HARRIS COLMAN RIGGS.

BORN IN CANADA, SEPT. 2, 1848. FOR the last decade the poems of Mr. Riggs

HARRIS COLMAN RIGGS.

have appeared in the local press. He resides on his farm in Wetmore, Kansas.

THE GOLDEN WEDDING.
We're home once again, Father,
'Neath the paternal roof,

To receive your choicest blessing
Not one doth stand aloof;
All home, without exception,
There's not a missing link-
Though some of us have halted
At eternity's very brink.

We come not with childish rabble
As in days of yore-when,

With song, and shout, and laughter
And toys strewn o'er the floor,
We turned to give attention

To tales of ancient lore,

Or lisped our prayer at e'en

And kissed good night o'er and o'er.

We come to greet you, Father, Mother,

For its fifty years to-day

Since you launched your barque together
To breast life's stormy way;
Fierce tempests surged about you
Threatening to overwhelm - yet

O'er the foaming tide you softly glide,
Guided by faith, and a steady helm.

Oh! how few on life's ocean wide,
Together, fifty years, doth smoothly glide;
How many go down when a few years out.
Ah! many falter 'mid fear and doubt;
Alas, some mutiny and divide the crew,
Find the ship too small for even two!
But some, thank God, with hearts e'er true
Until death us do part, find love ever new.
From distant homes we've come to greet

you,

Your crowns of fifty years,

For soon, ah soon! we'll kiss you 'Mid sighs and falling tears.

E'en now you're in the harbor,

Your barque glides past the pier,

Soon the voyage will be ended

The cross laid down, the crown appear.

THE POET'S VISION.

The poet sat in his easy chair
While busy fancy flits here and there;
His eyes kindle with rapture's glare
At a vision of beauty rich and rare,
That down the street seemed to float
Like Diana in her aerial boat;
Seizing my pen I hastily wrote
The vision that on my memory smote.
Lo! a form of some six feet,
Proudly, grandly, crossed the street
At touch of the hat, a courtesy neat,
And the pair disappear down the street.
The vision stirred my plastic mold;

I wondered that hearts e'er grew cold,-
That like cattle, they are bought and sold,-
The vision lengthened fold on fold.

I prayed in my heart that the tender maid Might ne'er be saddened by life of shade, Like the purling brook through copse and glade,

Her life might flow through sun and shade,
Where perennial flowers bloom

And song of birds dispel the gloom,
Where fadeless green the fields assume,
Dear man and maid is this your doom?

I saw the distant light of fire
Slowly, steadily, rising higher;
Heavenly gift! Maternal desire,
Gradually, sounds and voices nigher.

I heard the prattle of innocence sweet,

I heard the patter of little feet;
Behold the joy of home complete
When Heaven crowns the mercy seat.

I saw on the records of earth a name
High up among the men of fame,
The sire distinguished could not claim;
I saw aged, modest dame,

And by her side, in comely attire,
Stood the aged dignified sire;

I poised my pen, thought to inspire,

The vision had flown, the muse expire.

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MRS. SALLIE B. HARRIS.

BORN: TODD Co., KY., 1840.

THE poems of this lady have appeared for the past quarter of a century in the papers of her native state. She has been an invalid for a

MRS. SALLIE B. HARRIS. number of years, and whenever she wishes to admire the works of nature she is obliged to be moved in a rolling chair. Mrs. Harris is now a resident of Greenville, Kentucky.

COMMUNION WITH THE ROSES.

I sat 'neath a loved vine-clad bower,
Inhaling the soft and balmy breath of May,
Listening for a voice from the opening flowers
To tell of pain of sorrow and decay,
Of autumn winds, and wintry snows,
That scatters the roses far, far, away.
But alas! not a whispering voice e'er came,
To tell of blighted breath, or faded leaves,
Of summer's fleeting hours, that went away,
Of November's winds that shook the leaves,
And bore them from their parent stem,

To wither, to molder, and cease to bloom.
No, in their whispering the roses ne'er spake,
Of bitter despair, of fading or dying;
Their murmurings were of beauty and hope,
Of cheerful greeting, and not of sighing;
They came, their beauty and fragrance to
bring,

To linger for a short season, then leave.

They came with greeting to the morning air,
Not to tell why summer roses fade,
But peeping through pearls of dewdrops fair,
That on the blushing rose cheeks lay,
To quaff the fragrant early breath of May,
And woo the sunshine to their feet.
From earth's carpet of green they spring
To deck the bower with roses rare and
bright,

And revel in the music the cat-bird trills,
To sip from the chalice pure nectar of de-
light,

To wave o'er the graves of loved ones gone, And wreathe fresh garlands for their tombs.

AN ODE.

The warm sweet month of June is near,
The soft breathing zephyrs I now can hear;
And nature spreads in bounty and gorgeous

array

Her beauteous tribute of blessings each day.

'Tis morn, all nature seems lovely and fair; The leaves sip sweet nectar from the air, The rose, kissed by the sunbeams at play, Mingles its fragrance with fresh blooming hay.

How lovely at eventide! doth nature seem, The trees all decked in foliage so green Reaching out their shadowy arms for light, And to catch the soft-falling dews of night.

FOR THE ECHO.

Vanished the gilded dreams of youth may be,
And buried my many fond hopes, untold.
The pleasures of other days I ne'er may see:
But my heart shall never grow old.
Tho the summer of life's now upon me,
And the bliss of youth I'll feel no more;
Tho the shade of life's winter is near me,
My heart shall never, never, grow old.
Tho the wings of time may onward sweep,
And bend this form and its strength with

hold,

And leave a heart all torn, to bleed in grief:
Yet my heart shall never grow old.
The snow of age may fall upon me now,

And silver my hair with its icy hold;
And lines of sorrow enstamp my brow,
But my heart shall never grow old.
Friends may be scattered, and I left alone
To drink from the chalice that's full of woe;
With a heart all chilled from fate's stern
frown,

But it shall never, never, grow old. Tho' I'm tossed on misfortune's billowy bark, And am called through deep waters of woe; Or ruthlessly forced from loved ones to part, Yet my heart shall never, never, grow old.

FRANK E. VAUGHN.

BORN: KANKAKEE, ILL., FEB. 14, 1839. By profession Mr. Vaughn is a printer, now employed in Leadville, Colorado. His poems have appeared in the Chicago Times, New York Clipper, and other well known newspapers. He generally writes on current topics.

DAVID SHAW.

Honor to him, whoever he be,
Whatever his calling, country or creed,
Who risks his life at duty's demand,
Or dies in pursuit of a noble deed.
David Shaw was an engineer,

With an honest heart and an open hand;
He pulled the Leadville day express
On the Baby Road," the Rio Grande;
Salida to Pueblo was his run,

Through the choicest work from Nature's forge.

Where the rushing Arkansas river rends
The granite-forming the Royal Gorge.
He was much like other engineers;
A plain man with a common name;
He loved his family truly and well

And next in his heart his engine came.
His wife, his home, his children twain,
Who prattled and played around his knee,
Were all the world to David Shaw,
And he was happy as man could be.
September the second, eighty-seven,
From Salida Dave pulled out his train,
Freighted with men, and children and wo-

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Dave clenched his teeth with bated breath-
To jump was his only chance for safety,
To remain was almost certain death.
Just for a moment a thought of escape
Went surging through his startled brain,
Then he turned to his fireman and calmly
said,

66

Save yourself, partner, I'll stay by the train!"

He had counted the cost in an instant's time; His life or a hundred?-'twas desperate stakes

He remembered the women and babies behind,

And reversed his engine and whistled down brakes!"

Did he think of wife, of children and home? Was his stout heart touched by the hand of fear?

Whatever his thoughts, he stayed at his post,
His duty was there as an engineer.
Only a second he had to wait--
A thunderous crash

- an awful shock,
As with a bound like a living thing,
The train plunged into the mass of rock.
Crushed, bleeding and dying - David Shaw
Lay 'neath the wreck by the side of the

stream;

His hand on throttle and lever - his shroud A cloud of scalding, sickening steam! He gave his life that others might live; 'Twas the deed of a martyr from heroes sprung,

An old, old story upon the rail,

But in grateful memory forever young.
Rear o'er his head a graven pile

Of pure white marble without a flaw,
That all futurity may know

Of the death and deed of David Shaw.

THE KNIGHTS OF LABOR.
True friends of right,
Hail men of might!

Exponents of the coming light.
Kings of two hands,
No prouder bands
In days of old

Gave strife for gold.
Honor thy toil,
Tyranny foil,
Sons of the soil.

On Freedom's breast
Find life and rest.
Loyal and true
As brothers be;

Banded together each friend and neighbor

On Honor's roll the world shall see, Right, justice, might,---The Knights of Labor.

210

NOTHING TO YOU.

Think of her mournfully;
Sadly not scornfully-

What she has been is nothing to you.
No one should weep for her,

Now there is sleep for her

Under the evergreens, daisies and dew.

Talk if you will of her,

But speak not ill of her

The sins of the living are not of the dead. Remember her charity,

Forget all disparity;

Let her judges be they whom she sheltered and fed.

Keep her impurity

In dark obscurity,

Only remember the good she has done.

She to the dregs has quaffed

All of life's bitter draught --

Who knows what crown her kindness has won? Though she has been defiled

The tears of a little child

May wash from the record much of her sin;
While others weep and wait
Outside of Heaven's gate,

Angels may come to her and lead her in.

When at the judgment throne
The Master claims His own,

Dividing the bad from the good and the true.

There, pure and spotless,

Her rank shall be not less

Than will be given, perhaps unto you.

Then do not sneer at her
Or scornfully jeer at her-

Death came to her, and will come to you --

Will there be scoffing or weeping, When, like her, you are sleeping Under the evergreens, daisies and dew.

MRS. JANE C. CLEMENT. BORN: RUSH, N. Y., JULY 28, 1840. THIS lady has written poems more or less for the press during the last quarter of a century, which have appeared from time to time in the local press. She now follows the occupation of nurse in Fox Lake, Wisconsin.

HEART SEARCHINGS.

What am I doing for Jesus?
What am I doing to-day?

Have I my lamp trimmed and burning?
Or have I grown faint by the way?
Are my feet swift to run at his bidding?
Am I prepared to receive

The promise He made to His children?
Do I now truly believe?

A crown and a kingdom are promised
When this life of labor is done,

To those who go forward to conquer -
Have I the whole armor on?
Father forgive my backslidings,
O'erlook my heart-wanderings to-day;
I would be a true-hearted Christian,
Help me to watch and pray.
Then when the conflict is o'er

And the death angel whispers to me,
Take me to Heaven, dear Savior,

To dwell there forever with Thee.

LON HARTIGAN.

BORN: SUSSEX CO.,VT., APRIL 11, 1863. GRADUATING at the age of fifteen, Lon then learned the printers' trade. Later he was employed on the Chicago Times, and then on the Cincinnati Enquirer as correspondent. Mr. Hartigan enlisted in the U. S. army in 1883, and served for five years. In 1888 he started in New Mexico the Gallop Gleaner, of which he is still editor and part proprietor. His poems have appeared in many of the leading publications.

A LYRIC TO HER PHOTOGRAPH.
Bonnie and fair, yet cruel, Lizette,
Sweet memory's casket holds you yet;
The heart's wild beats when your dainty face,
Is viewed again, with each loving trace,
Proclaim to my soul beyond a doubt
That life is naught since you stepped out.
That golden hair, a glittering sheen,
And those lovely eyes-still bright, I ween;
That cherry mouth, those teeth of pearl;
That smile that set my brain a-whirl,
Are still remembered. How my fond love
grew!

Whenever your charming face I view.
Still you were heartless, tho' fair, Lizette,
You were naught but a pretty, vain coquette;
And I was a mad, impetuous youth,
Whose blood ran hot; yet a fool, forsooth!
For I fancied that all your love was mine,
When we pledged each heart in sparkling

wine.

1 was careless, happy and gay, Lizette,
The Past and the Future I could forget,
And only the Present, in rosiest hue
Was lived while I wandered through life with

you.

Ah, the gilded hours, how swift their flight,
When one's heart is bound by Cupid tight!
The tropic's charms were enhanced, Lizette,
By those glorious orbs that charm me yet;
Tho' you are not mine as in days of old,
Your image my heart must ever hold.
May we meet again, 'mid the asphodels,
In that land where Discord never dwells.

REV.JAMES W. D.ANDERSON.

BORN: COFFEY CO., KAN., MARCH 3, 1859. REV. J. W. D. ANDERSON is a minister of the Methodist Episcopal church, and is now engaged in his professional calling at Elk City, Kansas. His writings have appeared in the

REV. JAMES W. D. ANDERSON. leading periodicals of America. Mr. Anderson is a lover of poetry, and has delivered extensively a popular lecture on Kansas Poets and Poetry. He also has in preparation a religious work which will be published in 1890.

MORTUA.

They told me yesterday that she was dead, And, at the word, the scalding, blinding tears Gushed from their fount. Stricken I bowed

my head

While Memory brought again the by-gone years.

When, at a distance, I had walked and loved,
But never dared to make my loving known,
So coldly looked she on me. Unreproved
Because unnoticed, worshiped I alone.
Gods, how I loved! As Eastern Devotee
Finds in Nirvana all his soul's desire,
So found I in her. Life she was to me,
And heavenly manna and celestial choir.
Soul, body, mind and spirit owned the thrall,
Found satisfaction where her presenee shed
Its radiant glory. Yet, throughout it all,
I knew she loved me not; and she is dead.

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And this is saddest: If the Priests say true, Somewhere there lies a fairer land than this, Where lovers meet, and skies bend ever blue, And earthly sorrows end in heavenly bliss: But in that work my soul will still make moan, Nor know a hope, though ages shall have fled; In life she gave to me no loving tone; Eternity is powerless: She is dead!

BY THE RIVER.

We walked on the banks of beautiful river,
And slowly and idly we loitered along;
Its musical murmurs made melody ever,
Harmoniously blending in low, rippling song.
We whispered of love as we walked by the

river,

Of love that found joy just in loving, alone, And our hearts, as we spoke, throbbed with tremulous quiver,

In unison throbbed with each gladdening

tone.

We sat on the banks and tossed flowers in the

river,

And said, as we watched them float lightly

away:

"So our lives will flow on, full of praise to the Giver,

And crowned with bright flowers as we crown thee to-day."

But the death angel carried her over a river More dark than the one where I claimed her

as mine.

Spake she softly while crossing: "Death only

can sever

My soul but a moment, my darling, from

thine."

So, with heart full of longing, and eyes full of

weeping,

I look toward that river on whose farther

shore

My loved one is waiting. And life's shadows

creeping

Toward sunset give comfort. I soon will be o'er.

MY IDEAL.

"A being bright from Paradise, So seems she to my vision, Whose presence gladdens earth-dimmed

eyes,

And tempts to fields Elysian."

A stately form of perfect mold,
Yet often lowly bending,

A face whose beauty grows not old
Since passing years are lending
Charms ever new. Bright eyes that hold
A score of nymphs contending.

A mind that holds by conqueror's right
The wisdom of the ages,