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HENRY FAUNTLEROY. And even race maintained, so when to rest BORN: SALEM, VA., JAN. 2, 1820.
The fly alit, he clasped it to his breast.
So Fortune turns on all her golden smiles; CONVENCING to write at the age of twenty
Those over-sanguine tangle in her wiles, three, the productions of this gentleman have
And those too cautious miss their chance for since that time appeared in the leading maga
care, zines of America, from which they have been
But wise of means to ends" her prizes bear.
MY DEAR WIFE.
Thy moments cluster into happy hours —
Through lapse of many years, to charm as
And drink my being from thy tender looks.
prey, Thy pure love foiled the world's aspersion, And closest clung when darkest grew the
day. Ah! sorrows rouse the heart's best feelings,
While fortune tends to foster selfish pride: Our mutual griefs, to each appealing,
In tend'rest sympathy our souls have tied. All praise for thy meek self-denial, (care,
Thy ministering skill, with constant, saving HENRY FAUNTLEROY
That poverty's soul-crushing trial lation. Mr. Fauntleroy has also had quite a
Bow not the objects of thy Christian prayer. little experience on the lecture platform. He
Thy fashion is thy standard virtue; has held several important public positions. Though defrauded of some fifty thousand dol
Thy jewels blazen in thy children's minds;
Thy reign is where no hearts desert you, lars in the lumber business in Chicago, he still has a handsome independent fortune, and
Enthroned where home-love every subject lives a quiet and secluded life in the city of
Vain slaves of fashion may not know thee;
But theirs the loss – for virtuous minds like FORTUNE.
thine A boy pursued a golden butterfly
Illume the world with moral glory;
Oh! what despair, what woe forever, ['nmindful of his steps, be tripped and fell. Would close around my happy manhood's Another boy took up the luring chase,
years, More cautious he, and downward turned his Should Fate our lives and spirits sever, face
And leave me lone to darkness and to tears. To pick his way, lest he might also trip;
Kind Heaven! so crown thy constant blessing The fly, by sudden turn, gave him the slip.
That, when the calls of Duty and of Earth And still another boy pursued the prize;
are done, Now up, now down, with skill he cast his | Our souls in spirit love caressing, eyes,
In death may surely, as in life, be one.
I clasp thy picture to my breast
My eyes its beauties trace;
Has all thy living grace.
As Nature's yearnings mourn; Come, lead me to Life's joyous end,
For where thou art 's my bourn.
YES, AND NO. Dear lady, let thy lips say Yes, Consent's sweet word my soul to bless, Wreathing with smiles thy sunny face, And charming all hearts with thy grace. Distort not face and mouth with No, That blights my life with hopeless woe That chills thy own beart's happy springs, And shadows all bright earthly things. 'Twas Yes God spoke, when angels saw The universe leap into law Saw light and life, and love, and bloom, Consorting, press the world for room. No was but chaos, when no form Could gather, and no heat could warm The empty void and boundless cold, The nothingness, that naught could mold. Then, lady, speak that magic word, That brings creation in accord, Let No not jar, divide, distress, But hearts with love melt into Yes.
I am more dead than she:
Her life 's by death set free. O free from tears, from pain, from wrong.
To walk the golden street, Mid joys where with the ransomed throng
Their blessed Savior greet; Where mother clasps her long-mourned son
In never-ending bliss; Where Faith's triumphant crown is won:
That, that is life – not this. Yes, cold her lips I madly kiss;
Her bosom knows no thrill: Affection's warm response I miss
From heart and hands now still.
And list to hear her speak;
And peace seals brow and cheek.
Her soul, her life, her love,
Now drink God's light above.
In lonely walks obscure;
To make my footsteps sure.
And call my other self:
But Echo's, mocking elf.
That still my life thou art;
Soft beatings of my heart.
HATTIE M. BROWN. the county papers from time to time. She is the daughter of a farmer, and teaches school.
AFTER THE RAIN.
It makes me feel gay,
All this long, dreary day.
Is smiling again
She has brought on by rain. And I think as I watch the clouds sailing by.
(sigh, So will each sorrow, each grief and each Fade one by one as life's journey is past, And the beautiful sunshine will triumph
MARIA AUGUSTA AGUR. With cunning woven threads, 'tis caught and
twined BORN: ARLINGTOX, Mass., FEB. 15, 1836.
Upon the bough, and on the autumn wind EMIGRATING to Wisconsin from the east in 1853
It tosses to and fro, mayhap in glee,with her parents, Miss Agur lived on the prai
Maybap 'tis angry – struggling to be free! ries until 1866, when she removed to Darling.
Forsaken dwelling! wilt thou tell me where ton in the same state. In 1876 she gave her
Are thy sweet builders, who with busy care first poem to the public. From the death of
Thatched thee within, without and all around, her father she took care of her aged mother
Then hung thee high above the dangerous until 1882, at which time Miss Agur became
O wanton wind! swift moving overhead,
Ah! none will tell me; still I see the nest,
And love to think of downy bosoms pressed was considered a hopeless one, she was dis
Against its russet sides, and bair-lined floor,-charged as cured in 1888, but the following
I dream the joyous birds will come once more. year she again returned to the Mendota State Asylum, and it is hoped she will now receive
ARBOR VITA a complete cure in a short time. The poems
Canst thou not tell me how my mother sleeps? of Miss Agur have been well received, and it
Does she not come when the bright stars of is hoped that a collected volume of her pro
eren ductions will receive publication at no distant Light all their lamps to gild each cloud that date.
Pure crystal teardrops from the fount of WHERE ARE THE ORIOLES?
Heaven? 'Tis the first snow; it tells that winter's near; | When busy sounds die out, and hushed is Above, below, and all around seems drear;
mirth, The patient kine, e'en, low their discontent, Does she not come again to bless the Earth? The dripping landscape, frowns a grim con- Did she not send a chalice filled with hope, sent.
That I no more should shed regretful tears? Mournfully coo the pigeons from their shed, I No more in dark uncertainty should grope Dreading, yet hardlyknowing what they dread! | Along the way of overclouded years? Casting my eye above, behold I see
Did she not waft upon thy spicy breath A high-swung nest, on yonder maple tree! A loving kiss, from her pale realm of death?
THE SNOW STORM.
Nature her jewel case unclosed, How purely beautiful the morning snow! Pearls fringed the ambient air,
Falling on field,and lake, and woodland glen While gorgous diamonds flashed and posed Flying in air, a whirling, feathery flow,
Amid the flowerets fair; And covering the haunts of busy men.
And gold and emeralds intertwined, With kindly pity, hiding from the cold,
The earth's low forehead sought to bind. The plants, and shrubs washed bare by last The evening wind thro' fragrant bowers night's rain,
Played idly bide and seek,
Then hunted in his leafy lair,
The restless night-bird twittering there. The footsteps of the stinging blast to stay, The radiant moon her lamp unveiled Lighting anon, upon the branches sere,
To light the flowery lea, Then flirting with the restless air away,
Serenely smiled; then onward sailed Chasing the shivering herd into the fold,
Toward the distant sea: Binding the tree-tops with a downy wreath,
But kindly flung her radiance back How soon 'twill sink when Winter's chain of
To pave for Love a shining track. cold,
How blest were we! Our souls were thrilled Breaks 'neath sweet Spring's all-wooing, bal- | Old love-songs born anew; my breath?
They floated over hills and dells. Each flake, pure, sparkling water, will distill!
And swooped to kiss the heather bells. Rushing in glee to join the rolling tide; Or lend its shining drop to swell the rill, MRS. ESTHER M. SLAYTON. That tumbles from the rugged mountain
BORN: MARENGO, Mich., OCT. 7, 1852. side.
In 1873 this lady was married to W. P. Slayton, TO A FRIEND.
a stock farmer; she resides in Marshall, in These silver threads, are my sweet mother's
her native state. Mrs. Slayton's poems have hair!
appeared in the local papers. I kiss them fondly - 0! that sacred head,
BABY'S FIRST WORDS.
She was a cunning child so fair,
With dimpled face, and golden hair
And pretty, loving, baby ways, Dost thou remember her, as there she sat,
I think that sumbeam's brightest rays, Plying her needle with the busiest skill,
Could scarcely cast a light more sweet, While on her many-worn foot the old house
Than did the coming of her feet. Nestled his head - slumbering the while at
And so we called her name . Irene,"
Because we said 'twas plainly seen will?
That as the name interpreted Say! dost remember all I've said - and more?
Meant - Graceful," so by peace she led Or are these picture fancies of the brain?"
And held us captives at her will, O haste dear friend! my trembling heart as Each eager to her mandates fill. sure!
Her happiness seemed quite complete Tell me my yearning love is not all vain!
When grandpa " brought a doll, so neat
She took it;-- turned it o'er and o'er.
Seemed more surprised than e'er before. So long ago. How years have rolled
She stood so still she scarcely breathed, Since first my love and me
At last her face with smiles she wreathed. Happy, together slowly strolled
And standing on a little mat (that?" Across the flowery lea:
She said her first sweet words - what's The sun low sinking in the west, His fading beams our brows caressed.
ALONE So gently did the eve descend
Alone, upon the shores of time, Upon the peaceful scene,
I seem to stand to-day, Her shadows with the daylight blend
Dashing so cold, life's wild waves climb With naught to intervene.
Higher before my way; We heeded not that day was dead,
And turning I find the treacherous tide Till night with sables decked her head. I Has hemmed me in on every side.
ALEXANDER R. FULTON.
Bors: Ross Co., Ohio, OCT. 11, 1825. MR. FULTON has been representative in the Iowa legislature, and has held numerous other important official positions at various times. In 1882 he published a volume of five bundred pages, entitled Red Men of Iowa, and has also written a number of smaller books and pamphlets of a historical character. For
Could we behold, and feel no pain
For those who drink life's cup of gall, Or pass such by, in cold disdain,
If we could only know it all?
There often lurks a secret grief;
May fail to bring the soul relief.
Rich purple robes in gilded hall, And yet for something, pine in want,
If we could only know it ail. "Tis well that we this truth should learn
That under rags true hearts may beat, While clothed in silks, we oft discern
Base envy, falsehood, and deceit. Not all who pose in dazzling hue
'Neath gilded domes, and steeples tall, Might prove at heart, gilt-edged, and true,
If we could only know it all. While modest worth, unknown may plod –
Its pathway strewn with noble deeds Rank arrogance may only nod,
And all the world applauding heeds. Mere rank of birth no merit brings,
But lords there are with trappings small, Who may not tread in courts of kings,
If we could only know it all.
There grew a forest by the sea,
And shelter'd snail-like mollusks free. Late, passing from chaotic time,
This orb unfitted was for man; Strange creatures burrow'd in the slime
That marred its yet unfinished plan. But not in vain that forest grew
By steamy sea, or warm lagoon; From beams of ancient suns it drew
For coming time a needed boon. Then rose the floods and cover'd deep
That old-time forest from the light; Now, after æons vast of sleep,
Behold it in the anthracite! What angry seas have surg'd and roll'd,
Exchanging places with the land, Since floods swept down that forest old,
Entombing it 'neath beds of sand! There, in each tissue, stem, and frond,
Were seal'd the latent light and heat, Till, in the ages long beyond,
The world for man should be complete! Releas'd now from its darksome bed
By force of sturdy miner's blow, It gives to man the sunbeams, shed
Perchance a million years ago! There, in that grate of anthracite,
IF WE COULD KNOW. O fortune-favored heirs of pride,
Who feel no daily round of care, Ye little know what ills betide
The poor, or how the lowly fare. O wonder not, that soon or late,
Some, fainting in the struggle fall; Our hearts might pity, more than hate,
If we could only know it all. As pestilence may come unseen,
Xor human skill the scourge control, So fate's decree may intervene,
And mar the beauty of some soul.