MRS. SADIE LEWIS.

BORN: PLEASANT GAP, PA., FEB. 14, 1859. SADIE commenced writing poems at an early age, many of which have appeared from time to time in the local daily and weekly newspa

I stretch out my hand for guidance, Through the darkness, mist and rain, So that my heart and I'll find rest, From our infinite sorrow and pain.

LINES FOR AN ALBUM.

Let your life be a book of light,
Each page a glittering gem;
No frowning fate, or task so great,
But you will conquer them.

In thought and deed, if you succeed,
On record true and wise,

Some day will light the way,

To the gates of Paradise.

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I have gazed on the golden beauty,
Of summer bravely drest,
Heard the chorus of feathered songsters,
And the chatter of woodland guest.

I hear the drowsy humming bee,
And the rush of the waterfall;
But the distant sound of chiming bells,
Stern thoughts of life recall.

And a prayer ascends for strength and grace,

As I pass through the summer of life; While the rustling leaves of autumn, Foretell the winter's strife.

THE FIVE SENSES.

To see God's green earth with myriad flowers,
The whispering trees and climbing vines,
Churches, palaces, world-famed towers,
Compound a picture divine sublime.
The fields of waving grain, the hills,
The clear spring overflowing,
Thank God for sight-his law fulfills,
In nature bright and glowing.

To hear the song of singing birds,
The music of the mountain rills,
The humming noise of insect life,
The tramp of mighty western herds,
Machinery's rushing roar and sound,
Creates a din we love to hear,
It tells of progress the world around;
Thank God for hearing so much cheer.

To swell the perfumes God has given,
In countless flowers with dainty life,
The southwind's balmy sweetest breath,
Bring spices to our dwelling;
The fruit now ripe on tree and stalk,
Contend in luscious strife,

Unwritten poems who can tell,

But I thank God for the sense of smelling.

To touch the velvet petaled rose,

Or kiss the face of a little child,
Is a world of sweets in verse or prose,
Without a flaw or speck of guile.

To touch the silver hair of age,

In blessing kind with words of cheer,
Will reach the heart, God's eye engage,
Ah! yes the sense of touch is dear.

To taste the sweetest nectared wine,
Or feel the glow of beauty thrill you,
Or hear a witching, tender sound,

Or see the star-gemmed sky of blue.
Then let us keep these graces given,

Pure as all things in nature are, Defile them not, Lord keep us clean, That we may enter Heaven.

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LEVI BEACH.

BORN: BASIN HARBOR, VT., FEB. 3, 1810. THE poetical productions of Mr. Beach have been chiefly of a religious character, which have been largely copied by the local press. He has also contributed many campaign poems. The verses of Mr. Beach are varied in

LEVI BEACH.

character, and illustrative of his skill in depicting scenes and incidents. Living in Paola, Kansas, known as one of the Natural Gas towns, it is but natural that this fact should elicit a poem on that subject from his pen.

A FAITHFUL SHEPHERD DOG.
Will Pedro's voice be heard no more
To tell when rogues are at the door?
How oft we've left him all alone,

To guard the house, while we were gone.
How glad he was of our return
And proud to show what he had done;
His duties he did well perform,
And met us with affection warm.
He will no more come at our call
He'll fetch the cows no more at all,
His age has freed him from his cares
But still he doth our memory share.
"Twas in the field when all alone,
With no one near to hear his groans,
And no one knew where Pedro fell
Until the crows this fact did tell.

NATURAL GAS.

Deep in the earth, rich treasures lie,
Men reach them with a drill,
With force they come forth unto them,
Their homes with comfort fill.
The hidden treasures now are found
Which long have been secret;
They spring forth now a rich supply,
Our many wants to meet.

No wood nor coal, now do we need

'Tis gas that takes the lead;

We will dispense with ax and saw

Of them we have no need.

We have no kindling to bring in

Or wood that is too green;

We hold the match and turn the key-
Then what a fire is seen.

It is too fine for eyes to see,
Our ears can hear the sound;
It was a glorious day, indeed;
When this rich gift was found.

What wondrous changes I have seen

Since eighteen hundred ten,

What great discoveries there have been,

Since I that year began.

TO ROSA.

Thy name, dear Rose, cannot be beat,

Mid all the flowers, there's none so sweet.

Put all the flowers in one row,

There's none can with the Rosy show.

Buttercup, Tulip, Daffodil,

Or all that grows along the rill,

The rose still now doth take the lead,
And leaves the rest quite in the shade.
Now with the bunch still let her stay,
And beautify the whole bouquet.
Her fragrance will the whole perfume-
What odor then will fill the room.
Now when this Rose shall pass away,
There may she bloom in endless day;
Where frosts and death can never come,
But there to have eternal bloom.

MRS. ELLA GAY HULL.

BORN: FLINT, MICH., JULY 26, 1858. WHEN but a few months old, Ella was left fatherless, and her mother took her to her mountain home in Vermont, where Ella remained until her twelfth year, when she was bereft of her mother. She was then kindly cared for by an uncle, George E. Pomeroy, living in Michigan. At the age of fifteen Miss Ella taught school, applying her earnings for her own education, graduating at the Michi

With a face as pure as the angels',
And white as the drifted snow;

With hair that was soft and brown,
And eyes of heaven's own blue;
And hands that were gentle and kind,
My mother, so loving and true.
Oft-times, in dreams, I am kneeling
Again by the side of her knee,
And softly breathing the prayer
She taught so early to me.

But she's nearer me now than ever,
For now she is at my heart;
She's my beautiful angel-mother,"
With whom I shall never part.

THE WHITE CANOE.

As down to rest I dropped
One night, I had a dream;
Methought I stood beside

A quickly flowing stream;
And while I stood and gazed
Upon its rippling tide,
A tiny white canoe

Was anchored at my side.

The boatman's silvery tones

Rang out. I've come for thee;" And then he stepped ashore,

And standing close by me,
He looked adown the stream,
Where clouds we hanging low,
And asked if I could trust
When all the light should go.
I breathed to God a prayer,
Then quickly gave my hand,
And in that white canoe

We floated down the strand;
The way was sometimes dark,
But joy slept in my soul -
And strains from far-off choirs
Upon the breezes stole.
I've often wondered since,

What might the meaning beAnd who, the boatman brave,

Who came that night for me; But now I know 'twas Jesus Who called me from the strand, I've felt that same sweet peace Since giving him my hand. And down the strand of life, I safely sail to-night, With Jesus at the oars,

To realms of joy and light. I know that clouds are near, And many an angry wave, But I have naught to fear,

With such an arm to save.

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150

THE FOUNT OF LIFE.

Something of murmuring brooklets,
Over green mosses and stones,
Something of sunlight, and breezes
Chanting in low, sweet tones,

Fancy's mysterious web has now caught;
How shall I, tell to me, bring you the thought?

Words, oh! how little you carry!

Depths there are you can not reach! Down within nature's own heart,

Truth's lie that you can not teach; Out of the beautiful springtime, I pray, Weave me a poem, just one, if you may. Go to that silvery streamlet,

Bring a sweet lesson of life Paint me a beautiful picture,

Sunlight, with beauty all rife;

Give it, you may, just a touch of the shade,
Perfect, without that it can not be made.
Wander through long, winding footpaths
Leading past woodlands so wild,
Breathe, soft and low, some sweet secret,
Known to nature's own child;

Down in the heart of some gnarled old tree,
Truths may be buried of value to thee.
Drink from yon bubbling springlet,
Bursting its prison-house wall,

Up through the earth and the rocks,
Leaping at nature's first call;

Drink, and great truths shall be thine hour by

Giving you life with their strange hidden

Softly it tells of a well-spring,

Clear and more wonderful still, Down in the depths of the spirit,

Moved but by man at his will;

Out of this curious spring may be brought,
Power, affections, impulses and thought.
Speak and its waters shall issue,
Pure and yet purer shall be,-
Check not a God-given feeling,

Let them flow out full and free;

Out of this mystical spring down within,
Come at thy choice, either virtue or sin.
Open thy heart to the sunlight,
Purity comes with each ray;
Nothing of sin need remain there,
Jesus can take that away:

Out of this spring in the soul's deep cell,
Only the good and the pure should well.

FRIENDSHIP.

My friends: I find you everywhere,
Warm hearts harmonious with my own:
A sympathy so sweet and rare,
That comes to make my life less lone.
It matters not where'er I roam,
Some loving heart gives me a home.
You gather for me sweetest flowers,

And strew them all along my way,

With brightness fill the darkest hours,
And turn my longest night to day.
This must be heaven-like, I know,
A foretaste of those joys, below.
O, precious ties of heavenly birth,
Our Father gives them every one,
More lasting than the things of earth,
For they remain when life is done:
And with the white-robed throng on high,
These friendships may go on for aye.

OUR MAE.

Only a frail little bark;
Adrift on the sea of life,

Where rocks, and reefs and billows
And dangers great are rife.
Stretching her tiny sails,

She struggled against the tide;
Some times away up on the billows,
Then down in the furrows wide.
Until, one day, an angel,
Low hanging o'er our world,
Caught sight of the fairy vessel,
With its snowy sails unfurled.
And, wrapped in admiration,
The angel lingered long -
At length his face was saddened,
And ceased his joyous song.

For he saw a storm-cloud nearing,
He had heard the breakers roar,
And he knew that just beyond them
Lay a rough and rocky shore.

He snatched her from the water,
And he bore her far away;
In the harbor up in Heaven,
Floats our life-boat. Mae."
And so we must not sorrow,
Kind friends and loved ones dear,
Although we long to have her,
And memory brings a tear.
For the waves of sin and sorrow,
Might hold her evermore;
And now, we trust, she waits us,
Beside the Golden Shore."

A LIFE BLOSSOM.
Down by the river of life,
A beatiful flower grew -
White, with a touch of red,

And fresh as the evening dew;
Each day it grew more fair,
Each day became more rare.
For a time it basked in the sun,
Earth's storms it did not know,
But one dark night they came,

And fierce the winds did blow,-It drooped beneath the blast, And cre the storm was past Torn was that delicate robe, Scattered the calyx of gold.

OLIVER W. BARNARD.

BORN: ECONOMY, IND., AUG. 4, 1828.

THE poems of Mr. Barnard have appeared from time to time, during the past decade, in many prominent newspapers, especially in

OLIVER W. BARNARD.

the states of New York and Illinois. He is at present engaged in farming at Manteno, Ill. Mr. Barnard is of large stature, and is a very pleasant and intellectual gentleman.

MOMENTS.

How the moments come and go!
Bright with joy, or black with woe,
Speeding on with tireless wing,
Life or death to all they bring -
To the wretched and the blest
Dark despair, or sweetest rest -
Through the sunshine, through the dark,
Moving like the lightning's spark
Through the cottage of the poor
Through the rich man's palace door;
To the living and the dying --
Swiftly on they're ever flying--
Here they plunge a soul in night,
There another's borne to light-
Here is born a household wonder,
There a household burst asunder
Here they spread the earth with grain,
There their gift is want and pain
Here they kiss the new-born child,
There they hiss with frenzy wild -

Here they cool the keen desire,
There they burn with fiercest fire ---
Some they raise to a dizzy height ---
Some they plunge in abysmal night,
Some they bear on beds of ease ---
Some they scourge with dire disease,
Some they load with foulest shame
Some they crown with glorious fame;
Some they hide in polar snows,
Some they soothe with sweet repose;

Some they rest on fruitful soil,
Some they curse with constant toil;
Some they bless with peaceful life;

--

151

Some they drive through ceaseless strife;
Thus their reign they ne'er give o'er -
Firm and steadfast evermore ---
Thus through all the worlds of space,

Then backward floating comes to me again The spicy breath of childhood's happy dreamsThe golden hours when life was young and

fresh,

hills

And all the world was like a morn in May,
So fresh and sweet with odors of the spring-
The beams of morn shone bright upon the
[hope,
And life's young day was glowing fresh with
Ere care had dulled the pulses of my heart.
Thence turning to the golden West, my gaze
I fix upon the setting sun of life -
Beholding now the grandeur that appears,
And casts a softer radiance o'er the scene;
The heat and burden now of midday past,
Ambitious flame has burned itself away,
And breezes cool from o'er the western seas
Pass calmly by and fan the faded cheek;
And when the sun has dropped into the sea,
And left a golden radiance on the sky;
Then hope, elate, doth fix his steadfast gaze
Intently on the far horizon's brim.
His wont to pierce the intervening space, [life,
Whence far has gone the source of light and
But no reward returns to bliss the sight;
Yet, on the evening air is heard a voice
That falls upon the inner ear so sweet,