MRS. BELLA F. SWISHER.

literary magazine of Minnesota. In 1874 she began issuing at La Crosse, The American Sketch Book, an illustrated historical magazine of eighty pages, which publication was removed to Texas in 1877, and was published regularly until the year 1883. Married in 1878 to Col. John M. Swisher, a well known Texan, she now has a beautiful home surrounded by every comfort. During 1889 two of her works were published: Rocks and Shoals, a story that shows fine ability, both in the carefully constructed plot and style of the romance; the other, Florecita, a poem-novel, is her master-piece, which is written as plainly as prose, yet having all the melody of true poetry. The short poems of Mrs. Bella F. Swisher, if published, would fill several volumes. She now resides with her husband in Austin, Texas, engaged in literary work. The career of Mrs. Swisher has been a very eventful one, in which she has shown great ability.

EXTRACTS.

FROM THE SIN OF EDITH DEAN."

Though just above the hill-tops, shone the

sun,

The farmer's day of toil was well begun.
Slow-stepping oxen, patient and sad-eyed,
Moved in obedience by their master's side,
While going forth to drag the heavy plow,
Preparing land for later crops; and now,
Released from barnyards, here and there; a

COW

Went lowing down a path or lane to say,
To her companions, she was on her way
And soon would join them at the meadow
brook.

But, each and all, without a backward look -
Though pausing, now and then, to nip the

grass

Which offered tempting morsels, hard to pass And touch not, trudged along, no thought in mind

Of any mate, that, lowing, came behind.

The smooth-plumed pigeons circled in the air,
With full intent to gain an ample share
Of yellow grain which little Marguirite
Was scattering about for fowls to eat.

The glory of the spring was everywhere-
'Twas breathed forth in the sweetness of the

air,

Reflected from the cloud-flecked skies of blue
And from the rippling water's deeper hue;
It glistened in the thorn's sweet, snowy
flowers:

And in the May-blooms falling down in show

ers,

When stirred by gust of wind, that bore along The blossoms' fragrance and the wild birds'

song.

The scene was ever changing. Willows threw Their shadows where the yellow cowslips

grew

Beside the placid pools; and near to these,
Were less adventurous oaks and other trees:
And, here and there, were piles of maple keys;
The Dutchman's breeches bent above the rills;
The pink arbutus trailed adown the hills;
And modest violets, both white and blue,
Which everywhere in great abundance grew,
Their fragrance, to the balmy breezes, threw.
As sunset neared, the hills became more
steep,

And the ravines proportionately deep.
A table-land was reached; from which high

plain,

Was seen, beyond the fields of growing grain,
A winding river. On the other side,
Arose the houses of the village Clyde,
Which nestled in a valley; and away

Toward the west, a range of mountains lay.

178

WHAT WILL THE WEATHER BE TO

MORROW.

"What will the weather be to-morrow? "Soft southern breezes and a cloudless sky?--Or will the sun, his beaming face, be hiding While comes the storm-king rushing madly by?

Or it may be the lightest clouds will gather,
And earth will be refreshed by gentle rain!
Ah! to this heart of mine may come to-morrow
A sweeter happiness or deeper pain.
What will the weather be to-morrow?"
If it be storm, we would not sit in fear,
Imagining a thousand nameless terrors,
Relentless and swift-winged, are drawing

near.

--

At work, an idle loon. His stomach is of iron make, Though, rubber like, it will not break; And every mischief, yet contrived, The youngster knows who has survived. At sight of him dogs disappear As though a cyclone came; And kitty lifts her back, in fear, At mention of his name. E'en mamma oft is heard to sigh And pant for breath when he is nigh; For good resolves are all short-lived, Made by the youngster who survived. He worries, teases, snubs us all, And, like a whirlwind, lays Our hopes in ruins - great and small; And, with our heart-strings, plays. But answer this, all ye who can — Who makes the darling duck of a man? Why just the youngster who survived, And from his cradle grew and thrived.

THOMAS J. MACMURRAY.

BORN IN SCOTLAND, JULY 23, 1852.

As minister, lawyer, printer, poet, author, editor, Mr. Macmurray has had somewhat of a varied career, considering that he is yet but comparatively a young man. He came to Canada when ten years of age, and was thoroughly educated, graduating at a theological college. He was connected with the Detroit conference in 1877, and four years later came

THOMAS J. MACMURRAY.

to the Wisconsin conference. In 1883 he was admitted to the Wisconsin bar. He has published several books, one of which is entitled The Legend of Delaware Valley and Other Poems, the story of which is an intensely interesting one, and is beautifully told by this brilliant author. Many of his poems have received especial recognition. Mr. Macmurray has also lectured with great success. Personally this editor, author and lecturer is of good stature, with brown hair and eyes, and is withal a very pleasant gentleman.

While shadows play

Long after the autumn evening's glow. Folded the hands, and ended the strife Of weary years;

Dried are the tears;

Thus closes the scene; and such is life!

MANHOOD.

Be wise to-day. Folly drags down
Its votaries to vice and shame;
But wisdom gives to man a crown
Of honor and a noble name.
Let justice guide thee every hour;
Nor let one narrow prejudice
Rob thee of moral worth and power
And fill thy soul with selfishness.
Be tender and affectionate

In all thy intercourse with men;
Harbor no jealousy nor hate,

Nor manifest a proud disdain.

Look up in faith to God above,
In recognition of his care,
And thank him for his boundless love
That comes to soothe thee everywhere.

So, having wisdom, justice, love,

And simple faith in the unseen, Thou shalt in manhood's beauty move, With heavenward gaze and lofty mien.

EARNESTNESS.

Be earnest in this life; be true;
And whatsoe'er thou hast to do,
Perform it with thy zeal and might,
For soon will come death's solemn night.
Success depends on earnest work;
The men who daily duties shirk
Are cowards who will never rise;
For such there is no victor's prize.
Only the earnest, noble, brave,
Who battle with each wind and wave,
Nor ever heed misfortune's frown,
Attain the heights of fair renown.
This is no dreamland where we may
Slumber and dream the years away;
But 'tis the scene of active life-
The battle-field--- the school of strife!

Here the contestants rise or fall,

They soar in thought, or else they crawl;
But earnest souls, whose hearts are pure,
Shall rise, and their reward is sure.

Be earnest, then, for time is brief,
And broken hearts sigh for relief;
Work zealously while shines the sun,

If thou would'st hear the words. Well done!"

SEPARATION.

Slowly the years creep by,
Since thou art gone;
Around me shadows lie,
And I'm alone.

A fragment of a hymn --
A braid of hair —
A portrait old and dim-
A vacant chair-

Are all that speak to me

This lone midnight, Telling their tale of thee,

Now out of sight.

Whisper thy love once more,
Nor silent be;

Send from that fadeless shore
Love's blessing free.

Come back, bright days, long dead
Come back again!

Return, O joys that fled,

And ease my pain!

But why this anxious plea?-"Tis vain indeed;

For by fate's stern decree

This heart must bleed.

JESSE T. CRAIG.

BORN: RAY CO., Mo., OCT. 6, 1851.

MR. CRAIG is an editor and publisher by profession, and his writings, including a number of very fine poems, have appeared from time to time in his own publications and the local press generally. He is now editor of the Bee, published in Hunnewell, Mo.

A VISION.

The editor ate too much; the editor ate too long;

The turkey was fat and tender, the dressing was rich and strong.

He went, (the editor did), when the succulent feast was o'er,

And sat by the parlor stove, and thereafter began to snore.

And he dreamed this weird dream; it seemed that he was dead

And stood at the judgment place, and quaked with horror and dread.

The place was a lofty hall, and it did not allay his fear,

That it looked unpleasantly like a criminal court down here.

But the judge on the bench- Good lack! What a strange uncanny sight? — Was a turkey.gobbler" fierce, just a hundred feet in height;

And the jury in the box, sheriff, and state's

attorney,-all

Were gobblers "like the judge, and equally grim and tall.

He stood in the prisoner's dock (the editor did) and heard

The State's Attorney, a shrewd, a learned and eloquent bird,

Say: If it please the court, it becomes my duty to read

The indictment as herein contained, after which the prisoner may plead. Whereas, heretofore, to wit: in November of eighty-eight,

At the township of Jackson in Shelby, in the
commonwealth, (otherwise state)
Of Missouri, the defendant, one Richard Roe,
Whose proper appellation this affiant does not

And we further present and charge that the prisoner, Richard Roe,

Who committed this unholy crime was actuated thereunto

By a false and frivolous pretext that on this most cruel plan He was returning thanks to Heaven for its manifold blessings to man."

His hair rose up (the editor's did, straight up on top of his head

For he saw the stern look of the jury and judge when this indictment was read.

.. What is your plea?" said the judge to him, and his voice was harsh when he spoke. The editor tried to speak and trying to speak he- woke.

ALBERT FLETCHER BRIDGES

BORN: POLAND, IND., AUG. 22, 1853. Ar Bowling Green, and at Brazil, to which latter place the father of the subject of this sketch moved in 1864, Albert enjoyed excellent educational advantages, and graduated from the Indiana Asbury university at Green | Castle in 1874 with the degree of A. B. In the same year he entered the Indiana annual conference of the methodist episcopal church, but retired from the ministry in 1881. He then established the Brazil Register, of which he is still editor and publisher. From an early age Mr. Bridges has been an occasional contributor in prose and verse to the periodical | press,and has written on a variety of subjects. He has in press two booklets. Albert Bridges was married in 1870, and has one daughter, Miss May, whose name and portrait appear on the following page.

AT NOON.

I bask within the noontide glow
Beside a merry brook, whose low
Sweet voice distinct I hear,
As of a Naiad near.

The hush of nature is as if
The moonlight flooded vale and cliff
With luster dim and white,
At the still noon of night.

A wanderer, whose feet have pressed
A foreign soil, I come to rest

Beneath the same blue sky
I loved in days gone by.
As from an ever sunny clime,
The memories of the olden time
Throng round me, overcome
With a great grief, and dumb.
Ah, swift is Time's unceasing flight!
The blush of Morning's rosy light
Is faded oversoon

In the bright glare of Noon.

And swift the deepening shades come on,
When, dropping down the sky, the sun
Knows the eclipse of Night
In lands that know no light.

THE FUTURE GOOD.
The future stores a wealth of good,
Hidden in mystery though it be,
To dower us with if we but wait,
Biding the season patiently.

It will not be surcease from ills

To which our fallen flesh is heir; Sickness and sorrow, pain and deathThe common lot is ours to share.

181

And yet I somehow trust ere long
The clouds will break, the sun will shine,
The dense, dank air that now we breathe,
Be sweet to drink as mellow wine,-
When Health, red-lipped and strong, shall
sound

Her challenge through the winding horn, Greeting upon the dewy hills,

As fresh and fair, the smiling morn.

THE DREAMS OF YOUTH.
You may dream of the charms of the future,
Of the pleasure that time has in store,
Of the life you will live that is peaceful,
When cares shall beset you no more;

And your mind may expand, as you ponder,
To receive the conception sublime,
of fields as they stretch in their beauty,
And bask in a mild sunny clime.

But in the vast realm that shall open
As you, hurried on, shall explore,
In vain will you search for a pleasure
As sweet as were those that are o'er.
How fondly does Memory cherish,
In the depths of her aureate urn,
The dust of the friendships departed,
And of joys that shall never return!
Oh! the heart grows sad 'neath its burden
Its wearisome burden of strife ---
As the soul is borne backward in slumber,
Far back in the morning of life.

--

And the tear glistens bright on our eyelids As the dreams of our youth we recall; Fond dreams! would oblivion would mantle Their shadowy forms with its pall,

Since they live but to haunt, like the raven That sat on a bust o'er a door,

And uttered its solemn assurance

That hope would return nevermore. Ah! gone are the dreams, but the dreamers Are yet in the valley of life,

Where lowering clouds overshadow,

And thick, brooding vapors are rife. But through the dark mists that environ, All clad in their snowy array,

The specters of dreams, that have vanished Still rise at the noon-tide of day,

And beckon, as beauteous sirens,

And lure with the songs that have flown.

We pursue, but we find in the sequel,

That skulls on the background are strewn.

"Tis sad that the hopes that are blighted, And the dreams of our youth that are gone, With their presence should always surround

us,

And, spirit-like, ever live on.