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MRS. JANE E. ROUSE.

BORN: BRANCH PORT, N.Y., 1829. From an early age the poems of Mrs. Rouse have appeared from time to time in the local

But all nature smiled, and villages grew,-
Our county prospered, our people, too,
Our neighbors increased, the land was tilled,
School houses built, and soon were filled,
And all went merry as a marriage bell,
Until on the land the shock of war fell.
We heard the call for volunteers,
'Twas bravely answered by our pioneers.
The laugh was hushed, and a quiver ran
Through every heart, from child to man.
Then aside the work was laid, -
The mimic battle was portrayed
By children marching to and fro
With wooden guns, and sabers, too,
Alas! my boys were girls, and all they could do
Was march and sing, and sing it o'er,
.. We're coming, Father Abraham, three hun-

dred thousand more." 'Twas not in vain. Their father fired with zeal, With others answered quick their country's

weal. With smiling lips, but aching hearts, We watched them as away they sped, Only wishing we were men to follow where they led.

(make a scare, The Minnesota Chipawa's thought they would And down they came with war paint on and

feathers in their hair. For many days and many nights I gathered

my young brood, (was good, Expecting, fearing I knew not what, but God Peace was restored. My own came back, a

soldier brave and true (army blue.
As ever faced the rebel ranks, or wore the
I could tell you of trials hard to bear,
But the silver lining was always there,
My trust in my Savior was never betrayed;
On him my burdens were always laid,
And I learned how much the heart can bear,
When we lost our home, but even there,
The rainbow of hope still shone above,-
And to work with my bands was a labor of

love.
My will is made, I have much to bequeath,
Good will to all. And when beneath
The sod I'm laid, just breathe a prayer
For Grandma Rouse, the pioneer.

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THE PIONEER. They tell me I am growing old, my locks are

turning gray. It may be so. I cannot tell. I feel as young

to-day, My hands as strong, my eye as true, as when I came to Michigan, full thirty years ago. The scenes have changed since I came here, So long ago, a youthful pioneer. No house we found, but under a tree We pitched our tent,- husband and me. We raised a log house, covered it o'er With shakes for roof, puncheon floor, And gathered moss from off the trees To keep out the cold and shutter fleas; For, ladies, though you think it queer, The flea was really the pioneer. The people were scattered – few neighbors

had we; Shelby was nowhere, and Hart, where was she? A peach orchard then where the county seat

stands, A log house here on the Randall lands.

TO THEE, WISCONSIN. To Thee, Wisconsin, noble state, a tribute ]

would pay, Though not my birth-place, thou hast been

My home for many a day. I love thy woodlands and thy hills, Thy prairie's broad and wide; I love the little

running rills, That deck thy low hillside. And there our loving gray-haired sire, and

there our mother, too, Sit waiting in their “old arm chair" with

calm and placid brow,

WILLIAM O. SLIGHT, BORN: MIDDLEBURY, IND., JULY 29, 1851. THE poems of Mr. Slight have appeared extensively in the local press. In person he is of good stature, with brown hair and eyes. Mr. Slight is now engaged in fruit culture in Berrien Springs, Michigan.

Waiting the summons come up higher,

your work on earth is done; Lay down the cross, accept the crown, the vic

tory is won. On Lake Geneva's balmy shore, where tourists

now reside, We built our cottage, trim and neat, when

first I was a bride; And in North Geneva churchyard we laid

away to rest, All that remains of Birdie," -- her soul is with

the blest. Three weary weeks we watched beside her

lowly bed of pain, And then his spirit took its flight, our loss was

his sure gain, For the soul escaped forever, from its tene

ment of clay, Beams irradiant with the splendor of a bright

eternal day.

THESE THREE.
- Live, labor and love,"
Do each with purpose true;
Live for thy home above
And labor for it, too;
In love play not a selfish part,
Nor sacrifice an honest heart.
«Live, labor and love,"
For each has its reward;
Make earth, with Heaven above,
To bend in sweet accord;
Thy lamp, all burning bright,
May lead some heart aright.

Live, labor and love."
Do these and thou wilt see
How brightly Heaven above
Will shine on thine and thee;
Faithful hearts and true
Can find enough to do.
Then live, and labor and love,
'Tis Heaven's commandment to all;
And Heaven will ever approve
Good deeds, tho' ever so small;
E’er honor thy Father above,
To live, and labor and love.

GEORGE MELVIN HOOD.

BORN: BATH, Ky., JULY 1, 1845. For the past quarter of a century the poems of Mr. Hood have appeared from time to time in the local press. He was a soldier in the late war. Mr. Hood is now a resident of Sterling, in the state of Kansas.

THE LAUGH OF MY WIFE.
There is a sound that charms my ears,

That makes me to rejoice,
No music e'er had sweeter charms

Than that sweet rippling voice.
No, I would not for all this world-
Or all its wealth by half,

Silence in sorrow's lonely spell
That ever joyous laugh.
It brings the sunlight to our home

And drives dull care away,
My heart is lighter for that laugh

When kneeling down to pray.
When wandering through the land of dream

Its joyous cotes I hear,---
Not all the wealth of earth's rich mines

To me were half so dear.
Or when from sorrow's threatening clouds

The muttering thunders roll,
That ever joyous laugh brings peace

And comfort to my soul.
And when within the pearly gates,

With joy supreme I rise,
I hope to hear that joyous laugh

Peal forth beyond the skies.
And now to make her happy still

Shall be my aim through life, I'll ask no sweeter music than

The laugh of my loved wife.

PERFIDY.
To-day the sun in splendor shines

To chase away our sorrow;
But ahl these fickle human minds,

Are sadder on the morrow.
Far in mid-heaven one tiny cloud,

One ripple on the sea,
Are oft enough to darkly shroud

The mind in misery.
It would be better, far, if we,

E'er in these brighter hours,
Would scatter golden seed to lea,

To ripen into flowers. And then when darksome days appear,

The flowers still would bloom; Our hearts to ever kindly cheer

With beauty and perfume.

LOVE. Man loves but once, but woman oft; Ne'er again if once his heart Is lured into deception, Can o'ercome the stinging smart And play again a second part With the same conception,

THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK.

BORX: CAMBRIDGE, O., APRIL 16, 1852. AFTER receiving his education in Zanesville, Mr. Peacock was for about ten years associate editor of the Topeka Kansas Democrat. He bas published several volumes of poems: The Vendetta and Other Poems appeared in 1876; The Rhyme of the Border War in 1880, and Poems of the Plains and Songs of the Solitudes in 1888. The last volume reached a third edi

The shore is won, and once again
He thunders o'er the endless pain!
The rider's stern and flashing eye
Speaks courage wrath,and vengeance nigh.
And well, I ween, his foes may fear
His anger in his mad career -
Ah! who is he that finds no rest?
'Tis brave Kit Carson of the west!
And some dear friend he now doth aid,
Who stands on peril's brink, afraid.

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THE KANSAS INDIAN'S LAMENT.
Our tribe is less'ning year by year,

The pale-face drives us back --
With us, the bison, bear, and deer

Before his onward track In battle with his armed power, The Red Man fears but dares not cower. The footprints of our moc'sins fade,

They once left paths for miles, And the Great Spirit hides in shade,

No more we see his smiles: Few wampum belts our tribe needs yet, For soon the warrior's star will set. These broad prairies once were ours;

We fished the many rivers;
On yonder Kaw, embanked with flowers,

With arrows in our quivers,
With dusky maids, wigwams bebind,
We sailed before the singing wind.
The sunflower waved its yellow head,

Across the grassy plains -
And, like our chieftain, now are dead

The spirit-herbs for pains:
Pale-face, our mild clime's not for thee,
It moves, with us, toward sundown sea.
Our moons are few, our race is run,

Some dark fate drags us down;
Less bright the once all-glorious sun,

The golden stars are brown -
The tall mounds black and dismal loom,
Each day speaks of our coming doom.
Our wasted race - my father brave,

My squaw and pappoose too, All here lie buried in the grave,

Here rots my swift canoe The things I loved have passed away, Ah! soon will I be gone as they! Methinks the pale race might have spared

Some spot where we'd abide, -Spared us, who once owned all,and shared

With them from tide to tide: 'T is strange, 't is passing strange to me, Why they would drive us in the sea. Our small tribe 's seattered like the leaves

And wasted to a few –
Each warrior for the bright past grieves,

Which vanished from our view!
They wait till Manitou's voice sounds,
Calling to Happy Hunting Grounds.

THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK, tion in the first year, and has been translated into the German. Mr. Peacock has been a resident of Topeka, Kansas, for fifteen years, and was married in 1880 to Miss Ida E. Eckert, a lady of fine congenial literary tastes. His poetry is exclusively American. Although comparatively a young man, Mr. Peacock has already gained a national reputation as an eminent writer and poet.

KIT CARSON.
He comes! his steed with mighty bound
Flies swiftly o'er the echoing ground -
He seems a wanderer astray,
Whose past had been a better day;
A being which to earth was hurled,
Whose home is in another world -
Who rides mysterious o'er the earth,
Surprised and dazed with his new birth?
A river runs before his course,
Which he must cross, and soon, perforce.
The channel's bank is reached, the wave
His courser's sides doth hem and lave,

We go! the white race takes our place;

Great Spirit, what am I!
Once thousands strong, where's now my

race
On plains beyond the sky?
O take me too, I would not stay,
When all I loved have passed away!
Perchance, when many moons have fled

And the Great Spirit's wrath,
Our many loved ones, from the dead,

Will come back to earth's path,
To hunt again the buffalo,
And no pale race to bring us woe.
But soft! methinks I hear a voice?

Great Manitou's! speaks He!
It makes my craven heart rejoice -

O what would'st Thou with me? ..Be brave! God's Happy Hunting Grounds Are great and good, and have no bounds!"

He led them from the night to day

On like the storm-swept holocaust! Woe! woe to them he seeks this night,

For they shall feel his vengeful handThey who have robbed, without the right

From him, the leader of the band! I see him yet! and lo! he's gone

And yet I hear his steed of fire, Whose steel-clad hoofs still clatter on,

Swift bearing him and all his ire.
Full twenty years James reigned supreme,

The monarch of his own desire;
His will was all the law, 't would seem,

That marked his mad career of fire.
And like the great Napoleon,

He passed in view before man's ken, A great and strange phenomenon

A Titan asking naught of men. He did what others would not dare

His deeds were rampant, fierce, and fell; Throughout his life, and everywhere, He braved each, all-man, Heaven, and Hel

THE BANDIT CHIEF.
Hark! is a courser's clattering feet!

That courser madly speeds away-
The midnight moon from her high seat

Sheds on the earth her brightest ray.
Who comes? A rushing steed draws nigh,

Whose hoofs are sounding far and near? As swift as though from ghouls he'd fly,

He passes forest, plain, and mere. Perchance some wild fiend crazed with fright,

Flies on its way from Heaven down-hurled! Perchance some demon of the night,

Escaped from Hell, rides o'er the world!
Whoe'er he be so fearful near,

As dread as fiend or demon he,
To followers he rules through fear,

And leads through crimes to victory.
He nears! I see his eye of hate?

'T is gleaming like an evil star; He seems th' embodied form of fate

Swift rushing to the field of war.
On, on, the terror of the sod,

A tempest in his heart of ire;
He fears no man, no fiend, no God,

In his wild, stormy soul of fire.
Ah! well each follower knew his power;

They'd felt the thunder of his might-
They knew his wrath at any hour

Was like the awful storm of night. To him all foes in combat quailed,

Before his arm and eagle eye --
His life seemed charmed - to him death paled-1

He swept in power puissant by.
As when in darkness men do mourn,

And lo! a star breaks through the night!
That star a mighty genius born,

Grasps from the gloom immortal light! So when great hosts had them at bay,

And his wild clan deemed all were lost,

THE MANIAC.
The maniac sprang from off his bed,

And placed his hand upon his brow. .. I feel within, my soul is dead!"

His mind is wandering now... Fiend! open the door - unbar! unbar!

Why am I chained by arm to floorBut see, there's one bright, shining star, Which kindly guards my prison door! It stands a silent sentinel, there;

With pity looks from its bright eye,
Adown on me in my despair -

Ah! there's a serpent on the sky!
It's crawling, like the crawl of Death;

It coils; now buries in a cloud;
I feel its poisoned, fetid breath!

It warns me of the burial shroud! .. Hark! hark! I hear, I see in the air,

Fiends, demons, dragons, and devils! Why tarry with me in my despair?

Why not off to their wild revels? .. But still they stay - behold! I see!

But this is madness, my keepers tell O! from out this prison, free me! Why make my living death a bell?**

BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. Beautiful woman, thou art,

True th' womanhood, sweet! God places in thy heart

A wealth of love that's meet. And why, I cannot tell!

But oh, thy voice to me Sounds like some far-off bell

That wakes sweet memory!

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MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE.

BORN: NEW YORK CITY, MAY 27, 1819. This intellectual woman has written numerous poems, dramas, and lectures. She is a very strong advocate of woman's suffrage, and has lectured extensively in aid of reforms. Her poetical works are Passion Flowers, and Words of the Hour; two of her best works of

Some merry-measured roundel Of the happy days and young; But, pierced with sudden sorrow, The words came faint and slow, Till one, in childish panic, Cried; Mother, sing not so!" Then all the little creatures Looked wondering in her eyes; And the Baby nestled nearer, Startled at their surprise; The voice grew thin and quavered, Low drooped the weary head, Till the breath of song was stifled, And tears burst forth instead. For misty memories covered The children from her ken, And down the bitter river She dropped - no mother then; No sister, helpmeet, daughter, Linked to historic years; An agonizing creature That looked to God in tears.

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But when some sudden turning Had checked her hopeless way, She saw the little faces No longer glad or gay: And as they gazed, bewildered By grief they could not guess, Their sympathetic silence Was worse than her distress. Then she tore the fatal vesture Of agony aside; And showed, with mimic gesture, How naughty children cried.And told of hoary castles By giant warders kept, Of deep and breathless forests Where tranced beauties slept; Weaving in rainbow madness The cloud upon her brain, Till they forgot her weeping, And she forgot her pain. 'Twere well to pour the soul out In one convulsive fit, And rend the heart with weeping, If Love were loosened from it. But all the secret sorrow That underlies our lives, Must wait the true solution The great progression gives. Those griefs so widely gathered, Those deep, abyssmal chords, Broken by wailing music Too passionate for words, Find gentle reconcilement In some serener breast, And touch with deeper pathos Its symphonies of rest.

THE NURSERY. Come, sing for us, dear Mother, A song of the olden times; Of the merry Christmas carol, Of the happy New Year chimes; Nor sit here, idle-handed, To hang your head and grieve, Beside the blazing hearthstone This pleasant Winter's eve." Then she sang, to please the children, With hall-forgetful tongue,

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