DAVID NEWTON ASHMORE.

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

DAVID NEWTON ASHMORE.

peared from time to time in the local press. In person he is rather tall but of good stature.

BETHANY.

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,

1

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

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 O, 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.

POVERTY.

O poverty! it seems that fate
Has chose thee for my constant mate,
Or why abide thou thus with me,
Unbidden guest of poverty?

O poverty! thou fiend accurst,
Of all my foes thou are the worst.

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138

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 arrayed;

His light is another's, his fullness shall fade. And back in the darkness he will pass very [moon. To wait for his change like the beautiful

soon

ALBERT LEWIS ABBOTT. 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.

POVERTY AND DEBT.

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 Than 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.

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 RUN, 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

JACOB HUFF.

stories, in which he is at present engaged. Both his verse and prose have appeared from time to time in the Detroit Free Press, Pittsburgh Post, Henry George's Standard, and other equally prominent journals.

IF WE KNEW.

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.

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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.

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 hirsute 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! that terrible thought still lingersGod 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 history To poor mortals growing old.

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.

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JOHN J. MCGIRR.

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

JOHN J. M'GIRR.

clear and musical. This work also contains various other shorter poems that have been well received. Mr. McGirr is a newspaper editor by profession, and now resides in McKeesport, Pa.

AVE MARIA.

Ave Maria! the evening shadows fall;
Ave Maria! We pray thee guard us all.
Over the land and the sea the night is coming

on;

Ave Sanctissima! guard us till the dawn.

Star of life's stormy sea, hear our humble prayer,

And when the tempests rise, save us from despair.

Guide our wand'ring footsteps through this world aright:

Safely through the darkness upward to the light.

Ave Sanctissima! hear our earnest cry!
Ave Maria! draw near us when we die.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.
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.

So, 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.

DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD.
EXTRACT.

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

plain:

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;
The falling houses and the bursting rocks;
The trees uprooted, as by tempest shocks,-
All, all the horrors of this awful night
Stand out distinct before poor mankind's

sight.

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 be-

low,

And thus cut short their agonies and woe.
As if in answer to that fearful cry,
The lightning streams the faster from the
sky,

The earth in places ope's in fissures deep,
Where man and beast sink in a writhing heap.
Then from th' abyss there come despairing
cries;

Then a faint moaning, which in silence dies.

WOMAN'S TEARS.

More powerful than the sword or pen,
More potent than the frowns of men,
More touching than a lover's sighs,
Are the tears that flow from woman's eyes.

MRS. CONSTANCE RUNCIE.

BORN: 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

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, which met with still more gratifying success. In person Mrs. Constance Faunt LeRoy Runcie is very petite.

MEMORY'S PICTURE.

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 white,
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.

She held within her graceful hands

141

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