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JOSIAH GIBERTON ENGLISH. has had quite an extensive sale. Mr. English is a resident of Xenia, Ohio, where he is well known for his integrity and literary standing. Mr. English served in the civil war, and he has since tasted of joys and experienced sorrows by the death of loved ones.

Tattle! tattle! tattle!
Ship-sheep, hogs and cattle!
Send the money by express,
Not a single dollar less;
No other time will do as well,
Or I would not the cattle sell.
John will see the cattle through,
After which will talk with you.

z. to c. L.
Cattle, sheep and bogs arrive,
Glad to find them all alive:
Send your price for all the cattle,
Glad to make the wire rattle.
All the talk I bad with John
Was 'bout a silver watch to pawn;

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.


BORN: OSWEGO, N.Y., MARCH 30, 1829. FROM his youth Mr. Sage has occasionally written poems for the local press. He fol

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;

0! 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 fight 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.


JOHN WESLEY SAGE, lows the occupation of a farmer, and resides in Huron county, Ohio.

A POET'S IMAGINATION, On all manner of subjects a poet will write, On the stars, and the moon, and of day and of

night; He will take for subject the surging deep sea, Or will dwell at great length on the isles of Fijee

(they roll, 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 advance.

(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

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.



BORN: SOUTH BERWICK, ME., JAN. 5, 1859. MR. BUTLER is the editor of the Banner, | This lady has contributed quite a few gems Prairie Grove, Arkansas. He was written

| to the periodical press. She was married in | quite a few poems which have received pub

| 1881 to Rev. S. G. Wood. lication in the Banner and other local papers.


That little maid? Well, yes; you see

She is the light of life to me;
The snow is on the frozen ground,

Her mother's very image, sir,
The wind blows fierce and cold,

So natural-like I cling to her.
And Jeff is waiting by the fire

A little one, I know -- not strong;
To receive bis morning scold.

But still I pray God spare her long.
0, Jeff, Jeff, you lazy brute,

When I leave home at early day,
Why do you sit and read,

I hear her voice far on the way
You know the stock is hungry now, Calling, Good-by! My love, you know,
Why don't you go and feed?

Is your's, Papa, where'er you go."
You lazy cuss, will nothing do,

But sit and read all day;
You're a lazier man tban Deacon Jones, | JAMES HENRY CROMWELL.
So all the neighbors say.

And he's too lazy to work for bread, AFTER receiving his education, James served
Too lazy to beg or steal,

a three-years' apprenticeship in mechanical Too lazy to fish or hunt for game,

and steam engineering, and finished a specOr the joys of life to feel.

ified two-years' course in the normal departBut here you sit the livelong day,

ment in 1888. He then began the duties of Too lazy to laugh or frown;

teacher in the county of Nelson, Va. In 1889 Too lazy to read aloud to me,

Mr. Cromwell took up the active manageOr take the eggs to town,

ment of the People's Advocate, at WashingAnd I'll tell you, Jeff, unless you mend

ton, D. C. He has always had a fondness for

writing verse, and many of his poems have Your lazy ways a bit,

appeared from time to time in the press.
I'll pack my duds into my trunk
And back to dad I'll git.

And when this war of words was o'er,

'Twas a rose!
His favorite pipe he lit,

Its leaves were snowy white,
Too lazy to help her pack her trunk

Its fragrance gave much delight;
Or help her off a bit.

But its gift was sickening to my heart,

For it caused two friends perchance to part, JENNIE A. BAKER.

For a lengthy period in a lonely room,

Nearly as dark as a churchyard tomb.
BORN: CHERRY RUN, PA., AUG. 4, 1856. Dear rose, could it have been thy sting,
This lady occasionally writes verse. She still Reproof upon the givers fling?
resides in the place of her nativity.

- No, not I," the rose replied,
.. But only the sting of man applied.”

Thus, have I kept that innocent flower,

That was charged with possessing human The last day of the year will soon be past;

power, Soon the new year will begin;

Kept within that Holy Book, Soon our days on earth will all be past,

Oft upon it I am wont to look. And we shall meet no more in spring,

UNCONSCIOUS OF MY LOVE. We have met from year to year,

He meets and speaks, yet doesn't know While sojourning here below;

My heart is set with throbs aglow, We have met those who are near and dear,

My soul and life enraptured flow And parted from those we love.

With mingled hopes, and joys and woes. We hope to meet in years to come,

Can't he see within mine eyes, Tho' many of us be far away;

That I would be his captive prize, But, we'll trust the Holy One,

That I would humbly be his star, That we may not be cast away.

If in return his love he gave.

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.

CHARLES CHASE LORD. BORN: SOUTH BERWICK, ME., JULY 7, 1841. AFTER receiving his education Charles devuted 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,

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 baste 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!

UNDER THE STARS. Look up, sweet friend, the silent orbs bebold, 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.

Though earth is dark, and cold, and bare,

My soul ignores the gloomy vast,
For far beyond the haunts of care,

My other self long since has passed. Though bright, warm fields of leaf and bloom,

And fruitage under happy skies, My other self, in amplest room,

E'er on some thankful mission flies.
So grief with hope will now abide,

And pain its wounded heart restore,
Till ruthless time and sense divide
My other self and me no more.

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 wbisper thrilled — . Be

hold!" I raised my offering --- stood erect of limb, bnd glad of heart! a mocking laugh- and lo! The greedy sands had drunk my drop of gold!

I sit beside the restless sea,-

A bird within the wood sings willow!" And my heart for a song is sad in me,

And my soul tossed like a billow. I sit beside the restless sea,

The bird within the wood sings .. willow!" But my heart for the song is glad in me,

And my soul swims like the billow. I sit beside the restless sea,

A bird within the wood sings - willow."" O my heart for a song is changed in me,

And my soul shifts like a billow!


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

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 liceage 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.


JOHN W. OVERALL. 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 - bis 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.

THE SPRING DOWN IN THE DELL. Though years have glided like a dream

Since I stood by thy side,
Yet still, thou little rippling stream,

I've thought of thee with pride,
And bless thee, as I bless thee now -

Oh! I remember well
How thou didst cool my fevered brow,

Dear spring down in the dell!
On many a golden summer hour

I laid me down to rest,
Where every wind would throw a shower

Of blossoms on my breast.
The spangled flowers grew around -

Oh! I remember well
The mossy rocks, the velvet ground,

The spring down in the dell!
Thy waters sparkled in my cup,

And flashed along the rim,
And when I raised it gladly up,

And broke its dimpled brim,
Far sweeter than the Samian wine-

Oh! I remember well!
Was that bright crystal wave of thine,

Dear spring down in the dell!

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