HENRY FAUNTLEROY.

BORN: SALEM, VA., JAN. 2, 1820. COMMENCING to write at the age of twentythree, the productions of this gentleman have since that time appeared in the leading magazines of America, from which they have been extensively copied by the local press. In 1883 Mr. Fauntleroy published a novel entitled Who's to Blame? which received a fair circu

HENRY FAUNTLEROY.

lation. Mr. Fauntleroy has also had quite a little experience on the lecture platform. He has held several important public positions. Though defrauded of some fifty thousand dollars in the lumber business in Chicago, he still has a handsome independent fortune, and lives a quiet and secluded life in the city of Chicago.

FORTUNE.

A boy pursued a golden butterfly
With gaze intense, and upward kept his eye;
With eager hope he ran, as in a spell,
Unmindful of his steps, he tripped and fell.
Another boy took up the luring chase,
More cautious he, and downward turned his
face

To pick his way, lest he might also trip;
The fly, by sudden turn, gave him the slip.
And still another boy pursued the prize;
Now up, now down, with skill he cast his
eyes,

And even race maintained, so when to rest
The fly alit, he clasped it to his breast.

So Fortune turns on all her golden smiles;
Those over-sanguine tangle in her wiles,
And those too cautious miss their chance for
care,

But wise of means to ends "her prizes bear.

MY DEAR WIFE.

Thy ministering skill, with constant, saving That poverty's soul-crushing trial

Bow not the objects of thy Christian prayer. Thy fashion is thy standard virtue;

Thy jewels blazen in thy children's minds; Thy reign is where no hearts desert you, Enthroned where home-love every subject binds.

Vain slaves of fashion may not know thee; But theirs the loss - for virtuous minds like thine

Illume the world with moral glory:
As vestal beacons they forever shine.
Oh! what despair, what woe forever,
Would close around my happy manhood's
years,

Should Fate our lives and spirits sever,

And leave me lone to darkness and to tears. Kind Heaven! so crown thy constant blessing That, when the calls of Duty and of Earth are done,

Our souls in spirit love caressing,

In death may surely, as in life, be one.

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 heart'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,

1

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.

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 O 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.

MARIA AUGUSTA AGUR. BORN: ARLINGTON, MASS., FEB. 15, 1836. EMIGRATING to Wisconsin from the east in 1853 with her parents, Miss Agur lived on the prairies until 1866, when she removed to Darlington in the same state. In 1876 she gave her first poem to the public. From the death of her father she took care of her aged mother until 1882, at which time Miss Agur became insane, and a year thereafter her mother died. Although her case of melancholia dementia

MARIA AUGUSTA AGUR. was considered a hopeless one, she was discharged as cured in 1888, but the following year she again returned to the Mendota State Asylum, and it is hoped she will now receive a complete cure in a short time. The poems of Miss Agur have been well received, and it is hoped that a collected volume of her productions will receive publication at no distant date.

WHERE ARE THE ORIOLES?

'Tis the first snow; it tells that winter's near; Above, below, and all around seems drear; The patient kine, e'en, low their discontent, The dripping landscape, frowns a grim con

sent.

Mournfully coo the pigeons from their shed, Dreading, yet hardly knowing what they dread! Casting my eye above, behold I see

A high-swung nest, on yonder maple tree!

With cunning woven threads, 'tis caught and twined

Upon the bough, and on the autumn wind
It tosses to and fro, mayhap in glee,-
Mayhap 'tis angry-struggling to be free!
Forsaken dwelling! wilt thou tell me where
Are thy sweet builders, who with busy care
Thatched thee within, without and all around,
Then hung thee high above the dangerous
ground?

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

fled?

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,
And love to think of downy bosoms pressed
Against its russet sides, and hair-lined floor,--
I dream the joyous birds will come once more.

ARBOR VITÆ.

Canst thou not tell me how my mother sleeps? Does she not come when the bright stars of

even

Light all their lamps to gild each cloud that weeps

Pure crystal teardrops from the fount of Heaven?

When busy sounds die out, and hushed is mirth,

Does she not come again to bless the Earth? Did she not send a chalice filled with hope, That I no more should shed regretful tears? No more in dark uncertainty should grope Along the way of overclouded years? Did she not waft upon thy spicy breath

A loving kiss, from her pale realm of death?

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THE SNOW STORM.

How purely beautiful the morning snow!
Falling on field,and lake, and woodland glen
Flying in air, a whirling, feathery flow,
And covering the haunts of busy men.
With kindly pity, hiding from the cold,

The plants, and shrubs washed bare by last night's rain,

Wrapping within its fleecy blanket's fold, The grasses sleeping on the wind-swept plain,

Searching in all the crannies far and near, The footsteps of the stinging blast to stay, Lighting anon, upon the branches sere, Then flirting with the restless air away, Chasing the shivering herd into the fold,

Binding the tree-tops with a downy wreath, How soon 'twill sink when Winter's chain of cold,

Breaks 'neath sweet Spring's all-wooing, balmy breath?

Each flake, pure, sparkling water, will distill!
Rushing in glee to join the rolling tide;
Or lend its shining drop to swell the rill,
That tumbles from the rugged mountain-
side.

TO A FRIEND.

These silver threads, are my sweet mother's

hair!

I kiss them fondly - O! that sacred head, On which they shone, above a brow most fair, Now molders 'neath the flowers, among the dead!

Dost thou remember her, as there she sat, Plying her needle with the busiest skill, While on her many-worn foot the old house

cat

Nestled his head - slumbering the while at will?

Say! dost remember all I've said- and more? Or are these picture fancies of the brain?" O haste dear friend! my trembling heart assure!

Tell me my yearning love is not all vain!

A REMINISCENCE.
So long ago.
How years have rolled
Since first my love and me
Happy, together slowly strolled
Across the flowery lea:

The sun low sinking in the west,
His fading beams our brows caressed.

So gently did the eve descend
Upon the peaceful scene,

Her shadows with the daylight blend
With naught to intervene.

We heeded not that day was dead.
Till night with sables decked her head.

Nature her jewel case unclosed, Pearls fringed the ambient air, While gorgous diamonds flashed and posed Amid the flowerets fair;

And gold and emeralds intertwined, The earth's low forehead sought to bind. The evening wind thro' fragrant bowers Played idly hide and seek,

Or whispered to the sleeping flowers In accents soft and meek;

Then hunted in his leafy lair,

The restless night-bird twittering there. The radiant moon her lamp unveiled To light the flowery lea,

Serenely smiled; then onward sailed Toward the distant sea:

But kindly flung her radiance back To pave for Love a shining track. How blest were we! Our souls were thrilled Old love-songs born anew;

They floated over hills and dells.

And swooped to kiss the heather bells.

MRS. ESTHER M. SLAYTON. BORN: MARENGO, MICH., OCT. 7, 1852. IN 1873 this lady was married to W. P. Slayton, a stock farmer; she resides in Marshall, in her native state. Mrs. Slayton's poems have appeared in the local papers.

BABY'S FIRST WORDS.
She was a cunning child so fair,
With dimpled face, and golden hair
And pretty, loving, baby ways,

I think that sumbeam's brightest rays,
Could scarcely cast a light more sweet,
Than did the coming of her feet.
And so we called her name. Irene,"
Because we said 'twas plainly seen
That as the name interpreted
Meant. Graceful," so by peace she led
And held us captives at her will,
Each eager to her mandates fill.
Her happiness seemed quite complete
When grandpa" brought a doll, so neat
She took it:- turned it o'er and o'er,
Seemed more surprised than e'er before.
She stood so still she scarcely breathed,
At last her face with smiles she wreathed.
And standing on a little mat
She said her first sweet words

ALONE.

Alone, upon the shores of time,

I seem to stand to-day,

[that?" what's

Dashing so cold, life's wild waves climb Higher before my way;

And turning I find the treacherous tide Has hemmed me in on every side.

ALEXANDER R. FULTON.

BORN: 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 hundred pages, entitled Red Men of Iowa, and has also written a number of smaller books and pamphlets of a historical character. For

ALEXANDER R. FULTON. about twelve years Mr. Fulton was connected with the Western Newspaper Union at Des Moines as editor of ready-print sheets, and is still so engaged. This writer has contributed from time to time numerous poems of merit to the periodical press. Mr. Fulton is president of the Des Moines Academy of Science.

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,

Nor human skill the scourge control, So fate's decree may intervene, And mar the beauty of some soul.

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.

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,