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JOHN PARKER.

BORN: ENGLAND, JAN. 17, 1822. In 1864 Mr. Parker settled in Pennsylvania at Mabanoy City. He there edited the Anthracite Monitor, the organ of the miner's and laborer's association of Pennsylvania. In 1872 he bought the Mahanoy Valley Record, which he

Than live by rapine proud or guile. Thou'rt useful to the world, and thou Can'st well afford to lift thy brow. Hold up your head!- move boldly on,

To right or left-turn not aside; Keep honor's beauteous path and shun

The devious ways of worldly pride; Then those who may thy actions scan Will say: "Behold an honest man!"

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FRIENDSHIP.
When worldly sorrows o'er us throw

Their lowering clouds so dark and drear; How sweet it is to feel – to know,

That friendly hearts are beating near,
That friendly smiles, amid the gloom,
Shines forth the darkness to illume.
How sweet to know that other tears

Are mixed with ours — that other eyes
Are moist with sympathetic cares;

That friendly breast will heave with sighs When ours pulsate with pain or grief, And share the load or give relief. Friendship?thy genial smile doth throw

A beauteous radiance o'er life's path; Makes pleasures greater, lightens woe,

And gilds the dreary hour of death With heavenly beams that softly shed Their light around our dying bed.

JOHN PARKER. published as a weekly paper until 1877, when it was changed into a tri-weekly, of which he is still the sole publisher and proprietor. Mr. Parker has taken an active part in all labor movements, and served four years in the Pennsylvania senate, from 1878 to 1882.

THE FAIRIES
In the silvery moonlight

Sporting merrily,
Dancing on the green sward

'Neath the old oak tree; Little, laughing fairies,

Ever blithe and gay,
Reveling through the midnight

Fritter life away.
Drinking from the dewdrops

That hang upon the flowers; Swinging on the green leaves,

In the shady bowers; And when smiling morning

Sends the night away, Deep among the rose leaves,

Sleeping through the day. Happy, sportive creatures,

Free from every care; Life to them is joyousness,

Ever bright and fair. Oh, to be a fairy!

Frolicksome and gay, Underneath the moonbeams

Dancing life away.

HOLD UP YOUR HEAD. Hold up your bead! what need to cower?

Hold up your face to view the sun; For tho' your worldly wealth be poor,

You've got the glorious form of man. Let that not bend, but proud and high, Erect your head toward the sky. Hold up your head! that gaudy thing

With all its gorgeous pomp and show; That bears the tarnished name of king;

To which base slaves bow down so low. Without the toys that gild it now, Is only flesh and blood like you. Hold up your head! 'tis no disgrace

To show a visage marked with toil; Far better sweat-drops wet thy face

JESSIE LOVE. Oh, sweet art thou my Jessie Love,

As flowers that grow in May; As birds that sing at early dawn Upon the pearly spray:

And pure art thou, my Jessie Love,

No skeptic's vapid reasoning can give the key As evening's fallen dew;

To the wondrous alchemy of wind, and And as the sun that shines above,

rain and sun; Thy gentle heart is true.

No power is there that holdeth this great No ornamental dress, my love,

mystery, Sets off thy maiden charms;

Except that power which dwells upon the No diamonds shine upon thy breast;

throne. Nor bracelelets deck thy arms,

With thankfulness we recognize the Hand; But in that simple dress of white,

Rejoicing ever in His love we reap and sow, Dear maid, thou art to me

And over all this fair unshackled land, Like to some angel goddess bright,

.. Praise God from whom all blessings flow." Some pure divinity.

This anthem, like an incense, swells today,

The hearts of a people, above all other peoMRS. JOSEPHINE WILLIAMS. ples blessed:

And surges like the waves of an unbounded BORN: OTTO, N.Y., JUNE 26, 1849.

sea, THE poems of Mrs. Williams have appeared in

Across our fertile country's grateful breast. Arthur's Magazine and the local press gen- From coast to coast we can hear it throb

along The myriad thankful hearts that join to

raise, Without one broken note, this sacred song,

In our Creator's constant, fervent praise.
Peace - gentle spirit - shields us with her

wings;
Into our waiting hands the power is given
To learn the blessedness that mercy brings,
And send our bounties, ten-fold back to

Heaven;
.. The poor "- God's legacy -.. The poor ye

have alway;" We are not guiltless if we lighten not our

brother's woe. And he would have us share our joys to-day And thus, - Praise Him from whom all bless

ings flow." Ah many hearts are sad and sore, and searce

can wait, Impatient of the years that lie between, For the summons to that Holy Land, whose

gate,
Hides from us, where our loved have lately

been;
In memory of dear ones gone before,

Whose faces wear the light of Heaven's
MRS, JOSEPHINE M. WILLIAMS.

glow, erally. She is at present engaged in photo

Whose voices echo from an unseen shore, graphing at Centralia, Wash., where she is

Praise ye the Lord from whom all blesswell known and highly respected.

ings flow." THANKSGIVING.

Oh, when our Father's garnered sheaves shall A holy convocation by Divine command,

prove A Sabbath of the year - a jubilee

Our fruitful or unfruitful labors here, An altar offering - at His feet we stand, May we be treasured as disciples of his love,

To tender willing sacrifice on bended knee. And meet the reaper-death-without a fear. The pregnant soil hath travailed – given No .. withered leaves" foretell a dread decree, birth,

No outer darkness"and no depths of woe, The golden harvest yields us as we sow; But with the throngs of Heaven's own minResounds this tribute now through all the

strelsy, earth,

Praise God for aye from whom all bless.. Praise God from whom all blessings flow." | ings flow."

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EMILY W. PEAKES.

BORN: HARMONY, ME., DEC. 1, 1847. This lady graduated in 1874 from Westbrook seminary. She follows the profession of school teaching, in which she has always been

Why do they wait? There's one little creature
Wants a lilac-flower to give to the teacher;
She must have the very highest one
That no one can reach - and what's to be

done?
For the longest arm comes short of the prize
That bends and beckons before her eyes;
But she saw papa coming up through the

clover, A strong, tall man; see! he lifts her over The heads of the group that round him stand And she breaks the branch with her chubby

hand. What was I saying?- I open my eyes; . Why, I am the teacher supposed to be wise; One instant ago 'twas a six-year-old Who smelled of the lilac, and my father's

hola Was strong around me; the years and death Were swept away by the lilac's breath.

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MRS. N. ELVIRA NELSON.

BORN ABOUT 1848. IN 1883 Mrs. Nelson published in conjunction with her sister, Mrs. Sarah King-Marine, The Garland, a little volume of poems of superior merit and talent. At the age of twenty-one this lady was married to George Nelson, who served in the union army; and with whom she now resides, with a splendid family of two sons and one daughter.

IN SCHOOL- A PERFUME. I close my eyes, and the lilac's perfume Has borne me away from this crowded room. Under northern skies where the flowers are

late And this plumy branch for the June must

wait. A farm-house stands from the road aloof, With the mountain-ash against its roof. There's bridge in front that crosses a brook Where the spotted trout hides away from the

hook; And a winding road, with a double ridge Of grass, comes down the hill to the bridge. Close by the door twine lilac-trees Breathe a sweet good-morning to every breeze. A group of children with happy look Are lingering here with basket and book.

AFTER THE WEDDING - A REPLY. Be still my heart - be still and think,

And hush this fruitless sighing;
While from the past of life I drink,

The present is replying:
Ten weary years have swept away

Since on that fatal morning
The sunshine seemed to pause and play,

Without a shade of warning.
Ten years! alas, those weary years

Were full of love's repining!
Full of the anguish and the tears

That through my heart are twining.
What were the orange blossoms sweet

Around the bridal altar?
What the gay trappings all replete,

That bade my spirit falter?
Then the tall and handsome man -

My graceful, grand ideal -
My hero could my heart command,

But now the sad, sad real!
Alas! things are not what they seem,

Despite their golden glimmer;
All my fancies were a dream,

I've seen their dying shimmer.

Let friendship be the key-note That it shall echo back to me, And may the music sweetly float Like sunlight on the sea.

MRS. EMMA E. H. DIEBOLD.

BORN: EAST TROY, WIS., MARCH 35, 1844. The poems of Mrs. Diebold have appeared in the Record, Gazette, and the local press gen

Ah, yes, could I have seen him die,

My heart would cease its weeping; Not even one rebellious sigh

Should chide the grave's cold keeping.
For death brings back a fragrance sweet,

And leaves a friendly token;
Life lays my hopes beneath my feet,

And holds my idol broken.
Better to let the roses fade,

While yet their sweets are budding, Than hide the wounds the thorns have made,

While grief the soul is flooding.
Better to watch the sun go down

Behind the amber ceiling,
Than wait till noon to feel his frown,

And smile to hide the feeling.
Yet I must smile, nor dare betray

The woeful ache of keeping
The pain concealed, that, day by day,

Would bathe my heart with weeping.
For ah, the world must never see

The coffin in my bosom;
I must smile at dead hopes mocking me

As though 'twere joy to lose them.
Ten years a bride, ten years a wife,

Ten years of vainly hoping,
And now a barren waste of life

On which my soul is groping.
I close the coffin with a prayer -

For thoughts are insurrection -
My murdered love is buried there,

And waits no resurrection.

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MAGGIE CALDWELL. IN 1888 this lady published a little volume of poems entitled Bird Notes from the Mountains. Her poems have appeared in the periodical press, and have received complimentary notices.

MRS. EMMA E. H. DIEBOLD. erally. She resides with her family at Seneca, Illinois.

MY LIFE. Not a single ray of light

Shines into my lonely heart, My life has ever been a night

Into which no sunbeams dart. My past is a desert waste,

Where not a flower blooms, Over which my spirit hastes

Into a land of darker gloom. The future! ah! what is my future?

A wild Plutonian way Where I alone must wander

In this dark and cheerless day.

THE CENTURY PLANT. On the top of the mountain, By the brink of the fountain, I keep record of ages gone by. Around the graves of the dead I oft stretched my head, And can tell every year Of their life till they die. In old Adam's race I have smiled on his face, And I am numbered in the Late generation; Yet few do me know, Though they oft speak my name, And yet I create a sensation. I'm old and I'm rare, Then I am young, and then fair, Yet seldom I young do appear. Then my bloom it goes down With my youth to the ground, Yet on earth 1 shall ever be here.

TO A FRIEND. On memory's golden harp I shall try to touch a string, And wake within your heart, Music that will forever sing;

MRS. HANNAH CORNABY.

BORN: ENGLAND, MARCH 17, 18:22. The poems of Mrs. Cornaby have appeared in the Deseret News, Woman's Exponent and the periodical press generally. She was married

The promptings of her woman's soul,

Is all the law she hears..
The law of love implanted there,

By our great Parent's hand,
If not perverted, safely guides,

Woman in every land.
I wish I had the power to write,

Woman to vindicate.
To tell her true nobility,

E'en in this fallen state.
I never wished for wealth or fame,

For I have understood,
How poor and valueless are these,

Compared with being good.

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OUR NATIVE FLOWERS. The favored flowers of other lands

Have claimed the poet's powers;
But let our harp be tuned in praise

Of Utah's native flowers.
We've culled them from the hilly slopes,

From canyon's rugged side,
From low and mossy river banks,

And from the benches wide.
We've placed them in our garden plot,

And, growing side by side,
Their fragrance and their beauty are

Our pleasure and our pride.
We've brought choice flowers from other

climes And placed them near these gems, Their mingled lustre far exceeds

The costliest diadems. The flowers thus brought from dis tant lands

Suggest the thought so sweet,
God's chosen ones, though scattered now,

Together here may meet.
And like the flowers, their varied gifts,

Improve this sacred soil,
Making the wilderness to bloom,

Repaying care and toil.
Father, we thank thee for the flowers

Thou hast so freely given,
And may our constant effort be

To make this earth a heaven.

MRS. HANNAH CORNABY. in 1851 to Samuel Cornaby, who is now a notary public at Spanish Fork, Utah. She published in 1881 a volume entitled Autobiography and Poems, which has had a fair sale.

WOMAN'S MISSION.
I never wished to be a queen,

To wear the robes of state,
Or have my name enrolled among

The famous or the great.
I never cared for woman's rights,"

Nor ever had a fear, But that if woman sought, she'd find

Her own, her proper sphere. I know that woman's mission's great,

Yet comprehends the small, The tiny, trifling things of life,

Important to us all.
In this, true woman finds her sphere,

Her happiness complete,
In loving, helping, blessing all

With whom she chance to meet. What need for her of Congress' halls,

Or legislative cares,

WHEN I'M HAPPY. Shall I tell you when I'm happy?

When life to me seems very sweet? It is when evening shadows fall,

And we around the fireside meet. "Tis when the children gather home,

From school, from labor and from play; When little tongues all are telling

What they have done or learned to-day. When each want and wish is cared for,

Or little sorrows put to flight, Their childish troubles all forgot,

And every little heart is light. .

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