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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.
extensively copied by the local press. In 1883
Mr. Fauntleroy published a novel entitled
Who's to Blame? which received a fair circu-

MY DEAR WIFE.
May morning, noon, and evening bless thee –

Thy moments cluster into happy hours —
And weeks, and months, and years impress

thee,
As gathering dews upon the downy flowers.
May passing Time, with gentlest finger,
But chasten with a hallowed touch thy

brow,
And Beauty's grace about thee linger (now.

Through lapse of many years, to charm as
As flowers sunward bend in blooming,
And bow caressing o'er the fresh’ning

brooks,
I turn to thee for life's illuming,

And drink my being from thy tender looks.
Through years of trial, and cold desertion,
And wrong that makes the ardent soul its

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

binds. Chicago.

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;
With gaze intense, and upward kept his eye; As vestal beacons they forever shine.
With eager hope he ran, as in a spell,

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.

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I clasp thy picture to my breast

My eyes its beauties trace;
But in my soul thy image pressed

Has all thy living grace.
Dear spirit-wife, sweet love, my friend,

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.

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ISABELLA.
O tell me not she's dead; she lives,

I am more dead than she:
'Tis death that here her life survives -

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.
I wildly call her dear, sweet name,

And list to hear her speak;
But Silence locks her moveless frame,

And peace seals brow and cheek.
O she's not here; she's gone – she's gone,

Her soul, her life, her love,
That once this casket's jewels shone,

Now drink God's light above.
But 0 in darkness here I grope,

In lonely walks obscure;
No more shines out Life's star of Hope

To make my footsteps sure.
I stretch my empty arms in vain,

And call my other self:
No form, no voice comes back again

But Echo's, mocking elf.
Yet know I, in my anguish keen,

That still my life thou art;
I feel thy presence, like unseen,

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.
How brightly the sun shines?

It makes me feel gay,
For the rain has been falling

All this long, dreary day.
It seems that dame Nature

Is smiling again
To amend for the woe

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

at last.

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

ground?
insane, and a year thereafter her mother died.
Although her ease of melancholia dementia

O wanton wind! swift moving overhead,
Wilt thon not tell me, where the birds have

fied?
The birds that came to us in budding May,
And cheered us thro' the summer's fervid

day?
All-powerful sun! coquetting with the mist,
In some fair sunny clime hast thou not kist
A wealth of foliage, where is hid away
Another nest, like that one o'er the way!
O friendly moon! come with the fall of night,
And light the path the songsters winged their

flight,
Tell where thine ears have heard them on their

nest,
Lulling with twittering song their babes to

rest!
O army of bright stars! in deeps of night,
Have ye awakened them with twinkling light?
Then watched in hiding thro' the roof of

leaves,
So gently lifted by the southern breeze?
Can no one tell me if they flit and sing,
In balmy climes where cypress fringes swing?
Where 'mid dark orange groves gleam globes

of fire,
And summer's verdant footsteps never tire?

Ah! none will tell me; still I see the nest,
MARIA AUGUSTA AGUR.

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.

weeps

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?

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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,
Wrapping within its fleecy blanket's fold, Or whispered to the sleeping flowers
The grasses sleeping on the wind-swept | In accents soft and meek;
plain,

Then hunted in his leafy lair,
Searching in all the crannies far and near,

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.
On which they shone, above a brow most fair,
Now molders 'neath the flowers, among the

She was a cunning child so fair,
dead!

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.
A REMINISCENCE.

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.

cat

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?
'Mid semblances of joy, and mirth,

There often lurks a secret grief;
The things men deem of priceless worth,

May fail to bring the soul relief.
We might not envy some who flaunt

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.

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ANTHRACITE.
Back in the misty ages past,

There grew a forest by the sea,
Which o'er the land dark shadows cast,

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.

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