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JAMES H. ASHABRANNER.

BORN: NEW ALBANY, IND., Dec. 31, 1861. BROUGHT up on a farm, at eighteen years of age James was apprenticed for one year to the blacksmith's trade, subsequently teaching school for about five years. He was then

The vows that made the parting sweet,

On memory's tablet yield their place To words of love and smiles that meet Reflection in a fairer face.

And love that we regard as true

Leaks into flame, and then expires, Or bursts from other vents anew,

Relit by flames from other fires.
And yet I deem it well, that such

Is life and all that it contains;
For memory comes with softened touch

And brings to mind our lessened pains. And oh, the past! the silent past!

What shudders seize the maddened brain, When scarce we dare to think, at last

The past might come to light again. For deeply buried in the dust,

Are secrets that we fain would keep. Their tombs we guard with sacret trust

Till we, with them, lie down to sleep.

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SONG OF SUMMER TIME.
The fields are bright with the golden grain,

That waves in the subtile breeze;
The partridge calls in his loud refrain,

To his mate from the apple-trees.
Sweet and low is the hum of bees,

And the hum of the reaper's tune,
As, one by one, they bind the sheaves

Beneath the skies of June.
Deep in the shade of the beechen grove,

Where the sun and the shadows play,
The oriole swings with his mated love,

And blends his tuneful lay,
Silent and grand with a lurid glow,

Behind the hills of the west,
The chariot of Sol is sinking low,
And bids the harvester rest.

MUTABILITY. How soon the joys which we have known,

The treasures of our greener years, Become with moss and rust o'ergrown,

Till scarce the sculptured name appears. The relics of the past, though'few,

Neglected lie within the heart;
The weeds of time conceal their hue,

Or but reveal the tints in part.
The plaything of the prattling boy

Is all the world to him to-day; To-morrow brings another toy,

For which he flings the old away.

AMOR FATUM VINCIT.
I witnessed, last night, in a vision,

Two pathways from opposite coves,
Converge in the regions elysian,

And wend through celestial groves. As one single pathway they wandered,

Like rivers that flow to the main, But while in my vision I pondered,

I saw them diverging again. And widely asunder they tended,

As fashioned by destiny's might, But in the dark valley they blended

And entered the realms of light. Oh, loving hearts here disunited,

Look up through your anguish and tears, For love here so cruelly blighted, Will bloom through eternity's years.

But not alone to infant mind

But to the gray-haired children too, A toy appears of fair design, Until replaced by something new.

And friends to whom we said, adieu,

And wept to clasp the parting hand Fade from the memory, like the hue Of words engraven on the sand.

NELLIE CORINNE BERGEN.

BORN: DELANCO, N. J., OCT. 14, 1868. Whex a child Nellie lived in Washington and Philadelphia, and at four years of age came to East Saginaw, where she has lived ever since. Graduating in 1887 from the high school, she continued her studies for one year

Imposes. Better far,

To live, unknown by name, Than be sought after, times

When you for rest most long, For autograph, or theme,

On which to write a song! Here do I sit all day,

And none so poor to seek My hiding place secure.

Yes, here from week to week,
I sit, and none molest;

While if the magazines
Should take each poem I write,

What lively times and scenes!
This little room would be

Not large enough by far; I'd have to move up-town,

And . run down" on the car. Why Fame! it only means

No rest from morn to eve. What's that the postman's knock?

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A check! I scarcely b'lieve. 'Tis 1. It's for same name

Perhaps; but -- here – what's this? Ten dollars for your poem -

A rosebud for One Kiss.'" Strange, strange indeed! It was

My very poorest one And yet, for me, it has

The best and noblest done! Fame! man, it's glorious good!

The best born earth can give. And money! That's good, too; We must have that to live.

NELLIE CORINNE BERGEN. at St. Clair, Michigan. Miss Bergen has made elocution one of her principal studies, and bas appeared at several private concerts as Parthenia in Ingomar. Her poems have appeared in several prominent papers, and have received farora ble mention from the press and public generally.

CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES. Fame! what, I pray is fame?

A thing to drive men mad! And gold! 'tis but a curse,

To make our hearts more sad. I'd rather a hundred times

Sit here and drub and write, And have returned each poem

I send, than wear so bright A crown, yet heavy, too,

As wealth puts on your head; To drive you till you'd wish

You rested with the dead! Why, man; it's awfully hard

To bear the burden Fame

THE YELLOW ROSE.
The yellow rose,- I have it now;

The rose I sent my love!
The beauteous rose once wet with dew,

The rose I sent my love!
The petals fine were emblems true,

Oh love I bore to her,
The tender flower a token true,

Oh love I bore to her.
And here it is all faded now,

She sent it back to me;
And here it is all dead and sere;
She sent it back to me.

STELLA, MY STAR.
Oh Stella, my star, bright star,

Say where are you shining to-night? If I, by my heart, could tell,

To you would I wing my flight.

And the twilight shadows come,

And the winds sweep o'er the main; Sings the wild harp of the billows,

- Love will never live again."

The cold snow covers the ground,

The trees are lonely and bare,
But I am lonelier still,

And pining for you, my fair!
Oh love, how the night winds sigh!

Oh love, how the night winds moan! But I am sadder than they,

To think that my darling's alone. That Stella, the star of my life,

Should be weeping and sighing alone; For this do I rival the wind,

In making a heavier moan. But why do I try with a pen,

To picture the depth of my grief?
I'll tell you, myself, e'erlong,

Our parting will only be brief.
And when you're again in my arms,

'Twill be the sweeter by far,
To whisper it softly to you,
Oh Stella, my star- bright star.

THE LAND OF SOMEWHERE. Afar in the land of Somewhere.

The roses must be blooming; Away in this land of Somewhere,

There surely I am going. Afar in the land of Somewhere,

The sun is ever shining: And ob for this land of Somewhere,

'Tis ever that I am pining. Afar in the land of Somewhere,

The people do no deceiving; And oh for this land of Somewhere,

"Tis ever that I am grieving. And deep in the land of Somewhere,

Fond Love to me is crying: Alas? for this land of Somewhere,

I ever, forever, am sighing.

TO MY SWEETHEART'S GRAY EYES.

Would I choose,

Eyes of blue;
Ne'er to love

Lover true?
Ask me not -- for I will say,
Give to me deep eyes of gray!

Would I take

Eyes of brown:
Half awake,

Looking down?
Ask me not - again I'll say,
Give to me sweet eyes of gray.

Would I want

Eyes of black,
With a taunt

Ans'wring back?
Ask me not - I'll say alway,
Give to me - my” eyes of gray.

MRS. FANNY M. LEONARD.

BORN: CHESTERFIELD, N. H., JULY 14, 1821. MRS. LEONARD has written poems for the press for a number of years under the nom de plume of Sylvia. Many of these poems were written for anniversary gatherings, weddings, sabbath schools, and dialogues for ex., hibitions. She has now in her possession nearly one hundred dialogues in manuscript, some of which have been published.

DEAD LOVE. Oh the grave is cold and still, Where dead love lies; where dead love

lies. Oh the grave is damp and cold, Where dead love lies; where dead love

lies. And the rose-leaves idly flutter,

And the soft winds sigh in vain; Love lies buried, deeply buried;

Love will never live again. Oh my heart is cold and empty,

Now love is dead: now love is dead: Oh my heart is cold and dreary,

Now love is dead, now love is dead.

THE LITTLE BOUQUET. You table, so broad and so long.

With linen that's daintily white, Is groaning with edibles strong

And sweet, all our tastes to delight. You ask for a gem that shall grace

Your board; but I offer this lay -
This tribute so small in its place,-

I call it my little bouquet.
To speak in a language its own,

To strangers so far, far away;
The pansy and heartsease, full blown;

A nutmeg geranium gay.
A cardinal flower likewise,

An iris with red half-blown rose: I would wreathe them with woodbine, so

nice With little white pinks, in repose. A bed of green holly should be

Its home. And to make all complete, American Poets, I'd see, Without one unoccupied seat.

GUY E. ETHERTON. BORN: JACKSON Co., ILL., APRIL 4, 1872. ALTHOUGH yet a young man, Guy has written quite a few poems that have received

'Twas not his wish, before, to know

God's holy will divine;
Abide by it while here below,

And heavenward incline.
He would not see in nature's art

The great Creator's hand,
Nor know the grandeur of the part

Man holds within the land.
Few thoughts of realms beyond this

worla E’er reached his hungry soul; Yet oft unto his mind unfurled

Thoughts of the nearing goal. So, musing on the warning day,

The thought of death steals through His cheated soul's neglected way

Its darkened avenue. From this, his dreaded thought, he

shrinks,
As from some enemy:
For 'tis the only chain that links

Now to eternity.
And, while in life's gray, closing eve,

Death stares into his eye;
The glorious truth he quick perceives -

Man was not made to die!

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HIS PERCEPTION.
He sits at his window, watching the sun

Within the cloudless west
Sink, when the glorious day is done,

From sight; it seems to rest.
A man, whose years are numbering more

Than seventy-five: but two
Are wanted to bring him to four score,

Where life is often due.
White is his beard, as is his hair,

And clearly can be seen
The many furrowed lines of care

Upon his rigid mien.
While musing on the dying day,

With aged, wand'ring mind,
One serious thought then steals its way

To him, the undivined.
He thinks of all his ill-spent life

Of wickedness and sin;
And now, while in declining life,

Of what it should have been.

GLOOM.
Oft, as along the road of life

We plod our weary way,
Where darkness, strife and happiness
Each have their separate day,

There comes a time

In every clime, When life is dull and gray. A dreary gloom steals o'er the soul -

A dark and cheerless night, We feel the mournful loneliness Drive out the pleasant light;

We strive to cease

The gloom's increase,
But useless is the fight.
All joy and pleasant thoughts are lost;

We feel no more like one
Whose life is joy and merriment ---
The soul's light of the sun ---

But sad and lone,

And wretched grown,
We wish our life were done.
In deep despair we sit us down,

And 'gainst the window-pane
We rest our head and watch the eve,
Funeral, somber, wane,

While sore within

We then begin
To feel the doleful pain.

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THE SOLDIER AT HOME. Wrapped in the flag he so nobly defended,

Laid to his rest by bis comrades in blue; His a devotion known only to heroes,

His the reward of the brave and the true.

MRS. CATHERINE RINDER.

BORN: MILESBURG, PA., MAY 30, 1851. MARRIED in 1872 to Hon. Theodore P. Rynder, this lady commenced writing for the press six years later, and has edited several newspapers. She is a constant contributor to the local papers on political, social, religious and humorous topics, and has also written a number of short stories. In person she is a blonde and petite, and is now residing in her native town with her husband and two sons.

Ah! the shrines that we deck, how they multi

ply ever, From the army which once shook the earth

with its tread. As the feet that trod out our fair Nation's

pollution Now march but to follow the comrade that's

dead."

MUSTERED OLT. A soldier of the union

Lay dying - not of years: There was sound of children sobbing,

There were floods of falling tears: And a slight form knelt beside him,

Round the camp fire of Hearen they meet in

reunion The « unknown" are there with the miss

ing" who're come To join in the peace jubilee everlasting The war indeed over--the soldier at home.

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