GEORGE WALDO BROWNE.

BORN: DEERFIELD, N. H., OCT. 8, 1851. At the age of twenty Mr. Browne commenced writing prose, of which he has written over one hundred serials and three hundred short stories that have received publication. In addition to these stories he has written numer

Alas! for scholar, sage and them

Of the saving prayer and pen;
The reaper Death spares none, but says:

I conquer the kings of men."
The Lord of Hosts looks calmly down

On his subjects great and small,
And says in terms well understood,

.. I'm the King of Kings o'er all.

THE WHITE STEED.
Like a meteor bright he flashed in sight

On the distant line of blue;
O'er the trackless green a rushing sheen,

Till in size and form he grew.
Swift as arrow sent from bow strong bent,

As the wild bird's airy flight,
As the ocean breeze from o'er the seas,

Came the matchless steed of white.
Then with nostrils glowing, mane outflowing,

And a restless, fearless eye, With a proud-stepping grace, and tireless

pace, Sped the white steed rushing by. Let the bounding deer glance back with fear,

And the eagle gaze from yonder: Never bird of wing nor fleeing thing

Can outmatch this prairie wonder!
From his unshod heel no ringing steel

Breaks the freedom of bis glee;
While his footsteps airy, light as a fairy.

Leave no imprint on the lea.
Till a speck of white he fades from sight,

Where as one the bending blue
And the level green are dimly seen

On the far-sought western view. Boast not of your steed with railroad speed,

Or your ships that plow the main;
Even swifter far than sail or car

Is the white steed of the plain!
Let the swift-footed deer live his career

And the eagle reach the sun;
While the earth we've span'd with an iron

band, And the steam-king's reign is won. Long my gallant steed with wondrous speed

May you roam your native plain; And your arching neck ne'er feel the check

Of a master's cruel rein.

GEORGE WALDO BROWNE. ous poetical productions, and has in preparation a book entitled Lyrics and Legends. In 1883 Mr. Browne assumed editorial charge of the American Young Folks, a position that he still retains.

LOVE.

THE KING OF KINGS. The master sits behind his desk,

With a solemn mien and stern, Declaring, I'm the king of minds,

For the sons of men must learn." The statesman sends abroad his word,

And the author plies his pen, Each saying, .. I'm the king of power,

For I shape the fates of men."
His bounteous store the husbandman

Gathers with pride, and then
He answers, .. I'm the king of life,

For I feed the sons of men."
The pastor meek instructs his flock

To obey the commandments, ten, While thinking, .. I'm the king of light,

For I save the souls of men."

Distill the dew from roses,

Steal the starlight from above, Bind with the breath of morning,

And you've imprisoned Love! As fades the dew at daylight,

Flee the stars before the sun, As yonder wings the zephyr,

So is Love's illusion done.

MRS. MARY R. P. HATCH.

Borx: STRATFORD, N. H., JUNE 19, 1849. RECEIVING a good education, the ability of Mary as a writer was soon recognized, and early became known by the pen name of Mabel Percy to the readers of the Portland Transeript, Peterson's Magazine, and other equally

We both agreed to let the past be buried

And for the nonce think only of the present. It seems so strange to have him go to Europe

And be so well content to leave me here, When once, not long ago, be used to tell me That life without me would be dark and

drear. I never thought that I should feel so sorry, Or that my heart should sink so in my

breast. What, tears! oh, well I always did cry easy; I'll ring for lights, 0 dear, here comes a

guest. What, Harry? why I've just received your

letter In which you say you sail in the Canary; I've rung for lights; pray sit down just a

minute, And I will speak to Mother, Kate and Mary. It isn't them you want but me, why, Harry? They'd feel quite hurt, I'm sure, if it were

true; You're sorry, and you ask me for forgiveness,

I've nothing to forgive, I'm sorry, too. Why, yes, I think perhaps I might get ready, I've three to help me, Mother, Kate and

Mary; How strangely things have altered, there'll be

two to go, O pshaw! we'll call it one, in the Canary.

RAINY DAY VERSES. If we never saw the contrast

That there is 'tween sun and rain, Il we never knew the difference

That there is 'tween joy and pain,
How could we prize the beauty

Of a sunlit, summer day,
Or know half the glowing pleasure

Of an hour that's free and gay!
If the sun were always shining

What would come of flower and leaf, What would come of life's perfectness

If we never knew a grief? Ah! there's need of more than sunshine,

More than that which only cheers; Ere our lives will fully blossom

We must water them with tears. If we never saw the sunlight,

Never felt its cheering ray, How could we go on hoping

As we do from day to day? Every dark cloud hath a lining

Like to silver pure and bright, Every weary way a turning

That is leading us to light. Life is like a day in summer

That is bright when first begun:

THE LETTER.
He's written just a formal line to say

He sails next Tuesday week in the Canary;
He hopes that I am in my usual health,
And sends his love to Mother, Kate and

Mary. He really couldn't well do less than this, | For when we parted all was very pleasant;

Clouds rise up before 'tis noonday

And obscure the brightening sun. Then there's showers, next there's sun

light, Chasing each away the while; But at last the clouds all vanish

And there beams the Father's smile.

MY MUSE.
I have a muse; she sits within

And greets my coming from the fields. She takes my wage of toil and din,

The fruitage that the hard earth yields, And weaves them all in sweetest rhyme To glad my heart at eventime.

THE LION HUNTER. Full low the tawny lions crouch,

With dew their bright manes glisten; They loll at ease upon the grass,

Then rouse themselves to listen. An old gray-bearded lion calls,

Stoop low, your bright heads cover,
A mighty hunter draweth near,

Around you death doth hover."
Ah, ha! the doughty hunter comes -

With nerve both true and steady,
Cuts off their heads with five strong blades,

'Tis valiant, blue-eyed Neddie. Then in his shiny dinner pail

He brings them in to mamma;
The dandelions now are dead,
He knows they cannot harm her.

What others think, or say, or feel
About our standing with our neighbors,
Or motives that may prompt our labors,
In cause of right, if right we follow,
Or if in folly's slums we wallow
Would show us in our proper level
And how we're traveling to the devil
As fast as wheels of time can move.us
In spite of all done to improve us
By those that's always moralizing
About the good that we're despising.
What new ideas 'twould bring to us
If we but knew how others view us.
Twould make us chary about seeing
Ourselves as seen by other beings.
How many of us would discover
Our noblest deeds were but a cover
To hide some villainy we're scheming,
Of which, we fancy, no one's dreaming.
At least this is the verdict many
Who never were accused of any
Good deeds themsel:es, would place upon us,
And we would see reflected on us
From stately mirrors, when our gazes
Would thither turn, what would amaze us.
What other people thought about us,
Would rise before our face to flout us
And show through flimsy false disguise
A picture that might well surprise us.
We'd scarcely recognize the vision
That rose to mock us in derision
As if it said, Behold the being
That all, except himself, are seeing.
The sight would fill our souls with terror,
We'd turn disgusted from the mirror
And curse the sense that gave us power
To conjure up such scenes, and sbower
Anathemas and objurgation
On those whose base insinuations
would so distort our comely features
And change us into hateful creatures.
But 'twas a poet's fancy merely.
He may have wished it most sincerely,
But modern folks are surely wiser
Than this poetic moralizer,
And grateful are to Power that guides us
That no such scenes rise to deride us,
For if they did there's none but asses
Would dare to peep in looking glasses.

OLD SAWS. - Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us." So prayed the Scottish moralizer: But . human bodies" have grown wiser Since Burns' day, and now we question If it were prudent wise suggestion, And doubt the wisdom of our knowing What looking glasses would be showing In case this earnest invocation Had met Almighty's approbation. Had Burns' prayer been granted, How many of us would be haunted With visions that would rise to shock us And apparitions that would mock us When every mirror would reveal

EXTRACT. Of feathered warblers blithe and free, Who tune their notes of melody Beneath the shade of forest tree,

When summer's sun
Looks down on scenes of mirth and glee

Thou might be one.
But if thou wilt thy pathway wing
To lofty heights, thou'lt never sing
In leafy shade when vernal spring
Once more rolls round.

MRS. CELESTE MAY. BORN: LEE CO., IOWA, OCT. 20, 1850. Mrs. May has written and published a work entitled Sounds of the Prairie, which has received favorable notice from press and public. She occasionally lectures in the cause of tem

Others pleasing and light as air,
Crowd, unfinished, plucking Time's hair;
Till we, in utter and blank despair,
Wonder if ever, or anywhere,
Before was seen such a tailless mare
As the flying steed, so bald and bare,
Which the penniless writer rides with care.
So accuse me not of given to you
The narrative to which I've lost all clue;
I've plucked from Time's forelock some

moments new -
In which I could write some sentiments true;
Though poorly expressed, I hope that a few
May revive my true image, in your heart,

anew. That blessings on earth and in heaven accrue To your share, is the wish of — adieu.

NOTHING WORTH WHILE." There is nothing worth while

Unless shared by another;
What is fortune's sweet smile

If it glads not our brother? -
It is nothing worth while.
The sweetest of song

The sirens can sing
Allures us not long,

Unless we can bring Our best friend along. The joy of beholding

A beauteous picture, Loses half the unfolding

Of its soft-tinted feature, To a lonely heart viewing. And wisest tales known,

If they do not beguile Other hearts than our own,

Are hardly worth while, Though in bard's sweetest tone. The choicest of food,

To the one who prepares it, Is not half so good

If nobody shares it,
And in silence he brood.
What a bauble is fame,

If there is none
To speak our own name

As the dearest one!
Ah! life is tame.
So there's nothing worth while,

If enkindles no eye With a thought or a smile

At the same glad sky -O there's nothing worth while. 'Tis companionship sweet

The heart most craves; Love's glances meet,

And the spirit laves In a boneyed retreat.

THE LOST NARRATIVE." Letters I've written, long and short Letters of love and of retort; Letters of friendship, and all sort; Letters to South and letters to North; Letters to East and letters to West But never, no never, 'mong all the rest, Was accused of giving, to those I love best Not even to those I called but friend That part of my time you call the tail-end." Time flies! and, like Tam O'Shanter's mare, Is tailless long ere one's aware, Or reaches the running water, where The witches of hurry and of care Cease annoying us, and stare; And there is only left us, there, The bare escape; while, everywhere,

Duties unpleasant and duties fair, | Burdens beavy and hard to bear,

JO. ANDERSON PARKER.

BORN: CAMBRIDGE, IND., JULY 28, 1869. MR. PARKER's first journalistic venture was The Lantern, which was published a short time at Topeka, Kansas, in 1886. He has edited quite a number of newspapers, in addition to his own, and is the publisher of the News at Winchester, Tenn.

We parted then -- the days apace

Flew by and joined the past. We parted then - her lovely face

That time beheld I for the last. Stern Death, the Reaper, tore the bloom

Of that sweet flower and missed me; And now the echo from her tomb:

Sweetheart kissed me!

MRS. LILLIAN B. WELCOME.

BORN: NORWICH, N.J., AUG. 18, 1862. As a reader and vocalist, Mrs. Welcome in her youth attained quite a local celebrity, having composed and put to music several pieces of her verse. She was a compositor in a printing office for awhile. She is now engaged in liter ary work, and resides in Scranton, Pa.

THE LAND WE LOVE. Dixie! God bless her - old Dixie!

Land of sun and flowers! Home of the sweetest fancies,

That haunt the muses' bowers!
Land where love is the tie that binds,

The strong and weak in one!
Land where hearts beat full as warm,

As shines her own bright sun!
Dixie! God bless her-old Dixie!

Let the balmy breezes blow
From the sunny gulf, and kiss her

Hills and vales that lie below.
Long may her sons her proud name hold,

Above the stain of wrong!
Long may her daughters raise this chorus

In one ne'er-ending song:
..Dixie! God bless you, old Dixie!

Fair land of sweetest flowers! Land where the reddening roses,

Scent-laden the beautiful bowers! Land where the honor is first in the fight, For home and for Heaven, for God and the

right! Land of fair fancy – land of sweet song, God keep thee, uphold thee, preserve thee

from wrong."

BE EARNEST! The white-winged clouds speed swiftly on,

And leave no track behind.
So life, a vapor dim, is gone

If frivolous the mind.
Of rain a promise those may seem

And this of stately strength.
But like the tissue of a dream

Both shall dissolve at length.

FROM THE TOMB. Sweetheart kissed me when I left her,

A tear fell from her eye,
The parting had bereft her.

Many years have passed by;
I've grown old, my form is bent,

Health, wealth and fame have miss'd me; But with all that I am content

Sweetheart kissed me!
What tho' old Time may steal away

All joys and pleasures -- let this be
The first among the sweets, I say,

Sweetheart kissed me!
Her heart was sad and heavy, too,

Her grief in tears gave way;
For I had come to say adieu -

Perhaps adieu for aye.
The sweet sad eyes with tears o'erfilled

As into mine they gazed -- ah, list me!
My bleeding heart with joy thrilled -

Sweetheart kissed me!

ONLY A WOMAN. Only a woman,

Filled with despair; Grief-stricken, heart-broken,

Burdened with care. Only a woman,

With swift falling tears Old in her pain,

But young in her years. Only a woman,

Whose deep, fondest trust; Was trifled with, outraged,

And trailed in the dust. Only a woman,

With low, quivering breath: Pleading with sobs

For a merciful death. Only a woman,

Caught in a soare; Pitifully weak

Wondrously fair. Only a woman,

That, tempted astray, Seeks rest from her shame

Washed up by the spray. Only a woman,

In her long, last sleep; Only a woman;

For whom angels weep.