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FURTHERMORE.

We, that are held of you in narrow chains, Sought for our beauty, thro' our folly raised One moment to barren eminerce,

To drop in dreary nothingness, amazed;

We, dwarfed to suit the measure of our pride,
Thwarted in all our pleasures and our powers,
Have yet a sad, majestic recompense,
The dignity of suffering, that is ours.

The proudest of you lives not but he wrung
A woman's unresting form with pain,
While the long nurture of your helpless years
Brought back the bitter childbirth throes again.

We wait upon your fancies, watch your will,
Study your pleasure, oft with trembling heart,-
Of the success and glory of your lives
Ye think it grace to yield the meanest part.
Ev'n Nature, partial mother, reasons thus:
To these the duty, and to those the right;"
Our faithful service earns us sufferance,
But we shall love you in your own despite.
To you the thrilling meed of praise belongs,
To us, the painfuller desert may fall;

We touch the brim, where ye exhaust the bowl,
But where ye pay your due, we yield our all.
Honor all women-weigh with revered hand
The worth of those unproved, or overtried,
And, when ye praise the perfect work of One,
Say not, ye are shamed in her, but glorified.

They who mete and they who gather, counting out the shining spoil,

Bade me stand and tarry reck'ning, show my toil,

Comes a beggar to the banquet where the full in heart rehearse,

He shall take his place in silence, he shall neither bless nor curse:

We must cover his short-comings with a treasure of our own

Meet it is, in spirit-council, men's possessions should be shown.

Let me pass then, as a spendthrift, with a¦ single golden coin

I shall never risk nor barter, for a kingdom or a mine:

Not for bread would I exchange it, tho' the wolf should gnave my bones,

Not for pearls of purest water, not for wealth of priceless stones.

Nor the child I dearest cherish, shall inherit with my land

This, my chiefest of resources, shut within a dying hand;

Not too costly of the passage of the dark and silent sea,

If but Love, star-crowned, immortal, shall afford me company.

SUE.

She was a freak of Nature's joy,
And flow'ret wonder-pied,

As startling as a pansy found

Black-leaved, and golden eyed.

Her voice was borrowed from the choir
That rings the vernal years;
Her temper was ethereal fire

That calmed itself in tears.

Some nameless touch of God's delight Fell on her, as she lay

An infant, dreaming heavenly dreams,
And never passed away.

Her laughter, many-voiced and full,
Had not one scornful strain:
Her eyes, that flashed defiant mirth,
Were tender and humane.

She wore the radiance of her youth
As though she felt it not;

And while she held you with her speech,
Her beauty was forgot.

For soul to outward Beauty is
As Sun to dawning Day,

The rosy drapery vanished

Before the conquering ray. Twas hers to move in fearlessness, And throne herself at ease: Too royal were her gifts, that she Should condescend to please.

CHARLES W. LAFFERTY. BORN: MARTINSVILLE, ILL., Nov. 2, 1857. IN 1884 Mr. Lafferty was married, which he considers the happiest event of his life. In 1888 he built a beautiful home in Casey, Ill.,

CHARLES W. LAFFERTY. and there located the Casey Nursery. Mr.Lafferty has written poetry from his youth, and both his prose and verse have been widely published in the periodical press.

THE STRANGER AND FRIEND. We all have our faults in this life, Some of them great and some are small, Deception will dazzle our eyes, And over life throw a pall. Yes we see it time and again, The untried face of a stranger, Dims the face of a tried true friend. Yes the life of a gilt saloon, Is to capture and fascinate, And often it will wind up, Inclosed in a cold prison grate, And a kind mother's help to lend. The untried faces of strangers, Dims the face of a tried true friend. Yes a kind mother's love you see, Treated with contempt, and with shame, And bringing disgrace upon son, And branding his mother's fair name. Yes, you see it time and again,

The untried face of a stranger,

Dims the face of a tried true friend.
A boy leaves his home of plenty,
Allured by the world's fairest charms.
Yes hoping and looking to be,
Encircled in fancies strong arms,
His mind to vice and shame will tend.
The untried faces of strangers,
Dims the face of a tried true friend.

Yes a mother pleads for her child,
And says, look to that world above.
But he treats with contempt and scorn
Her advice of life and love;

Yes and turns to the world again.
The untried face of a stranger,
Dims the face of a tried true friend.

The face of a tried and true friend,
May look homely, common and old;
And the face of an untried stranger,
Fascinating, daring and bold;
But you throw yourself in danger,
When you give up a tried true friend
For the face of a bold stranger.

323

THE CRY OF THE POOR. Cramped by poverty and indigent's slave, Sorrow and trouble compelled here to brave, The home of the poor, wherever we go,

The same song of sorrow, all of them know. We sometimes pass, with gentle remark,

Never stopping to think, how sad and dark Are some hours to them, as sad want they see, Never stopping to say. If that was me." We see the children and light-clad are they, Hardly enough to keep warm in the day. As the winter blast brings ice,sleet and snow, Pain, grief and sorrow their little hearts

know.

They go to their bed, to seek there some rest, That should be as warm as the robin's nest, But poverty here makes his presence felt, And thoughts of a cold night makes one's heart melt.

Yes, children of the poor go to their bed, Hungry and cold, they all lay down their

head,

While mothers of plenty sing lullaby songs,
And always their table, luxury throngs.
The poor children cry to parents for bread,
As hunger and want hang over their head,
And who of us know that fond parent's
mind,

Yes unable to help and yet so kind. These kind parents have misfortune picked out,

As over this earth he laid out his route, Yes, picked them out here to suffer and want, And all thoughts of plenty must come to

naught.

world

Yes, the poor stand back and look at the [hurled, From luxury and plenty, they have been To go through this life with hearts as of lead, Poverty-stricken, and begging for bread. Now cheer up ye poor, and listen what is said, Cheer up your heart, and come hold up your head,

We know it is hard to lead such a life,

With suffering children and bosom wife. But the time will come and you will lie down With the rich and all that now wear the crown, [grave The green grass then will grow over your The same as over the rich or the brave.

Your soul will pass to the infinite land,

And the rich and poor will join hand in hand, And all that has been, none there will know, As time and years of eternity go.

LEANDER COX HOWE.

BORN: MAYSLICK, KY., Nov. 15, 1866. As a minister of the gospel, Mr. Howe has experienced fair success. He is very fond of literature, and hopes at no distant date to devote the greater part of his time to literary work. The Rev. Howe has written poetry from his youth, and will present a volume of his poems to the public in book-form at an early date. He is at present located at Poplar Plains, in his native state.

STAR-THOUGHTS BY TWILIGHT. The purple glory of the dying day

Reflects its luster on the sky above, While deep down in my heart their lies

The precious gift-first love.

O gift divine that thou art mine;
Let sacred be the trust
Until the soul is lost in love,-
The mortal lost in dust.

I see afar a silver star,

Bright jewel in the blue,

As is its light true to old night,—

My love is true to you.
Behold another brilliant star
In azure realms of space,
It twinkled for the ages gone
On many a faded race.

And so when we have paid the debt,
That mortals ne'er can miss,
Still other eyes will see that star
In distant years from this.
Behold a lustrous sister star,
High o'er the old church spire,
A thousand eyes upon this night
Its beauty may admire.
I see another golden light
Hung out in realms on high,

And by decree eternal

Its light can never die.

O see a distant shining star!
Its light may gently fall
Upon a mother's grave-

In life who was your all.
To-night upon the far-off hill,

Where starlight diamonds glisten,
There comes no echo from the grave-
Though millions of us listen.

We love to look upon that star
That casts its rays below,
To decorate a mother's grave
With jewels in the snow.
While looking at that sacred star,
We love to think of this:
Her spirit may be drinking in

Its beauty that we miss.

The stars look down from realms of blue Upon the lonely molds,

Where long have slept the bodies

Of many noble souls.

I see another golden star

Which smiles in fairy blue,"Tis sweet to think of her we love, Whose looking at it too;

Its rays reflect the beauty

That to her nature gave,
And then we breathe out gently:
All is not in the grave.
Sweet mem'ry brings to mind
A happy hour just now,
That self-same star was shining when
We made loves fondest vow.

O may that star forever shine
Down from the blue above!
And fill all blissful hearts
With nature's truest love.

O yonder is a fatal star

One that we ought to hate;
'Tis said that those born under it
Are wedded unto fate.

So well did Gloster's bastard youth
In Shakespeare's play make fun
Of all these planetary fates

That through the ages run.

Dear reader please remember this,
And read King Lear to see,

That stars are not responsible
For what we seem to be.

The meanest villain drawing breath-
Or vicious rake of earth,

Fair Venus may have smiled upon
The cradle of their birth;

The purest saint that ever lived,
Whose life no vice did mar,

For ought we know, may have been born
Beneath that very star.

LAWRENCE S. MCDONALD.

BORN: GLENDALE, PA., MAY 14, 1866. AT fourteen he attended a high school at Clearfield, Pa., where he now resides; beginning in the primary department and making such rapid progress that he graduated with the first honors four years afterward. His talents are comprehended in painting, music, oratory and poetry, and a faculty ef generali

LAWRENCE S. M'DONALD.

zation that amounts to genius. He is essentially an orator, and as such has made a wide reputation in his native state. Mr. DcDonald is now practicing law at the county seat of Clearfield, and has made a success of journalism, but finds the practice of law more lucrative. He stands reasonably high as a poet.

EXTRACTS.

My soul is sad to-day. I know not why Shadowy presentiments come and go, Though yet I roam the precincts of her hazel

eye

It is not well that mortal man should know The hidden destinies that, swinging to and fro,

Cast their short shadowings across the page 1 sing.

As if cast there by some strange bird on lofty wing.

But the press of my lips to her marble cheek Is a sacrilegious touch;

There is yet one thing that binds us, Though our throbbing hearts unheard, And that is the golden binding cord

That is made of her truthful word.
But still she loves, I know it,

As true as death's our goal,
And the sky of truth hangs smiling
O'er the shades of her lovely soul.

From heath and highland purple all night long Two drowsy sentinels from starlit towers, Call to each other in the trembling silence, The passage of the hours.

Faint streaks of violet from jasper capes

In trembling splendor, as on wings of love, And some bright soul-deep-robed in spotless white,

Delights me from above.

Some rustling spirits move across the floor-
As if sweet angels thereupon do rove,
To me they're whisperings of a voice no more
To soothe my soul with love.

Across my bed the curtain fringes flow,

Kissed by the amorous zephyrs from above, To me they're like the presence of a loved one

now

In lands of light and love.

I do believe our fathers' faith of old-
Each letter of its every hallowed word,-
Its accents from the lips of nature rolled
The golden dictates of creation's Lord.
The spirit of that book in trembling beauty-
As fragrant incense from old fanes will rise,
That God the same that paved the path of
duty,

As writ in light the pages of the skies.

And the day that's far away

Day that knows no noon, no night, Fast it breaks in purple streaksHow my eyes do drink the lightFast it breaks o'er hills and peaks, Jasper amber golden streaksThus that day streams on my sight.

Since that hour I courted Nature's
Scenes eclipsing skies of gold,
And I sipped the honeyed beauties
That the fields and forests' fold,
But to-night here in the silence,
As the twilight in the west
Sends its golden bars askyward
Kissing silver luna's crest.

I am sitting, thinking, thinking
Of my mother in the grave,
Near where graceful Susquehanna
Tosses shoreward on her wave.

326

DR. JOSEPH P. RUSSELL. BORN: BOURBON CO., KY., JULY 23, 1815. FOR thirty years Dr. Russell has practiced medicine in Waveland, Indiana. From his youth this gentleman has written poems

DR. JOSEPH P. RUSSELL. from time to time, which have received publication. He contemplates the publication of his verse in book-form in the near future.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

Butterfly, butterfly

Where are you wending? .. This a way, that a way," Whither now tending?

With your gaudy rich tints,
That rivals all art,
Bliss surely is center'd
In your little heart;
From a chrysolite state,

From darkness so drear,
You have fledged into light,
You wing through the air.
You sip at the nectar

Of each op'ning flow'r,
Your home in the garden,
And blooming gay bow'r
So graceful and lithely
You wander at will.
You warble in valley,

And zig-zag o'er hill,

So crooked your course seemed

Never intended,
Yet freedom and free will
Most clearly blended;
Seen adrift in the air,

On roadside or dell,
There's naught in all nature
Your grace can excel.
With your summer so short,
Your life but a span,
Are you a fair model,
Or type of the man?
Oh! butterfly tell me,
Have you a dread fear
Of your dissolution,
Of death that's so near?
Will you be immortal
With life cloth'd anew,
And in a new world

Your pleasures pursue? A world of sweet flowers That bloom all the year, A butterfly heaven,

With no death to fear

Or, doomed by the frost-king

To death and decay,

Will death be eternal,
Oh! butterfly, say?

THE PERSECUTED RABBIT. Poor timid hare, and innocent as well, I would I could thy wrongs redress, and tell, Of persecutions meted out to you; Fain would I be thy friend and advocate, Hold up the horrors of thy bloody fate, Till man relenting, would not thee pursue. Thy graceful form and manners mild should A warrant for thy peace and liberty, That rest, sweet rest might be to thee secure; Those brownish mild benignant eyes of thine, Ought to repress the lawless hordes of crime, And hold inviolate a life so pure. [strife,

[be

No armor thine to shield from murd'rous
A modest meekness marks thy gentle life;
With hungry eagles hover o'er thy head;
And num'rous foes do intercept thy joys,
Yet man more cruel, most of all annoys,
By wholesale slaughter gives thee most to

dread.

The heartless huntsman with his dog and gun,
Thinks it rare sport to see you start and run,
Regardless of your common right to life;
And if by speedy flight you reach your den,
He sends his cruel red mouth'd ferrets in,
And tragic horror end the bloody strife.
Oh guilty man who will no mercy know,
Sin-cas'd and harden'd will no pity show,
Can you a pray'r for heav'nly mercy frame
With heart so obdurate, with hands blood-
stain'd?

To lift them up o'er all the dead and maim'd,
And plead for self, what you denied the game?