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,
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.

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,

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.

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

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.

BEAUTIFUL MOONLIGHT.
Beautiful moonlight so starry and bright;
O! 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 has 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 white:
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.

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
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 him 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 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,"
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
Underneath this 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."

"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!

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 Ah 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,

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.
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's 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."

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,

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?"