Enter the price of hogs and sheepI leave with you the books to keep. P. S. To look at stock, Bless me! here's old Zin! To go with John And see for what The watch will pawn Love in short, Life is sport. C. LIGHTFOOT. LATER. TO CHIEF OF POLICE. Arrest a worse than thief, A counterfeiter in brief; Seize my cattle, sheep and hogs; Hunt up my John, My watch and dogs. P. S. I'm ready to cleave the air, On swiftest train I'll soon be there. All he's got is sure my money. His tongue is sweeter PETER ZOLMAN. AMERICA. America's vast, continual source, The picture, under eye of heaven, So multiply the things to glean. Earth's reaping time of golden grain, From bread of wheat to bread of life, 708 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. THE GRADITE'S FLIGHT. Was the friends of one he'd slain. Poor trembling mortal sought then, And prayer was in his mind then; The power to reach the refuge; For thou hast made the heaven. Just then there came a warning, ..A fool has time to spare. Shake thyself, Gradite Prepare to cleave the air. .. The crush of the sand neath foot-sole, Will cease for the harder ground; Nothing but flight will save you, Flee if you would be crowned. ..Flee from this country The home of the stranger; Flee from the plain And hill of danger; Flee from the Reubenite Flee like the Hitite, Flee by the grain fields .. Though summer of love While's thine to go." He sped for the refuge, Scarce leaving a trace; For he flew as he ran, From the very earth's face. And he puts heavy stress on the spheres as And is sure he can find the hidden north pole; His fancy will lead him where the great ocean roars, [rubies and ores. And back through the deep mines rich with In his fancied adventures he wanders afar Through the deep gloom caverns, no light, not a star; [dance, He pictures air castles where fairies may While a platoon of hobgoblins retreat and ad[ explore, He wanders through space, other worlds to Or is lost in his muse at the cataract's roar: The deep, surging billows-the reef-hidden vance. coast, The favorite haunt of the sprite and the ghost, Are his favorite resorts, and his fancy is led O'er the Alpines, and Rockies and graves of the dead. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 709 H. M. BUTLER. BORN: STRONG, ME. MR. BUTLER is the editor of the Banner, Prairie Grove, Arkansas. He was written quite a few poems which have received publication in the Banner and other local papers. THE LAZIEST MAN. The snow is on the frozen ground, Why do you sit and read, You know the stock is hungry now, You're a lazier man than Deacon Jones, And he's too lazy to work for bread, Too lazy to fish or hunt for game, But here you sit the livelong day, Or take the eggs to town. And I'll tell you, Jeff, unless you mend Your lazy ways a bit, I'll pack my duds into my trunk And back to dad I'll git. And when this war of words was o'er, Too lazy to help her pack her trunk JENNIE A. BAKER. BORN: CHERRY RUN, PA., AUG. 4, 1856. THIS lady occasionally writes verse. She still resides in the place of her nativity. IN MEMORY OF THE OLD YEAR. We have met from year to year, We have met those who are near and dear, But, we'll trust the Holy One, That we may not be cast away. MRS. EMMA C. WOOD. BORN: SOUTH BERWICK, ME., JAN. 5, 1859. THIS lady has contributed quite a few gems to the periodical press. She was married in 1881 to Rev. S. G. Wood. "GOOD-BY, PAPA." That little maid? Well, yes; you see She is the light of life to me; Her mother's very image, sir, So natural-like I cling to her. A little one, I know not strong; But still I pray God spare her long. When I leave home at early day, I hear her voice far on the way Calling, Good-by! My love, you know, Is your's, Papa, where'er you go." JAMES HENRY CROMWELL. BORN: PORTSMOUTH, VA., APRIL 10, 1867. AFTER receiving his education, James served a three-years' apprenticeship in mechanical and steam engineering, and finished a specifled two-years' course in the normal department in 1888. He then began the duties of teacher in the county of Nelson, Va. In 1889 Mr. Cromwell took up the active management of the People's Advocate, at Washington, D. C. He has always had a fondness for writing verse, and many of his poems have appeared from time to time in the press. THE INNOCENT ROSE. 710 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MRS. HELEN T. CLARK. BORN: NORTHUMBERLAND, PA., APRIL 24, '49. THIS lady has gained quite a reputation as a journalist and writer of stories. Since early childhood her productions have received publication. Her poems have appeared from time to time in the Woman's Journal, Wide Awake, Frank Leslie's publications, and the periodical press generally. Mrs. Clark was teacher in Florence, Mass., in 1885 and 1886, and worked for awhile in the office of the Good Cheer. She has three children- two boys and a girl; and the eldest is now at Harvard. FOOTPRINTS. Across the day, across the night- MIRAGE. I journeyed on strange roads with eager pace, Back to my own eyes from the one true face. twine 'Round my impatient feet - and still no sign Did Heaven vouchsafe that my strained eyes could trace. One day upon the desert's treeless rim A sudden vision flamed - and solemn - slow The oft-imagined whisper thrilled. Behold!" I raised my offering - stood erect of limb, And glad of heart! a mocking laugh- and lo! The greedy sands had drunk my drop of gold! CHARLES CHASE LORD. BORN: SOUTH BERWICK, ME., JULY 7, 1841. AFTER receiving his education Charles devoted himself to the christian ministry, but not finding that vocation congenial, he has mainly given his time to journalistic and literary pursuits. The poems from the pen of this writer cover a wide range of subjects, and have received recognition in the leading periodicals of America. Mr. Lord has for many years resided at Hopkinton, N. H., where he is now engaged in compiling a local history. UNDER THE STARS. Look up, sweet friend, the silent orbs behold, ¦ The restless eyes that watched in other years Each mortal step, and to sages told The secret end, of anxious hopes and fears. Day droops in shadows, but the faithful night [eyes Smiles on the sleeping world and lures our With cheerful gleams of ever present light, Like life that tastes of death but never dies. Thought glooms for fate, but love's bright star imparts A message like the mystic word of old; Above earth's dark, it beams to tell our hearts, Ye beat through time and change and ne'er grow cold. JOHN W.OVERALL. BORN: SHENANDOAH, VA. AT an early age John W. Overall went to the southwest, where he was educated; studied law under Governor Tucker, of Mississippi; practiced in Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana,-part of the time being engaged in journalistic work. He became editor of the New Orleans Daily Creole, Daily Delta, Daily True Delta, prior to the war; was connected as a writer with the Richmond Examiner, and was editor of the Southern Punch and Army Argus and Crisis during a part of the war period; editor of the New Orleans South after the war; editor of the Galveston, (Tex.) Commercial, and literary editor of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. Going to New York he became the literary editor and leading writer, political and miscellaneous, on the Sunday Mercury, of which over a hundred thousand copies are now circulated and which dates to the year 1839 as the commencement of its existence. He has held this position for over fourteen years. Mr. Overall is a typical journalist - his political editorials are strong, logical and incisive, and on other subjects he becomes brilliant, tender and poetical. The best of critics give him the palm for originality and comprehensiveness. His poetic profusions first appeared in the Mobile Tribune, Graham's Magazine, and the New York Home marked success. Mr. Overall lives in Harlem. UNDER THE ELMS. And the Percy's quivering lance. [yours, Your soul sought mine and mine sought Though our lineage differed so! You of the land of the Troubadours And I of the land of the snow. "Tis the soothing hands that come and go In the hours of grim despair! 'Tis a soul we need as a fellow soul, As the thirsty earth the flood, That makes men brothers from pole to pole, And not their birth or blood! Brother now blest with the glory of God, All of your mortal is under the sod Under the grand old robust trees Watching the splendor of light And it dies away with the autumn breeze |