nebraska, where he now re CHARLES C. ARNOLD. sides at Culbertson. He is a painter by profession. The range of his poetic subjects are remarkable, and the Culbertson Sun speaks highly of his poetical genius. THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW. The snow, the snow, the beautiful snow, TO A PRETTY MAID. That sparkle like the summer's night! And thou with silken nut brown hair In whose orbs a beauty lies, That's likened unto summer skies, And thou with silken nut brown hair, Crown of glory dost thou wear. MEMORY'S PICTURE. Of all the beautiful pictures That hang on memory's wall, Is one of a dear kind mother, The fairest and sweetest of all. She was taken peacefully away, To the land of blissful rest, And now is among the numbered Who dwell in the land of blest. She was a good kind mother, That oft our hearts did cheer; But now she reigns in glory, Where heavenly beings appear. This beautiful memory's picture, Doth often haunt me still, As when the spirit departed, And death her brow did chill. And to the days of childhood, Does my memory often roam; As we gathered round the fireside In our far away eastern home. THE CLASSIC FRENCHMAN. Down the beautiful valley Flows the classic Frenchman stream, How its pretty waters glisten, How its sparkling waters gleam. They flow along so smoothly And pass along so grand, We think it the finest river Out in this western land. They wind about those waters pure And glisten on their way, 128 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. They pass along through bridges, Passing gently down the valley BEAUTIFUL MOONLIGHT. THOSE FLEECY AND SILVERY CLOUDS. "Twas tinged with silver purest white: With those white and fleecy cloudlets Up in the Heavens there. They moved about in wondrous beauty; Pure as the snow immaculate - They unfolded their silvery outlines THE RIVER. Thou beautiful river that flows along, Bright thy waters and sweet thy song; Low thy murmur, thy melody sweet, That swiftly runs in thy channel so deep. Beautiful river how thy waters gleam, Broad is thy way and bright thy stream, Onward thy course to the ocean flow Bearing thy ships as the winds do blow. Beautiful river that murmurs all day: What is it that thy bright waters say, Running along in thy channel so strong, Pray, 0, pray tell me what is thy song. HON. THOMAS J. BUTLER. BORN: BEDFORD, IND., FEB. 5, 1826. THIS gentleman has filled the position of reporter, editor, etc., and wielded the pen more or less for the past thirty five years, his writings having appeared chiefly in local newspapers in California, Nevada, Idaho, Arizona, and the western states generally. He was married in 1881 to Miss Carrie E. Blake, and now resides in Prescott, Arizona. Mr. Butler is now receiver of public moneys. In person he is of very large stature, being six feet and four inches in height, and weighs two hundred pounds. Mr. Butler is well known and highly respected in his adopted city as a man of great integrity and business ability. EXTRACT. FROM FOURTH OF JULY POEM, 1886. Of human progress, every age The seeds of Liberty to strew Was not a part of what they planned. They hoped the fealty to retain Of subjects born to be their slaves, E'en though beyond the raging main, LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. FRANCIS BRET HARTE. BORN: ALBANY, N. Y., 1839. BRET HARTE is a thorough American poet, a man of brilliant wit, wide information and strong purposes. In 1854 he removed, with his parents, to California, where he became a compositor in a printing office, then he mined for himself, then became a school teacher, then an FRANCIS BRET HARTE. express messenger. In 1857 he returned to the compositor's case on the Golden Era, where he was soon assigned a place in the literary department. All the works of Bret Harte show keen wit and pungency of expression, and his prose tales teem with noble thoughts. To the man who'll bring to me," Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,- Stops the pumps that give us breath,Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine." "JIM," Say, there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps In gettin' riled! Thank ye, sir! You I ain't no such, Rum? I don't mind, Seein' it's you. Well, this yer Jim, Well, here's to us: Eh? The h--you say! That little cuss? What makes you star You over thar? Can't a man drop Dead! Well, thar-Good-bye- Eh? What's that you say? Why, dern it! - sho!No? Yes? By Jo! Sold! Sold! Why, you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim! 129 THE HEATHEN CHINEE. Which I wish to remark,— And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name. And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, It was August the third; And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand: It was euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, Yet the cards they were stocked At the state of Nye's sleeve: Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see,— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor:" In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In his sleeves, which were long, Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers,- that's wax. Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar,- Which the same I am free to maintain. MRS. JUDGE JENKINS. THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO MAUD MULLER. Yet, looking down the distant lane, And the craps" this year, was somewhat slow. How that which in Maud was native grace And thought of the twins, and wished that they And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair face For more refinement and social grace. More sad are these we daily see: HOW MY SHIP CAME IN. And I watched with eager, anxious eyes The wind was dead against it, The tide flowed strong and still; But steady and sure as the wind and tide, The sail grew large and larger, Yet still I watched with anxious eyes Fell aslant the ocean and rested on That was touched to a delicate, roseate hue "But how did it enter the harbor?" |