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M. M. DELEVIS.

The poems of Mr. DeLevis have appeared extensively under the nom de plume of Edgar Thorne. Mr. De Levis is a real estate agent and notary public in Lincoln, Nebraska, where he is well known and highly respected.

- How shall I compensate the flower?
He asked. “May heaven give me power
To add new beauty, greater charms,
And more attractions;" and his arms
He raised to Deity on high,
His face uplifted to the sky,

Grant me Thine aid, that I may toss
On every bud a tuft of moss,
Which ever after shall appear
Upon the flower year by year.
The prayer was heard, the answer given,
By kind assistance drawn from heaven;
And thus, as the quaint story goes,
Begun the beauteous Red Moss Rose.

INFLUENCE.
I dropped a pebble in the stream,

It sunk forever from my sight:
A moment in the sun's warm beam

A diamond sparkled pure and bright,
Reflecting far its radiance light.
A circle, small indeed at first,

Widened, e'en midst the tempest's roar, Until at last it faintly burst

And vanished on the farther shore.
A frown, a scowl, an angry glance,

A hasty or unguarded word,
A formal bow, a look askance -

These, quicker than a swift-winged bird,

Pierce to the heart like two-edged sword; Spreading a baleful influence wide,

They cast a mirksome shade and gloom Across life's rough and troubled tide,

and reach unto the silent tomb. A word, a look of sympathy,

A penny generously bestowed,
A simple act of courtesy,

A kindly influence shed abroad,
And from the soul lift many a load.
These angel-deeds, grand and sublime,

Like ripples on the restless sea,
Sweep o'er the fretful stream of time

And reach into eternity.

GEORGE JOHNSTON. BORN: PHILADELPHIA, PA., MAY 15, 1829. APPRENTICED to the carpenter business, Mr. Johnston later divided his time between teaching school and working at his trade. He was a union soldier during the rebellion. In 1879 he became connected with the Cecil Whig, and in 1881 published the History of Cecil County, Maryland, for which he was elected a member of the historical societies of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Wisconsin. In 1887 Mr. Johnston issued a neat work of some three hundred pages, entitled Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland.

ORIGIN OF THE RED MOSS ROSE.
Within a garden's quiet close
There grew an unassuming rose,
It blossomed fair in simple white
And sparkled in the noonday light;
Delicious fragrance it exhaled,
And all the neighborhood regaled.
Claretta, sauntering careless by,
Cast on it her disdainful eye;
.. The odor's sweet, 'tis true," she said,
And coldly turned her dainty head;
- But if I knew the way or rule,
I'd make the flower more beautiful.”
The flower, hearing what she said,
Blushed deeply and was turned to red.
When came the closing hours of day,
An angel passed along the way;
Weary and travel-stained, he made
His bed beneath its grateful shade,
Where through the gloomy shades of night
He sweetly slept till morning light;
Then, rising from refreshing sleep,
His gratitude was warm and deep.

BY AND BY. .
Shadowy, dreamy phantoms ever rising

Up before wild Fancy's eyes,
With their untold and beauteous splendor,

Make us present things despise. And procrastination whispers softly,

Wait a little longer yet; Rashness will defeat your purpose, mortal,

And be cause of deep regret. Wait with patience just a moment longer,

Then with safety clutch them fast -Thus the spirit of delay beguiles us,

Till the lucky time is past.
Moments freighted deep with joy ecstatic

All unheeded pass away;
While we musing scan the misty future,

Hoping they will ever stay.
By and by! may gaily point us forward,

Unto scenes with joy o'ercast -
Only mirage of Life's barren desert,

They are found to be at last.
By and by! with all its artful scheming,

Though it may seem most sublime,
Wisdom horror-stricken spurneth from her,

Knowing only present time.
Reason tells us now's the time for action,

And this truth will ever last,
Written as it is throughout all nature,

On the pages of the Past.

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Made him slave to the mighty demon,
That was fast eating godliness up.
I will tell you now how it happened;
How my boy came to go astray.
He thought he could not be tempted;
So he went in the tempter's way.
He went though I prayed with him often
To go with the good and the true;
He was fearless and brave with the tempter;
Ah, the tempter was cunning then too.
He had not the strength that God giveth,
For he closed his heart to God's voice,
He went like a wayward lamb ever
Taking the path of his choice.
One eve the tempter came to him,
How little he dreamed it was he,
For the face was lovely to look at
And the eyes were truthful to see.
My beautiful boy wandered thoughtless
Where she with a face fresh and bright
Beckoned all to drink with King Bacchus,
Who held feast and revel that night
His comrade stood near him and urged him
To take one glass and no more.
A moment he thought of his mother;
Then yielded, and all was o'er.
Now his manhood is blighted forever,
His lot - a slave to the cup.
He bas broken the heart of his mother,
And buried his future hopes up.
So hear me, O temperance workers,
For I'm aged and wrinkled and gray,
I have had much trouble and sorrow
Yet never such sorrow have felt till to-day.
Did you ever think of the thousands
Of beautiful boys like mine?
Who have been warned without ceasing,
Of the tempter, the power of wine?
Yet go, like wayward lambs ever
Not fearing or heeding or hearing our voice,
Down to ways dark and dangerous,
In evil paths of their choice.
As long as fathers will lead them,
As long as grog-shops are near,
Our boys will ever be tempted,
And much we will have to fear.
So let old and young work for temperance,
And combat the enemy strong.
Let us fight hand to hand and not falter,
For right will be stronger than wrong.

[graphic]

MRS. EFFIE H. B. SWANSON. and publisher of the Banner, Royalton, Mich.. in which city she now resides. The poems of Mrs. Swanson bave appeared extensively in the periodical press. Besides attending her household duties, she assists her husband greatly in his editorial work.

MY BOY. I will tell you a sad, sad story, Of my boy, so loving and true; He was laughing and bright With a step so light, and eye of azure hue. My beautiful boy grew day by day Less laughing, and bright, and gay, His step grew slow and aimless: They were stealing my boy away. I tried with my love and kindness, To bring him back to me. God knows my heart was breaking For my boy as of old to see. But he gave up all that was holy To men; for the cursed cup

THE HARVEST FIELDS. I walked alone one summer day,

Among the fields so lately shorn; I thought how a short time ago,

The wind had emerald banners borne. But now alas! What once was green,

And spread o'er valley, bill, and plain,

Stern death had gathered in his grasp,

And given instead the golden grain. His servants, reapers of the fields,

Had come with sickles, sharp and keen, And at the cruel sickle's stroke,

The golden grain fell fast, I ween. So is it in our summer day,

Among the fields of human souls: In blooming or in harvest time,

Death comes and leads us to the folds. Some are in dons of darkest shame;

Some in bright fields of flowers play; Some striving hard in Christian work;

Some in the shadow always stray. ..

In the fear of the Lord let us pass each day,
Then let them speed away, away,
Swift as a tale that's told.
We are looking away from this desert land
To the happy home of the blest,
Patiently waiting year by year,
Till the glad sweet summons our souls shall

hear
Come enter into rest.

MRS. MARY F. BEETS. BORN: VAN BUREN CO., IOWA, SEPT. 7, 1857. MRS. BEETS taught school in Miama county, Kansas, and also in Jackson county, Missouri. Married in 1882 to Thomas J. Beets, this lady was left a widow five years later. Her poems have appeared extensively in the local press.

MRS. LIDA M. SMITH.

BORN: JACKSON, OHIO, OCT. 24, 1845. REMOVING to Kansas in 1857, Mrs. Smith is still a resident of that state in the town of La Cygne. She has written poems from her youth, which have been published by the press throughout the country.

WE ARE GROWING OLD. We are growing old - how the thought will

rise, As a glance is backward cast; We note our wrinkles with weary sighs; The luster is dim in our once bright eyes, Life's sun is sinking fast. The lengthening shadows along our path Warn us the evening's near, And just before us death's river flows, When the hour is still and our souls repose, The lap of its waves we hear. But why need we care, just across its tide Lieth the land of rest, Sometimes we hear, 'mid life's storms and

calms, The soft wind's murmur amid its palms, And the anthems of the blest; And oft we hear with our spirit care, When the winds of heaven breathe low, Sounding from Salem's gold-paved street The echoing tread of our loved ones feet, Who left us long ago. And often we see, with spirit eyes, Through sunset's mystic bar, In the vast, dim distance the shadowing gleam of the city of light and life's fair stream, Through the golden gates ajar. 0, the flowers of spring are fair to see, Yet sweet doth the fall rose blow, And grander than morning's radiance fair; When dewy blossoms perfume the air, To sunset's golden glow. We mourn not the vanished days of spring, We care not, we're growing old,

SING ME A SONG SWEET BIRDS.
Ye happy birds that hop about

From bough to bough in shady bowers,
Come, sing to me at set of sun,
And cheer my solitary hours

Ye blissful birds.
Tell me a tale of southern seas,

With sunny islands dotted o'er, of the seagulls' cry, and storm-tossed ships, Of waves that haunt the pebbly shore

In rhythmic words.
Oh! tell me of the land of flowers,

of the sunny southland far away; Of bright-hued birds in tangled nooks, That chirp all night and sing all day

Their happy songs.
Of the deep, dark forest sing to me,

Of the flowers that grow by the river's side;
And sing me the song that the rivers sang
To you as they wandered on in their pride,

Through all day long.
Oh! tell me of your last year's nest;

And where you built it, tell me pray;
And are your birdies safe from harm?
Or were they stolen on the way

By cruel hands?
If you would build just out of sight

High in the fern trees by the wall,
And keep your birdies safe at home,
You need not wander far, at all,

In stranger lands.
Sing me the song that last you sang

Down in the forest by the sea;
Come perch upon the window sill
And sing your sweetest song to me;

No one is near.
'Twas such a pretty song you sang,

Now fly away, you tiny things;
And if when daylight comes again,
You seek for me with tireless wings.

You'll find me here.

MRS.LOUISEP.W.PALMITER.

And a little beyond,

Just over the pond, Bors: VICTOR, N. Y., APRIL 5, 1833.

From a tall tree on the bank, COMMENCING to write verse at an early age,

Comes faint, but clear the poems of this lady have appeared in many

To my listening ear, prominent publications, such as the Weekly

| The song of a feathered crank: Wisconsin, Western Rural, Chicago Inter

- Too-whoo, too-whoo." Ocean, and numerous other publications of

Then a gossip unseen, equal prominence, from which they have been

In the ivy green, extensively copied by the local press.

Repeats to a drowsy bird,

A scandalous tale,
SONG OF THE REAPER.

Of some mortal frail,
I sing a song,

And these are the word I heard:
As I roll along,

• Katy-did, katy did."
Behind my four-in-hand,"
A pæan of hope for weary souls,

And across the way,
Throughout this beauteous land.

By the moon's bright ray

A youth and maiden are seen,
I sing a song,

And I hear a repeat
The whole day long,

Of the old words, sweet,
To the fall of the golden grain,

As the gate swings to, between:
From Minnesota's prairies broad,

-Good-night, good-night." To the hills of far-off Maine.

I sing a song,
To the hungry throng,

BELDEN CRANE HOYT.
That is sweet to the listening ear,

BORN: RICHLAND, MICH., DEC. 15, 1856.
For I sing of plenty and peace to come, As teacher, printer, farmer and book agent,
When the wintry storms draw ncar. Mr. Hoyt has experienced fair success; he now
I sing my song,

has aspirations toward the pulpit. The poems The hills among,

of Mr. Hoyt have appeared in the county paI sing in the valley fair,

pers, from which they have been extensively From rosy morn till set of sun,

copied. He now resides in Paola, Kansas, diMy song floats on the air.

viding his time between school teaching and Oh! I sing a song,

the book business.
A jolly song,

WHO ARE WISE.
As I reap the golden grain,

Is it they who soar in air-
And roll behind my four-in-hand,

Soar in thought beyond the blue;
Sole monarch of the plain.

Up to Heaven's plains so fair,
SUMMER NIGHT SOUNDS.

And celestial glory view -
'Tis sweet to sit,

They who soar above, below,

To the bounds of everywhere,
Ere the lamps are lit,
By the vine-wreathed casement, listening

Downward to the world of woe

And its depths of dark despair;
When the winds are still,

They who through the mists of time,
And the cricket's trill
Is heard where the dew is glistening:

Dimiy see eternity,

Who contrast the lofty rhyme
Cheereet; cheereet."

Thrilling in its majesty,-
'Tis a summer night,

With its music-laden flow
With a moon so bright,

Beautifying mystic themes
That the fire-fly lamps are pale,

Of the wonders forests know,
And all night long,

And the racing, shining streams,
Comes a mournful song

of the roaring of the wave From a lone bird in the vale:

As it leaps upon the strand,
.. Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will."

As it doth the ledges lave,
In a shady nook,

As it raises hills of sand?
By the side of the brook,

Is it they who are the wise-
Hid away from the prying moon,

They to whom is wisdom given?
On a moss-grown log,

Ask the Ruler of the Skies,
Some love-lorn frog

Ask the mighty King of Heaven.
Is singing this mellow tune:

Hark? A deep-toned voice replies -
Ker-chug, ker-chug."

They who fear the Lord are wise!”

AD. H. GIBSON.

BORN: BUREAU Co., ILL. At an early age Mr. Gibson acted as local reporter for home papers, and his paragraphs always received commendation from the editors. He has taught school both in Kansas and among the Indians. This young writer has written numerous poems of merit, and aspires more especially to become eminent as a novelist,

Those distant spires, whose tips we see,
Will nearer, and yet nearer be,
Till dome and basement will be seen,
And fields all dress'd in living green,-

After awhile.
In fancy oft we've ranged those bowers,
And culled the lasting, fragrant flowers;
It will not all a vision be,
But blessed, bright reality,--

After awhile.
We've seemed to walk the streets of gold,
Whose beauties more and more unfold,
And by life's gentle flowing stream,
We'll wake and find 'twas not a dream,-

After a while.
There with the lost of other years,
Where God shall wipe away all tears,
We'll give all praise and honor due,
To Him who loved and brought us through,

After awhile -- a little while.

WHY WAIT?
Why wait to show your love

Until the form lies cold?
Why leave unsaid those tender words

Of dearer weight than gold?
Oh, could you read the heart,

And see love's hunger there, You would not wait to speak those words

And show those acts of care. When death's chill brink is crossed

We'll never care what love's expressed By lilies white with cypress twined, Across the pulseless breast.

SWEET COMFORT. I find real comfort in a cosy nook Where I, with some delightful book, May drive from mind the ills of life, Its cruel snares and scenes of strife. Who does not love by leafy brook To take sweet comfort in a book? Or spend in joy his leisure hours In company of sweet Nature's flowers?

TO A FRIEND. When morn doth rise on glitt'ring wings, And with new life inspire all things, Then let a moment separate be, In which thou dost remember me. And when the shades of evening close, And all is hushed in deep repose, 0, then, I pray, remember me, For at each time I think of thee.

MRS. ELIZA T. CRUM. The poems of this lady have appeared occasionally in the local press. She is a resident of Terre Haute, in the state of Indiana.

CONTRASTS. It is often true, though it seems unfair, What brings one hope, brings another despair; While some have the sun, others have rain, When some find joy, others find pain. It is ever so through all life's hours: Some receive thorns where others cull flowers; Friends grow cold and love fades, too, And much is false that we deemed was true.

MRS. VICTORIA A. BELDIN. BORN: LAWRENCEVILLE, N. Y., AUG. 19, 1843. THE poems of this lady have appeared in the Brakeman's Journal, Signal, and local papers generally. Mrs. Beldin's health is very poor; her place of residence is in Hortonville, Wis.

MEMORY Memory, jubilant to-day, Gathered its spring buds by the way We came. Its magic touch revealed Flowers that choicest perfume yield. It sped to strew my house with flowers, They bloom for me to tell the hours -A nook too warm the sun shone through, Is cool with vines, the loveliest grew. Glad and winsome in serving me, This precious grace of memory; Must crown with joy the blest who tread On flowers, and are ambrosia fed. Make the friend a guest, that will abide Housed in your heart nor be denied In dreams, if needs, memories wake Nemesis for our torture's sake. Dear hearts, be pure this grace to sue For thy soul's strength and to construe Poor faltering hopes, to find reprieve For loss that wastes life, as a sieve,

AFTER AWHILE. Dark clouds at times o'erspread the sky, The winds are fierce, the waves are high, But these will pass and sunshine bright Will dawn upon our anxious sight,

After awhile.

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