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Enter the price of hogs and sheepI leave with you the books to keep.

P. S.

To look at stock,
I'll come next fall;
Don't think to sell,
I'll take them all.

Bless me! here's old Zin!
For all you shipped
Have got the tin.
Am ready now

To go with John

And see for what

The watch will pawn

Love in short,

Life is sport.

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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
Than butter and honey.

PETER ZOLMAN.

AMERICA.

America's vast, continual source,
Guides the world's great business force;
Her wealth in minerals, and stores of grain,
Excites the weak, and strong, of brain.

The picture, under eye of heaven,
Adds source to God, for what he's given;
As multiply the millions seen,

So multiply the things to glean.

Earth's reaping time of golden grain,
Renews the love of God again;
And thankful heart rejoices day,
And gladness feels the sown way.

From bread of wheat to bread of life,
Calls he the reaper from the strife;
And welcome hand extends a boon,
Before the man has reached his noon.
The scene, resulting from the soil,
Rewards the heart for all its moil.
Happy American; Thy loved of lot
Has found, of earth, the sunny spot.

708

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

THE GRADITE'S FLIGHT.
The Gradite trembled with terror,
When he looked out on the plain,
And saw the host a coming

Was the friends of one he'd slain.
And he felt himself so lonely
In a far off-land from home,
As he thought of a city of refuge,
As death-like on they come.
His gaze was loosing a moment
To the coming wheel of time;
And following like the shadows,
Was lengthing out the line;
As the swifter of pursuers,
Were leaving some behind.
And why their tread was deadly,
Was torture to his mind;

Poor trembling mortal sought then,
A way his life to find.

And prayer was in his mind then;
O Lord, to me be given,

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
Or blood avenger.
..Flee past thy own home
And the coming to meet,
The wife of thy bosom,
Or child of thy feet.

Flee like the Hitite,
Flee like the fleet.

Flee by the grain fields
And haunts when a boy;
The nature and sunshine,
Serving decoy.

.. Though summer of love
Be banished for snow;
Better thou flee,

While's thine to go."
Catching sight of his life
Weighed in the scales,
Of the all-lost hope,
Of the dismal wails,

He sped for the refuge,

Scarce leaving a trace; For he flew as he ran,

From the very earth's face.

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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,
The wind blows fierce and cold,
And Jeff is waiting by the fire
To receive his morning scold.
O, Jeff, Jeff, you lazy brute,

Why do you sit and read,

You know the stock is hungry now,
Why don't you go and feed?
You lazy cuss, will nothing do,
But sit and read all day;

You're a lazier man than Deacon Jones,
So all the neighbors say.

And he's too lazy to work for bread,
Too lazy to beg or steal,

Too lazy to fish or hunt for game,
Or the joys of life to feel.

But here you sit the livelong day,
Too lazy to laugh or frown;
Too lazy to read aloud to me,

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,
His favorite pipe he lit,

Too lazy to help her pack her trunk
Or help her off a bit.

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.
The last day of the year will soon be past;
Soon the new year will begin;
Soon our days on earth will all be past,
And we shall meet no more in spring.

We have met from year to year,
While sojourning here below;

We have met those who are near and dear,
And parted from those we love.
We hope to meet in years to come,
Tho' many of us be far away;

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.

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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-
Like countless doves in silent flight,
Floats down the feathery, stainless white.
Unbroken gleams a moment's space
Without a touch, without a trace-
Too soon to dark despoil gives place.
The mire of wheels, the haste of feet
Gray toil at silvery dawn to meet,--
The thousand soilings of the street,
Oh, thousand ways the footprints lead!
To shame and dole, to gloom and greed,
To joy, and hope and Christly deed.
The whiteness, caught by smirching clay,
In secret mode, in destined day,
Back to pure snow shall find its way.
The footprints lost in doubt and crime,
In love's own way, in love's own time,
Shall leave the clinging slough and slime.
And up the steeps of good be set,
Oh, help, ye loftier souls, nor let
One longed-for word, withheld as yet,
Die on your lips!-one reach of hand,
From sunlit levels where ye stand,
Fail the spent strength at love's demand!

MIRAGE.

I journeyed on strange roads with eager pace,
Bearing a flask of priceless, perfect wine-
Seeking the one true soul whose thought
should shine

Back to my own eyes from the one true face.
I stumbled wearily in many a place--
Keen briers tore me, clinging weeds did

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.

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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.
Under the giant elms we walked
In the cool of each summer day,
Under the breezy elms we talked
Of a grove in the Far Away.
In the Far Away of the Glory Land
Where the love-wave rolls and whelms;
Ah! I almost see a beckoning hand
While pausing under the elms.
Oh, brother, gone to the world adored,
Yours was the blood of France,
Mine of the clime of the Douglas sword

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
Through the tangled skeins of hair;
"Tis the tender look when we crave it so

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,
Forever to dwell in His realms,

All of your mortal is under the sod
And I am still under the elms!

Under the grand old robust trees

Watching the splendor of light

And it dies away with the autumn breeze
And lights the lamps of the night.

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