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SARAH E. PULVER MCLEAN.

SIDNEY MCLEAN.

BORN: WATERLOO, N. Y., JUNE 26, 1854. SIDNEY MCLEAN commenced writing at the age of eighteen, and has contributed largely to the local press and leading periodicals of

SARAH E. PULVER MC LEAN.

the country. Aside from her literary efforts she also follows the profession of music teacher in Rochester, N. Y., where she now resides.

MY LOVER.

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What if my lover be dark, or fair-
I have no wish; I do not care-
If only his manly, honest face
Shows in each feature an inward grace.
What if my lover be tall, or slight —
I do not care, if only his sight
Be lifted above earth's sordid care
To see God's handiwork, true and fair.
What if my lover be poor, or rich
To me it makes no difference which,
If only his heart be stanch and true,
His hand will lead me safely through.
What if my lover be famous, or no-
Fame may fade, or perchance may grow;
If he comes to me, his manhood clear
From the stain of sin, I will not fear.
Somewhere he tarries and waits for me
Sometime his face I shall surely see.
For I shall know when my king I meet,
My soul will rise and his coming greet.

THE MASQUE.

Oh! the faces, faces, faces

Faces young and faces fair;
Faces smooth from lives of ease, and
Faces seamed by toil and care.

I stood upon a busy street

They passed me to and fro

Masques are they, thought I, and cover

The life that lies below.

Once in awhile, but rare, there passed,

A face so marred by sin,

That all the baseness stood revealed

No need to look within.

And standing there, this queer thought

came

Suppose that now and here

The masque of flesh should fall, and souls Stand forth distinct and clear."

E'en as I thought, lo! it was done,

I started with affright;

All suddenly they stood, and were

As air is, thin and light.

But what a change! that woman's face,

So beautiful before,

Had lost its charm, for mark of Cain

She on the forehead bore.

And each sad feature of her soul,

Was hurt, and bore a scar;

The blood of innocents was there,

Its perfectness to mar.

And over there had been a form
Manly and full of grace,

His soul a very pigmy was,

And what a sin-scarred face.

But one, was he of that long line,
Who choose with sin to bide,
Content to follow fleshly lust,

And seek no other guide?

But there were some who walked beside,
Whose souls were pure and white,
And each of these on forehead had
A cross of dazzling light.

And thus they were, the bad and good,
Mixed as they went along-

But this I saw - the best of masques
To blackest souls belong.

I looked and looked till heart and brain.
Filled with such bitter pain,

That in an agony I cried,

..Oh, masque them all again!"

I drew a deep sigh of relief,
As each its flesh resumed,
The faces smiled and were so bright,
Their darkness not illumed.
And still the crowd went surging by,
Each had his cross to bear,
Which I saw not, and thanked my God
We bad a mask to wear.

X

CHARLES RIEF.

BORN IN GERMANY, NOV. 13, 1842.

Mr. RIEF's career has been an eventful one,

having been around the world twice, and is

CHARLES RIEF.

now visiting Palestine. He has been county representative and also county clerk at Grand Island, Neb., where he now resides.

THE SNOW STORM.

Hazy in the northern skies,

Doth a dark-grey storm-cloud rise;
Now a lull, anon a gust
Playing free, in sportive lust,
Intermixed with dust and snow;
Driven quickly to-and-fro.
Whirling round-
Onward bound;

With a hollow moaning sound,
And an icy arctic sting

Comes the storm-the snow crowned king.
Beast with instinct, man with brains,
Dread the stormy king of the plains,
In his snow-fed track they come
Each one striving for a home;
Man walks, blinded on his route,
Whilst the beast will roam about.

Till at last

They are cast,

Down before the winter's blast:
One to die, one to be blest
Yonder with celestial rest!
See the fragrant cedar tree-

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ISLAND OF

Hark! storm-tossed land, isle of the sea,
Field of the geysers, seat of Thor,
Restore again to memory

The runes, within thy ice-bound shore,
And sagas of the ancient skald.

Heims kringle" as by Sturleson told,
Reclaim thy former liberty,

And set thy sons and daughters free!
O cold and arctic wonderland,
With slumbering jo-kuls glacier-crowned,
Brought forth from Neptune's aqueous
And Titan's forces upward bound [hand,
Child of the wave, yet born by fire!

Thy eddas ever will inspire.
Produce the legends of the sea,
And chant the songs of liberty.

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The Midgard" serpent is asleep,
Reposing, in the ocean's "bed;
Old Kraken" rests within the deep,
Still twilight of the gods" gleam yet.
Let Frigga's son from Hecla's dome,
Again command the Norse, to roam
For liberty, from Vinland's shore,
Where first the Vikings freedom bore.
Stern Skaptar, in his fog-bound clime,
With Vatna's heads spread gloom about;
Volcanic peers, that rule sublime;
(When Strokr may be coaxed to spout)
Such wars, of fire, and frost, and snow,
With streams, that hot from geysers flow,
Proclaim, that fire-born energy
Is incubating liberty.

Behold the Logberg of Thingwolls

Where clear and dark-green water flows;
In secret streams, from far joculs,
Close by the ancient". Mount of Laws,"
Here on the rugged lava floor,

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The Althing" met in days of yore;
When Leif stood with his bark to sea,
For Bjarnes "-Land of Liberty.
King Olaf's Christian tidal wave,
Submerged the northern pagan claim,
At that time when a chieftain brave
In council mocked God Odin's claim.
When sagas pure and elegant
From Frode's and from Snorre's hand
Told of thy jarls, the brave and free,
Then Iceland cradled liberty.
Awake once more from lethargy,
Float the white falcon to the breeze;
Unfurl the blue flag of the free,
Let vassalage and bondage cease!
Erect thy runic ballad's throne,
In honor of the arctic zone.
First self-rule, or autonomy
Then native free-born liberty.

ATOMIC GRAVITY, THE CAUSE OF
SOLAR SYSTEMS.

A force, designed by mystic hand
Launched, from the realms of nature's

cause;

Found in the smallest grain of sand,
And atoms, moved by inborn laws.
These laws at work, in space appear,
As gravity, the cosmic nurse,
Which governs ever, far and near,

And rules and guides the universe.
From causes, effects are displayed;
Observed wherever we may gaze.
An atom, that a cause obeyed,
Gave effect to a sun in space.
It was at the creative morn,
When atoms brought along that force
Of matter, deep within them born;
Nursed, from a life-inflating source.
Decreeing Fiat ordered light,

When chaos was upon the scene;
And from a long cimmerian night,
Did suns and worlds in space convene.
An innate force they did maintain,

By casting from a blazing throne,
The planets, which around them train,
With pristine power still their own.
Again whilst yet each planet glows,
Their crusts--cooled in an onward race---
Were hurled along, by seismic throes

In moons and asteroids through space.
So suns were with their systems thrown
In space, on spiral curves to roam,
By impulses in atoms shown;

Bound ever for a central home.
This force born by primeval laws;
A motor for eternity;
Receding and advancing cause
In the Atomic Gravity.

CHARLES ELIPHALET REED.

BORN: MOUNT JOY, PA., FEB. 28, 1867. CHARLES ELiphalet REED became principal assistant Postmaster at Mount Joy in 1880, which position he held for nearly eight years. He has contributed poems to Texas Siftings, Boston Home Journal, Philadelphia Inquirer and many other publications. Besides writing poetry, he is the author of several stories, and has also composed music.

THE FATE OF ADONIS. Deep in the forest lies Adonis, dead;

By him, his bow and spear; there, in his side, Is the fell wound the cursed boar's tusk made; His clear blue eyes, his cold white eyelids hide; Cool zephyrs fan his cheeks and kiss his hair, And mourn the sad death of a youth so fair. Now lovely Venus suddenly appears,

And by Adonis' prostrate form she falls; His white face she suffuses with her tears, And on the murderous boar dire vengeance calls;

Kisses his bloodless lips, raves, tears her hair, And groans, and wrings her hands in her despair.

At length to Pluto's realms away she speeds,
Of Ceres' stolen child a boon to crave:
That Adon be restored to life, she pleads;

Not his the flesh should feed the greedy

grave.

The goddess, sympathizing with her guest,
Inclines a gracious ear to her request.
Adon shall live again, but not alone

For Venus' sake; Elysium ill may spare So sweet a youth; Adonis, thou'rt thine own No longer, but henceforth thyself must share [sign With these two goddesses, and each year reTo Venus half, and half to Proserpine!

SUNRISE AT SEA. 'Tis dark, but in the distant eastern sky, [ing; The chill gray light of early dawn is breakNight's twinkling luminaries pale; on high, Yon fleecy cloud an orient tinge is taking. Now the long night's dark reign has neared its end; [brushing; Scarce is the breeze the slumbering ocean A rosy hue the waking East is flushing, Where seem the waters with the sky to blend. Now from the horizon carmine streaks ascend; The smooth yet ever restless sea is blushing; Now o'er its breast the golden light is rushing Far as those paths of liquid fire extend. In splendor now the sun, monarch of day, His head uprears, and sets the sea ablaze; Illumes the trackless ocean with his light; Assumes in royal state, imperial sway,

Darts o'er the sparkling waves his gorgeous And ushers in another morning bright. [rays,

CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER.

BORN: FAYETTE CO. ILL., JULY 16, 1860. ON both sides he is of German extraction. the name Phifer, Pifer, or Fifer, three generations back in the family's history spelled Pfeffer; and his mother's maiden name being Heisler. Reared on a farm until 1876, in which year his father died, Charley attended the district school; then, his mother having removed to the county capital, Vandalia, he soon after began learning the printers' trade;

CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER.

and graduated from the public schools of that city in 1880. In 1881 he became editor of the Fayette County News. Removing to California, Mo., in 1883, he started a job printing office and for nearly a year run a little sheet called Phifer's Paper, which gained quite a local reputation for humor. Selling the subscription to the paper, in 1888 he run, in connection with his job office, a campaign paper styled the Semi-Weekly Republican. He has originated several wrinkles" in printing, which were given to the craft through technical journals, and have passed into general use. Almost with the dawn of memory he manifested a liking for picture drawing; and while he yet sometimes makes sketches and even engravings (he never had any training for either), the passion for drawing seems to have merged into a passion for writing -- and

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particularly verse writing-soon after he became a student of printing. He has contributed verses, or essays, to The Current, Chicago; Day Star, New York: Republican, St. Louis; Inter Ocean, Chicago; Toledo Blade, and various religious and local papers. Mr. Phifer has published by his own hands, for circulation among his friends, several pamphlets of verse, and one five-act play, ..Zaphnath-Paaneah," in blank verse, that has been highly complimented by author and actor friends, among whom it circulated exclusively. He is preparing to issue a volume of verse-an ambitious effort of some 300 pages. Mr. Phifer is unmarried. He is five feet three and one-half inches tall, and weights one hundred and twenty pounds. His hair is dark brown; his eyes are blue.

IT CANNOT MATTER,

It cannot matter where or when
The light of life goes out with us;
For only a few years, and then
We all must end in darkness thus,
In utter darkness, thus.

From birth we draw on toward the grave,
Like arrows speeding from the bow,
And though to three-score years we live,
"Tis but a little flight, and so

The strongest are brought low.

All men are worn out then they die:
If strong, we must the longer bear;

If weak, are broken easily;

And peace must come where there is care,
The speedier solace there.

We wail when death destroys our friends,
But grieving hastens us to peace;
We die, and mourning love expends
Itself in tears, till sorrows cease,
And quickly comes release.
Peasants and monarchs side by side
Into the silent tomb shall go,
And none shall know they lived or died,
In one brief century or so --

Their lineage shall not know.

BOOGERS.

When I was a little feller, I was jiss that 'fraid
Of the Boogers, I'd jiss run

Past every tiny wee little spot of shade
That I would happen upon.

I was jiss that 'fraid the Bad Man 'u'd come,
If I had done anything wrong,

I wouldn't go out after night at all,
Ceppun my ma was along.

If Jack (he's my dog) was to bark at a tree,
My goodness! how I would jump!

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I was 'fraid 'twas the Bad Man come for me,

And my heart 'u'd go thumpity-thump. But I ain't 'fraid of the Bad Man, now

Leastwise till I get dead;

'Cause I never did see no Boogers at all,
Ceppun on Jim Smith's head.

Now honest Injun -- please tell me true,
Jiss true as ever you can:

Did ever a Booger appear to you?
Jever see the Bad Man?

I guess the folks tell a heap o' stuff
To scare us to bein' good;

But I want some fun; un' I ain't afraid
No more of the dark er the wood.

If a Booger 'u'd come, I'd jiss set Jack
On him, un I guess he'd run;

He'd leave before you could jiss say, 'Scat!
Er I'd shoot him with my gun.

I am big enough to whip 'em, I guess,
For the Boogers leave big folks be.
If my pa can stay out till eleven o'clock,
They jiss won't bother me.

A VOICE OF THE NIGHT.
When the family sit outside

On the sultry summer night,
And the frogs croak far and wide
And a dark wood bars the sight;
When the bat drops, bouncing on,
And the owl is by the mill,
And the moth in flame has flown,
Then we hear the whipporwill -
Whipporwill!

From the copse and from the hill,
Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill!
When around the beetles boom,

And mosquetos hum in smoke,
And the fireside light the gloom,
And the lightning wrinkles up;
When the evening air is full,

And the heart is calm and still, 'Mid the zephyrs sweet and cool

Comes the sound of Whipporwill, Whip

porwill!"

Ceaselessly it rings, and shrill,

Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill! Was some maid like Philome,

Lost in new Arcadian wild,
Seized by some rough deity,

Near o'erpowered and defiled,
Till, though stifled with her hair,
Kindly by Minerva heard,
She was rescued from despair,
Flying from his clutch, a bird
Whipporwill?

Through her hair gag wailing still
On her lover, Whip - poor Will!"
In the old field overgrown,

By the brook that murmurs low,
In the graveyard, on a stone,

From the dead oak just below, Like a mentor weird, or seer,

Thus the wild voice echoes shrill, Till the judgment seemeth near, Ever one word, whipporwill, Whipporwill!

'Mong the ruins will ring still, Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill!

ANGELS.

I was passing along through the woodland,
And down through the meadows where
The grass and leaves were rustling
In the cool October air-

Where the wood was lone with echoes,
And all was somber and gray
Where the hoary old alchemist, Autumn,
Blew smoke aloft like spray.

And with his incantations,

By his horoscope and art, Changed the leaves to gold and purple, Transforming every part

And I saw, all alone by the roadside Where the grass was crisp and dead. 'Mid the broken lances of frost-sprites, Where the grand onslaught had led Flowers wounded and dying,

The sweet ones and the bright; And I marveled at the mystery Wrought in the silent night.

I thought of a dear one, wounded
As the flower, and since forgot,
Who at evening had bloomed in manhood,
And by morning he was not.
Stricken and weary and troubled,

He had toiled through the summer long, And his hopes, like leaves, had withered, Clogging the channel of song.

He would rest, and so he departed,
At the close of a weary night,
Into the mystic morning

Dawning beyond the height;
And I wondered if an angel

Had not taken his soul in its flight: For he passed as if music was falling And fading away with the night.

I wonder if God does not pity

The soul that is burdened with grief, And at death send an angel from Heaven To the weary one with relief.

The angels are ever around us -

They speak in the passing breeze, They look with the eyes of flowers, They rush through the swaying trees. There is nothing mean or common; Each life has its romance fair; And the souls of the dead are around us And with us everywhere.