132

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

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,

46

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."

46

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 his 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

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, he 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, O dear, here comes a

RAINY DAY VERSES.

If we never saw the contrast

That there is 'tween sun and rain,
If 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:

134

Clouds rise up before 'tis noonday

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

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.

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

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 themselves, 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 shower
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.

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

135

MRS. CELESTE MAY.

perance, of which she is a stanch advocate. She was married and lived for a number of years in the state of Iowa, but now resides in Nelson, Nebraska.

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 heavy and hard to bear,

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 honeyed retreat.

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.

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

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 suare; 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.