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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

And thou with silken nut brown hair Crown of glory dost thou wear. Form of which a god is proud, And a brow without a cloud, Lips which put a rose to shame, And in whose eyes a brightness flame, Standing in thy sweetness there Forever be thou without care. Pretty maid with neck like snow One whose cheeks do ruddy grow, Graceful form and step so light And whose eyes are ever bright, Like the stars of summer's night. Pretty maid of pure desires In whose heart as burns a fire, Thou that always free from care, Light as birds of summer air, Happy art thou everywhere. This thou art, and many more Could be named by the score, 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.

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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.

CHARLES C. ARNOLD. sides at Culbertson. He is a painter by pro fession. The range of his poetic subjects are remarkable, and the Culbertson Sun speaks highly of his poetical genius.

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 BEAUTIFUL SNOW. The snow, the snow, the beautiful snow, Falling so gently to the earth below, In thy lovely garb on a mild March morn To deck the earth in thy cloudless form, Thou wert sent by the hand of an all-wise one, Those numberless flakes falling one by one. Thou beautiful form of spotless white Falling to earth for our delight, Thou makest us glad by thy presence here, Which doubtless betokens a plentiful year; The people all hail thy advent below, Thou spotless form, this beautiful snow.

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,

TO A PRETTY MAID. Pretty maid with eyes so bright That sparkle like the summer's night! In whose orbs a beauty lies 'That's likened unto summer skies,

They pass along through bridges, How those sparkling waters play.

Was there ever such a river As this classic Frenchman stream, · Mingling with the old Republican Grand and beautiful they seem.

What a mighty power these waters Which in combination flow,

Passing gently down the valley And in the sunlight glow.

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 hun. dred pounds. Mr. Butler is well known and highly respected in his adopted city as a man of great integrity and business ability.

BEAUTIFUL MOONLIGHT. Beautiful moonlight so starry and bright; 0! What rejoicing this lovely night --Beautiful stars in the firmanent shine: You are held in space by one Divine. Emeralds set in Heaven's crown so fair, Sparkling like diamonds rich and rare; Beautiful moonlight we love of thee to tell, To express all thy glories we cannot well. Thou cometh at the close of day, And of thy beauties what shall we say; To mention the charms thy grandeur unfold, Has not been accomplished by poets of old. Thou bas led the traveler on his way, And by thy light he's not gone astray; Thou hast turned the darkness into light Thou beautiful emblem - the orb of night.

THOSE FLEECY AND SILVERY CLOUDS.

A sheen of clouds a silvery white
Were in the summer sky,
And marvelous beauty did appear
Unfolded to the eye.
'Twas tinged with silver purest wbite:
No refiner could compare
With those white and fleecy cloudlets
Up in the Heavens there.
They moved about in wondrous beauty;
They appeared a misty light
Pure as the snow immaculate -
Those fleecy clouds of white.
They unfolded their silvery outlines
With Heaven's background of blue,
Then vanished soon and sank away --
Those clouds of wondrous hue.

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.

EXTRACT. FROM FOURTH OF JULY POEM, 1886. Of human progress, every age Begets an impulse most sublime That may be measured by a gauge Peculiar to its day and time. Cœur de Leon clad in steel, The holy Sepulcher to gain, An impulse of religious zeal Impelled bim and his faithful train. Columbus bore the flag of Spain Beyond the world, as wise men thought, Adventurous impulse o'er the main Impelled him to the goal he sought. Extent of Empire o'er the world Impelled the nations to these coasts, And colonies, with flags unfurled, Pressed on his track in mighty hosts. They builded better than they knew Those Kings and Queens of foreign lands: 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, The Atlantic's wild and stormy waves. Divine the right of Kings had been To reign and rule with high behest. The subject deemed it mortal sin To thwart the ruler God had blessed. But now, three thousand miles across The Ocean's heaving, billowy breast, Freedom dared her mane to toss And Liberty to raise her crest; To own and till the virgin soil New thoughts and new emotions bring; The power that gave them leave to toil They realized was King of Kings. The spirit surging through each frame Of self dominion wide and strong, And boundless as the land they claim, Would ne'er again submit to wrong.

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 be 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

"JIM,"
Say, there! P'r'aps

Some on you chaps
Might know Jim Wild?
Well- no offence;
Thar ain't no sense

In gettin' riled!
Jim was my chum

Up on the Bar;
That's why I come

Down from up yar,
Looking for Jim.
Thank ye, sir! You
Ain't of that crew -

Blest if you are!
Money!- Not much;

That ain't my kind;
I ain't no such,

Rum?- I don't mind,
Seein' it's you.
Well, this yer Jim,
Did you know him?-
Jess about your size;
Same kind of eyes —
Well, that is strange;

Why, it's two year

Since he came here
Sick, for a change.
Well, here's to us:

Eh?
The h-- you say!

Dead?
That little cuss?
What makes you star-
You over thar?
Can't a man drop
A glass in yer shop
But you must r'ar?

It wouldn't take

D-much to break
You and your bar.

Dead!
Poor - little - Jim!
Why, thar was me,
Jones, and Bob Lee,
Harry and Ben -
No-account men:
Then to take him!
Well, thar - Good-bye -
No more, sir-I-

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!

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To the man who'll bring to me,"
Cried Intendant Harry Lee,-
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,-
.. Bring the sot, alive or dead,

I will give to him," he said,
Fifteen hundred pesos down,

Just to set the rascal's crown
L'oderneath tbis heel of mine;

Since but death
Deserves the man whose deed,
Be it vice or want of heed,

Stops the pumps that give us breath,

Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine."

And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar,

Which the same I am free to maintain.

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,

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
It was August the third;

And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred

That Ab Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William

And me in a way I despise.
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,

With a smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked

In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve:
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,

And the same with intent to deceive. 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;"

And he went for that heathen Chinee.
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 the game. he did not understand." In his sleeves, which were long,

He had twenty-four packs,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,

MRS. JUDGE JENKINS. THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO MAUD MULLER. Maud Muller, all that summer day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay; Yet, looking down the distant lane, She hoped the Judge would come again. But when he came, with smile and bow, Maud only blushed, and stammered .. Ha-ow?" And spoke of her pa," and wondered whether He'd give consent they should wed together. Old Muller burst in tears, and then Begged that the Judge would lend him ten;" For trade was dull, and wages low, And the craps" this year, was somewhat slow. And ere the languid summer died, Sweet Maud became the Judge'e bride. But, on the day that they were mated, Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated: And Maud's relations, twelve in all, Were very drunk at the Judge's hall. And when the summer came again, The young bride bore him babies twain. And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange That bearing children made such a change: For Maud grew broad and red and stout! And the waist that his arm once clasped about Was more than he now could span. And he Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, How that which in Maud was native grace In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place; And thought of the twins,and wished that they Looked less like the man who raked the hay On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain Of the day he wandered down the lane And, looking down that dreary track, He half regretted that he came back. For, had he waited, he might have wed Some maiden fair and thoroughbred; For there be women fair as she, Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. Alas for maiden! alas for Judge! And the sentimental,--that's one-half..fudge." For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore, With all his learning and all his lore. And the Judge would have bartered Maud's

fair face For more refinement and social grace. If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, It might have been," More sad are these we daily see: . It is, but hadn't ought to be."

JENNIE KATE LUDLUM.

Bors: NEW YORK CITY, FEB. 20, 1862. Miss LCDLUM has written for the leading periodicals of America, including Demorest's, Godey's Lady's Book, Ladies' Home Journal,

Yet still I watched with anxious eyes

To see it re-enter the bay.
In the west the colors deepened,

And a golden sunset ray
Fell aslant the ocean and rested on

The ship that had entered the bay! .. My ship!" I cried out gladly,

Watching the shining sail
That was touched to a delicate, roseate hue

By that ray from the sunset pale.
But how did it enter the harbor?''

I asked of a sailor hale. «Why, cbild, it tacked 'gainst wind and tide,

And came in with glowing sail!” .. But the wind and tide o'ercame it,"

I said, as 'twas entering the bay." ["yes, .. Yes," answered this gray-haired sailor,

But, child, it tacked, I say!" .. Tacked?" I repeated vaguely,

.. Tacked? And what is that, please?" Why," laughed the sailor, " why, my child, 'Tis coming in 'gainst the breeze!" But how is it done?" I queried, Watching the stately ship; .. 'Tis sailing hither and fro, my child,"

Said the sailor, with smiling lip, . Till at last, with stern endeavor

Gaining against the tide -Tho' that and the wind may both be strong

Into port 'twill certainly ride; . For, child, a patient waiting

O'ercomes the strongest ill!"
As the sailor paused, the ship hove to,

At rest beneath the hill.
In life," the sailor continued,

The winds and tides of fate lyield Are strong and relentless for those who

To its swelling waves of hate; .. But, friend, there is One above us

Who watches with sleepless eyes, Guiding the ship with loving hand

Thro' tides that are sweeping by. .. 'Tis true He calls to us often To tack, and tack again;

(sail But when harbor is entered with shining

We see 'twas not all in vain!" The sunset colors faded,

The tide flowed steadily still,
Bearing away in its restless grasp

The seaweed and shells at will;
But the ship rode safe in the harbor,

Its white wings folded down; (the hills While the strong, sweet breeze from over

Swept out thro' the quiet town.
No sail to be seen on the ocean -

All was peaceful and still:
But I'd learned a lesson grave and true

That evening under the hill!

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JENNIE KATE LUDLUM. and other equally prominent journals. Her poems have received favorable notice from critics and the press generally, and have been widely copied by the local press.

HOW MY SHIP CAME IN. I stood on the shore at sunset

And watched the tide flow by,
Mirroring clear on its restless breast

The crimson and gold of the sky.
The boats that had entered the harbor

Were anchored safe in the bay
Lazily rocking, with white wings set

At rest till another day. Faint on the far horizon

Glimmered a lonely sail, And I watched with eager, anxious eyes

To see if 'twould win or fail. The wind was dead against it,

The tide flowed strong and still;
But steady and sure as the wind and tide,

And just as certain a will.
The sail grew large and larger,
Wavered and faded away,

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