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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?”
Grant me Thine aid, that I may toss
It sunk forever from my sight:
A diamond sparkled pure and bright,
Widened, e'en midst the tempest's roar, Until at last it faintly burst
And vanished on the farther shore.
A hasty or unguarded word,
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 kindly influence shed abroad,
Like ripples on the restless sea,
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.
BY AND BY. .
Up before wild Fancy's eyes,
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.
All unheeded pass away;
Hoping they will ever stay.
Unto scenes with joy o'ercast -
They are found to be at last.
Though it may seem most sublime,
Knowing only present time.
And this truth will ever last,
On the pages of the Past.
Made him slave to the mighty demon,
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,
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.
From bough to bough in shady bowers,
Ye blissful birds.
With sunny islands dotted o'er, of the seagulls' cry, and storm-tossed ships, Of waves that haunt the pebbly shore
In rhythmic words.
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 flowers that grow by the river's side;
Through all day long.
And where you built it, tell me pray;
By cruel hands?
High in the fern trees by the wall,
In stranger lands.
Down in the forest by the sea;
No one is near.
Now fly away, you tiny things;
You'll find me here.
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,
Of some mortal frail,
And these are the word I heard:
• Katy-did, katy did."
And across the way,
By the moon's bright ray
A youth and maiden are seen,
And I hear a repeat
Of the old words, sweet,
As the gate swings to, between:
-Good-night, good-night." To the hills of far-off Maine.
I sing a song,
BELDEN CRANE HOYT.
BORN: RICHLAND, MICH., DEC. 15, 1856.
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.
WHO ARE WISE.
Is it they who soar in air-
Soar in thought beyond the blue;
Up to Heaven's plains so fair,
And celestial glory view -
They who soar above, below,
To the bounds of everywhere,
Downward to the world of woe
And its depths of dark despair;
They who through the mists of time,
Dimiy see eternity,
Who contrast the lofty rhyme
Thrilling in its majesty,-
With its music-laden flow
Beautifying mystic themes
Of the wonders forests know,
And the racing, shining streams,
of the roaring of the wave From a lone bird in the vale:
As it leaps upon the strand,
As it doth the ledges lave,
As it raises hills of sand?
Is it they who are the wise-
They to whom is wisdom given?
Ask the Ruler of the Skies,
Ask the mighty King of Heaven.
Hark? A deep-toned voice replies -
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,
After a while.
After awhile -- a little while.
Until the form lies cold?
Of dearer weight than gold?
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,