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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;
I conquer the kings of men."
On his subjects great and small,
.. I'm the King of Kings o'er all.
THE WHITE STEED.
On the distant line of blue;
Till in size and form he grew.
As the wild bird's airy flight,
Came the matchless steed of white.
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!
Breaks the freedom of bis glee;
Leave no imprint on the lea.
Where as one the bending blue
On the far-sought western view. Boast not of your steed with railroad speed,
Or your ships that plow the main;
Is the white steed of the plain!
And the eagle reach the sun;
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.
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."
Gathers with pride, and then
For I feed the sons of men."
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,
Of a sunlit, summer day,
Of an hour that's free and gay!
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:
He sails next Tuesday week in the Canary;
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.
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,
Around you death doth hover."
With nerve both true and steady,
'Tis valiant, blue-eyed Neddie. Then in his shiny dinner pail
He brings them in to mamma;
What others think, or say, or feel
RICHARD J. CORBLEY.
BORN: LANCASTER, PA., JUNE 17, 1835. MR. CORBLEY commenced to court the muse at an early age, and for nearly forty years his poems have appeared more or less in the local press. He is a teacher by profession, and now resides in Bloomfield, Indiana.
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
Thou might be one.
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,
moments new -
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;
If it glads not our brother? -
The sirens can sing
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,
If there is none
As the dearest one!
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!
The strong and weak in one!
As shines her own bright sun!
Let the balmy breezes blow
Hills and vales that lie below.
Above the stain of wrong!
In one ne'er-ending song:
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
BE EARNEST! The white-winged clouds speed swiftly on,
And leave no track behind.
If frivolous the mind.
And this of stately strength.
Both shall dissolve at length.
FROM THE TOMB. Sweetheart kissed me when I left her,
A tear fell from her eye,
Many years have passed by;
Health, wealth and fame have miss'd me; But with all that I am content
Sweetheart kissed me!
All joys and pleasures -- let this be
Sweetheart kissed me!
Her grief in tears gave way;
Perhaps adieu for aye.
As into mine they gazed -- ah, list me!
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.