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BORN: BELLEVILLE, ILL., JULY 21, 1851. MR. ASHMORE has written poems more or less from an early age, many of which have ap

Are the best I've ever found, And we're noted for the female beauties

Of our good old-fashioned town. You may talk about your children

0, those cute and cunning cases, And smooth down their golden hair

And kiss their sweet and dimpled faces; But our town is all a swarming,

And its streets are just teaming, With the finest, loveliest children,

And our features, fairly gleaming. You may talk about your cities

With their rush and daily storm, Its push and greed for business,

And its systematic form; But I'm kind o' on the quiet,

And I'd rather muse around
Among the quaint and happy people

Of my own old-fashioned town.
You may talk about the amusement,

Sights, parks, and grand odoos
Until you give a village codger,

The old-fashioned country blues;
But I'd tell you they cost money,

And us poor would run aground
So just take your sight of cities,
But I'll stick to my old town.

You may talk about your cities,
But I'm sure that I am free
To admit, I'd rather live,

In the good old town of Bethany;
For somehow I love its people,

And I've sort o' settled down
To live and die here with them,
For I am stuck on this old town.

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You may talk about your cities,

In our grand old Illinois,
Of their gay and charming lassies,

And their hustling, rustling boys.
But our girls are a good deal sweeter,

And our boys are far ahead, Of those dudes and butterflies,

In your grand old city bred. You may talk about your cities,

And the bustle of its people,
Of its stately, handsome houses,

And the towering of its steeples;
Its nice and haughty, but its selfish ---

There's no friendship to be found;
So you're welcome to your city

But I'll stick to my old town. You may talk about your ladies,

Yes, your stylish city women, About the draperies of their dress,

With their bonnets and their trimming; But our ladies, though a trifle plain,

POVERTY. O poverty! it seems that fate Has chose thee for my constant mate, Or why abide thou tbus with me, Unbidden guest of poverty? O poverty! thou fiend accurst, Of all my foes thou are the worst. I dread thee, hate thee, yet with delight Thou tauntest me by day and night. When all compassed in want's dark storm, 'Tis then I see thy jeering form That sports about with fiendish glee -Thou starving fiend of poverty. When in my rags I view the form Of others clothed so snug and warm, "Tis then in wrath I turn on thee --Thou freezing fiend of poverty. There's just one hope, that by and by In peaceful rest I soon shall lie Beneath rich earth; I then shall be Hid from thy sight, O poverty!

MAN LIKE THE MOON. Oh the beautiful moon with its borrowed

light! The brilliant moon, the queen of the night! Beaming so proudly, yet softly the ray, Lent her so kindly by the great king of day. The beautiful moon reminds us of men, That are borrowing their light from one that can lend.

[to shine, They are groping in darkness, endeavoring By reflecting the brightness of light that's

divine. Like the moon, so the man, in splendor ar

rayed; His light is another's, his fullness shall fade. And back in the darkness he will pass very soon

[moon. To wait for his change like the beautiful


BORN: FRANKLIN CO., IND., JUNE 2, 1849. MR. ABBOTT commenced writing at an early age, and his poems have appeared from time to time in numerous publications. In person he is a little above the average height, and is a well built man. He generally follows the occupation of a farmer. Mr. Abbott hopes soon to publish a work entitled Lyrics of Liberty, a book of poems founded on fact,


BORN: SPARTA, IND., MAY 7, 1846. For the past ten years Mrs. Jones has written numerous poems that have appeared in the leading periodicals in the east. She was married in 1870, and now resides with her husband in Geneva, N. Y.

This world is full of sorrow,

And misery, we know,
And those that troubles borrow,

Only augment their woe.
Though some in errors stumble,

Ill luck the way beset;
Few things make folks more humble

Tban poverty and debt.
Rich people with fine mansions,

And wealth of gold secure,
With fields of broad expansions,

Often forget the poor. But God, who knows our weakness,

Remembers with regret, And never will forsake us,

In poverty and debt. Midst scenes of destitution,

Encompassed with despair; In seasons of confusion,

The Lord will answer prayer. In moments of depression,

When grief our eyes do wet,
God views us with compassion,

In poverty and debt.
With faith in Christ 'resigning -

Homage to him we pay;
Each cloud has a silver lining,

Darkness succeeds the day. Our beacon star though shaded,

May shine brilliantly yet: And lighten up the pathway of poverty and debt.

When the earth lies steeped in dreams,
And the glinting starlight beams

On the mist;
Mystic speech of elfin sprite,
Through the awesome hush of night

Lisp, O list.”
And I hear the whisperous murmur
Of the lullabies of summer

Softly croon,
While the owl hoots his reflections
In lugubrious inflections

To the moon.
All the night creatures uncanny
Sally forth from nook and cranny

Bosk and fen,
For their nightly reconnoiter,
Where the somber shadows loiter

In the glen.
Now a dusky bat flops thither,
And a beetle hies him hither

With a thump;
And a whippoorwill is singing
Where the woodbine's arms are clinging

Round a stump.
O this night! Howe'er I crave it
Though I try I cannot save it

Or bring back
Bat or beetle, owl or moon,
Unless in a grim cartoon

On a plaque.

THE WARRIORS' EPITAPH. Here, in their narrow earthen bed, Lay our lamented federal dead. Veneration to them we give; As Christ: they died that we might live. Rarest immortelles of art, Portray real dictates of our heart; Flow'rs, in the balmy month of May, We twine for Decoration day. With reverence and love divine, We hang bright garlands o'er their shrine, Above this hallowed, sacred sod; Where amaranths are the smiles of God.

JACOB HUFF. BORN: CHATHAM Rox, PA., Jan. 31, 1853. JACOB HUFF's writings generally appear under the nom de plume of Faraway Moses. At an early age he was employed in the lumber woods of Pennsylvania, Mr. Huff has written numerous humorous sketches and serial

BALM OF LIFE. The greatest thing in lifeA balm for its sorrows and strife And this one thing will prove Better than all else to me: 'Tis merely to live and to be With the people I love. I love these bare, bald hills, Where the song of the spring bird trills, And I hear the coo of the dove; But better than all to me, Is to always live and be Among the people I love. Oh, what is wealth and fame? Or, what is an honored name, If from my friends I'm removed? Give me my cot on the hill, And the song of the whip-poor-will, And the friends I have always loved.

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THE WARNING. Before the glass I stood this morning

Combing the hair of my frivolous head; Then I beheld, oh, solemn warning!

A silvered strand of birsute thread. Firmly I grasp'd it with my fingers,

Pluck'd it out, but oh! the cold Realization behind it lingers

God in Heaven! I'm growing old! Then I noticed the crow-foot wrinkles

Deeply indented around each eye, (twinkles And tears of regret down my sad face

While thinking how soon I must surely die. I smooth out the wrinkles with careful fingers,

(grows cold; And pluck out gray hair while my heart For, oh! thal terrible thought still lingers

God in Heaven! I'm growing old! Oh, this stern fiat of nature

Under which all mortals lie! Suspended over every creature

Hangs this sentence - all must die!
Execution day draws nearer,

And each gray hair I behold
Speaks of death and graveyards dreary -

Oh! my God, I'm growing old!
Soon these hands will cease their labor,

And upon this bosom lay,
Down beside a silent neighbor,

Flesh and bone and heart decay. What comes after? Ah, the mystery,

Half of which has ne'er been told; For the dead send back no bistory

To poor mortals growing old.

No one knows the secret sighing,-

Sobbing in a neighbor's heart;
No one knows the fond hopes dying -

No one knows the cruel smart.
No one knows the hungry yearning

Of a neighbor's cheerless soul;
No one knows how grief is burning

In the heart where love grows cold.
None but God knows each desire:

He alone knows griefs untold: Ah, He sees the heart's slow fire

Dying out as love grows cold. Ah, I see your neighbor sitting,

Often with a low bowed head; And I know how grief is flitting

Through his heart, where hope is dead.

EXTRACT. Take away those little dresses,

Gently lay them out of sight; I am sad, and it distresses Me to look at them to-night.

JOHN J. MCGIRR. BORN: Youngstown, PA., MARCH 13, 1855. The principal work of Mr. McGirr is the Destruction of the World, a poem wbich was published in 1886. Although comparatively unknown as yet, he is a poet of no mean ability. His conceptions are lofty - his language

Sadly dies the autumn day,
In moaning winds and sunset gray;
The forest trees, with branches bare,
Upraise their arms as though in prayer,
While at their feet the dead leaves lie
Hushed and sad and silently.
The gray squirrel from his dizzy height
Perceives the fast approaching night,
And with quick and startled leap,
Scrambles to his nest and sleep,
While deep within the wood is heard
The plaintive cry of the midnight bird.
Now just above the western hills,
The dark clouds part, and sunlight fills
The forest, and the saddened scene
Is glorified in the golden sheen
Of the setting sun.
Şo, sweetly on my saddened life,
Dark with sickness and with strife,
There falls the sunlight of God's love,
With hope that in His home above,
When life and sorrow both be past,
My weary feet will rest at last.



And now the lightning, as a storm of rain
Pours from the heavens, making all things

The cowering millions kneeling on the ground,
The beasts and reptiles gathered close around;

The awful secrets of the mighty sea,

Which now are shown so plain and vividly; clear and musical. This work also contains The falling houses and the bursting rocks; various other shorter poems that have been

The trees uprooted, as by tempest shocks,well received. Mr. McGirr is a newspaper ed- | All, all the horrors of this awful night itor by profession, and now resides in Stand out distinct before poor mankind's McKeesport, Pa.


Oh, God of mercy! listen to that cry,-

That cry of anguish unto Thee on high!

That thou would'st end the lives of those beAve Maria! the evening shadows fall;

low, Ave Maria! We pray thee guard us all.

And thus cut short their agonies and woe. Over the land and the sea the night is coming As if in answer to that fearful cry, on;

The lightning streams the faster from the Ave Sanctissima! guard us till the dawn.


The earth in places ope's in fissures deep, Star of life's stormy sea, hear our humble

Where man and beast sink in a writhing heap. prayer,

Then from th' abyss there come despairing And when the tempests rise, save us from de

cries; spair.

Then a faint moaning, which in silence dies. Guide our wand'ring footsteps through this world aright;

WOMAN'S TEARS. Safely through the darkness upward to the

More powerful than the sword or pen, light.

More potent than the frowns of men, Ave Sanctissima! hear our earnest cry!

More touching than a lover's sighs, Ave Maria! draw near us when we die.

Are the tears that flow from woman's eyes.


Borx: INDIANAPOLIS, IND., JAN. 15, 1836, CONSTANCE studied in Germany for six years, and upon her return to America, at the age of twenty-five, she was married to the Rev. James Runcie, D. D. Mrs. Runcie has led a life of wonderful mental activity, and at an early age began to compose music. Her great

She held within her graceful hands

Her hat, which, hanging down, Broke, with its strings of ribbon bright,

The dead black of her gown.
She was a picture standing there,

Altho' she did not know it,
My love, with earnest, truthful brow,

My dreamer and my poet.
I would have fallen at her feet,

I could have worshiped there,
So graceful in her flowing robes,

But that I did not dare.
I in my very soul and heart,

Would paint her if I could,
As coming through the door that night
We saw her as she stood.


BROKEN FRIENDSHIP. I send no greeting; I do not even feel Your name forgotten when in prayer I kneel. You came into my life and passed away, A troubled dream which flies before the day. You ask too much.

There comes, at last, an end
Of what one ought to suffer for a friend.
It then becomes ignoble - self-abase,
Not sacrifice - pure – holy – full of grace.
I suffered much where now I cannot feel;
I do not still pretend a friendly zeal
In what you do- or are -- or where you go;
A calm indifference is all I know.
I am not angry even, nor doth there burn
Resentment in my heart! -- No!

You must learn
How wholly I forgive and can forget.
The sun, upon two friends,

Hath simply set.

MRS. CONSTANCE FAUNT LE ROY RUNCIE. est success in prose literature was Divinely Led, a work which attained a wide popularity, and was repeatedly quoted from by press and pulpit. In 1888 Poems Dramatic and Lyric appeared, wbich met with still more gratifying success. In person Mrs. Constance Faunt LeRoy Runcie is very petite.

My love came through the door, and lo!

Her very form and face,
So purely simple, seemed to glow

With new, peculiar grace.
Her dress was black, and made of gauze,

Which veiled but did not hide
Her perfect arms, so softly wbite,

They with the lily vied.
The crimson flowers at her throat

Were all the jewels worn,
Except her eyes, which shone above
With light that was love-born.

THIS WOULD I DO. If I were a rose,

This would I do: I would lie upon the white neck of her I love, And let my life go out upon the fragrance

Of her breath.
If I were a star,

This would I do:
I would look deep down into her eyes,
Into the eyes I love, and learn there

How to shine.
If I were a truth strong as the Eternal One,

This would I do:
I would live in her heart, in the heart
I know so well, and

Be at home.
If I were a sin,

This would I do: I would fly far away, and tho' her soft hand In pity was stretched out, I would not stay, but fly,

And leave her pure!

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