EUGENE FITCH WARE.

BORN: HARTFORD, CONN., MAY 29, 1841. THIS gentleman is a partner in the firm of Ware, Biddle and Cory, attorneys-at-law of Fort Scott, Kansas. He was married in 1874 to Miss J. P. Huntington. Mr. Ware served five years in the volunteer army, and five

Earnest Ioline;

Since you came in moonlight beamy,
Came to cheer me and to see me,

To be loved and seen;
Since you left that pearly star,
Far-off Algomar.

Come and sing to me once more,
As you often have before,

Songs of other zones.

Come and hum those airy, sketchy
Arias, so bright and catchy,

Taken from the tones

That, unheard by human ears,

Thrill the radiant spheres.

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WHIST.

Hour after hour the cards were fairly shuf

fled,

And fairly dealt, but still I got no hand; The morning came; but I, with mind unruf

fled,

Did simply say: "I do not understand."

Life is a game of whist. From unseen sources The cards are shuffled, and the hands are dealt,

Blind are our efforts to control the forces That, though unseen, are no less strongly

felt.

I do not like the way the cards are shuffled, But still I like the game and want to play; And through the long, long night will I, unruffled,

Play what I get, until the break of day.

THE MINNESONG.

Once a falcon I possessed;

And full many a knight and vassal Watched him from my father's castle,

As, in gaudy ribbon dressed,

He would seek with fiery eye
Battle in the roomy sky,
And return to be caressed.
Once a lover I possessed,

On the field of battle knighted,
And at tournaments delighted
Did I watch his fiery crest;
Woven from the silken strands
By my own unaided hands,
Was the baldric on his breast.

But one day my bird did soar,

When the sky was black and stormy; And my knight, whose fondness for me Seemed as changeless as before,

Rode away in the crusade; And as years successive fade, They return to me no more.

We see bright eyes,

Behold unclouded skies,

We re-inhale the fragrance of life's spring; While, as of unseen bird,

Rustle of wing is heard.

Shall our last sleep
Eternal stillness keep?

Shall pulseless dust enclose a dreamless soul?
Or shall we hear

Those songs so old and dear,

As 'mid tempestuous melodies there roll
Upon our waking ears
The choruses of spheres?

THE OLD PIONEER.

Where are they gone? Where are they -
The faces of my childhood?
I've sought them by the mountains,
By the rivers, by the canyons;

I have called upon the prairie,

I have called upon the wildwood:

O, give me back! O, give me back

The faces of my childhood!

The boys and girls,

My playmates, my companions.

The days of early childhood

Have a strange, attractive glimmer,

A lustrous, misty fadelessness

Half seen and yet half hidden,

As of isles in distant oceans,

Where the shattered moonbeams shimmer,

Concealing half, disclosing half,

With rapturing, fracturing glimmer,

The realms in which

Our visits are forbidden.

It's vainly that I call upon

The mountains or the canyons;

And vainly from the forest,

From the river or the wildwood, Do I ask the restoration

Of my playmates, my companions; No voice returns from mountain side, From forest or from canyons; They've gone from me forever, The faces of my childhood.

THE VIOLET STARS.

"I have always lived, and I always must." The sergeant said when the fever came; From his burning brow we washed the dust, And we held his hand, and we spoke his

name.

..Millions of ages have come and gone,"

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The sergeant said as we held his hand;They have passed like the mist of the morning dawn

Since I left my home in that far-off land." We bade him hush, but he gave no heed64 Millions of orbits. I crossed from farDrifted as drifts the cottonwood seed:

I came," said he, from the Violet Star. ..Drifting in cycles from place to place I'm tired," said he, and I'm going home To the Violet Star, in the realms of space, Where I loved to live, and I will not roam. For I've always lived, and I always must, And the soul in roaming may roam too far, I have reached the verge that I dare not trust And I'm going back to the Violet Star." The sergeant hushed and we fanned his cheek;

There came no word from that soul so tired; And the bugle rang from the distant peak, As the morning dawned and the pickets

fired.

The sergeant was buried as soldiers are:
And we thought all day as we marched

through the dust:

His spirit has gone to the Violet Star-
He always has lived, and he always must.

THE SIEGE OF DJKLYPRWBZ. Before a Turkish town,

The Russians came,

And with huge cannon

Did bombard the same.

They got up close

And rained fat bombshells down, And blew out every

Vowel in the town.

And then the Turks,

Becoming somewhat sad,

Surrendered every

Consonant they had.

SAMUEL SLAYTON LUCE.

BORN: STOWE, VT., FEB. 1, 1819. SINCE 1839 Mr. Luce has contributed both prose and verse to the periodical press generally, and published in 1876 a volume of poems in conjunction with his wife, who is also represented on this page. In 1881 Mr. Luce published a volume of poems entitled Echoes of the Past, and six years later appeared The Woodman. Since 1857 he has resided in Wisconsin at Galesville, where he estab lished a newspaper in 1860. Five years later he sold out the publication and was elected county superintendent of schools, serving two terms of two years each. Mr. Luce next edited the Galesville Independent, which publication he bought two years later, editing the same until 1889, when it was sold.

THE VILLAGE DOCTOR.

I see him still, as erst of yore,

With furrowed cheek and whitened brow; Though he's been dead of years a score, I see him stand before me now.

I seem to see his withered form

Beside his faithful white-faced mare,
With old brown saddle-bags behind,
Whose odor 'twas a grief to bear.
With chronic cough I hear him pass-
He digs his steed with vigorous heel,
Whose callous sides, from daily thumps,
Had long since lost the power to feel.
The constant grin upon his face-

His light..te-he!" at human pain, As oft he wrenched the offending tooth, Our memory ever will retain. But deeply down within his breast, Beneath a mail-like Milan steel, 'Twas said by those who knew him best, The doctor has a heart to feel." 'Twas in the old Green Mountain State, 'Mid deep, dread winter's drifting snow, The evening hour was waxing late,

Some forty years or more ago.
We sat around the ample hearth,
Where maple logs were blazing bright;
Glad songs arose, and social mirth

Upon that dismal winter night.

When sudden through the opening door, O'er drifts, the quaint old doctor sprung, And forward fell upon the floor. His brow was crusted o'er with ice, And crisp and frozen was his cheek; His limbs were paralyzed with cold; For once, the doctor could not speak. With genial warmth, and tender care, He soon revived, and said: Come Bill, Be kind enough to get my mare,I must reach Martin's, on the hill." Then on again, o'er trackless snow, Against the biting winter blast, Without the hope of worldly gain, Through mountain drifts, the doctor passed. Far up the winding mountain road, Through forest dark and blinding snow, He reached the desolate abode

Of sickness, poverty and woe.

Long years have passed; yet oft I ask,
As howls the tempest in its might,
While sitting by the evening fire,

What faithful doctor rides to-night?"
Yes, faithful; though full well I know
The world is sparing of its praise;
And these self-sacrificing men

But seldom tempt the poet's lays.
And yet, I trust, when at the last,

They leave the world of human strife, Like him who loved his fellow men," Their names shall grace the Book of Life.

MRS. HANNAH GALE LUCE. BORN: WATERBURY, VT., DEC. 28, 1824. PRIOR to her marriage this lady taught school. Her poems have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press, and in 1876 she published, in conjunction with her husband, a beautiful volume of Poems, which has received favorable comment from press and public. She was married to Samuel Slayton Luce in 1847, and now resides in Galesville, Wis.

COMING WEST.

From the grand majestic mountains,
Where the storm-cloud loves to rest-
From the deep, delightful valleys,
They are coming, coming West.
From those eastern towns and cities,
Come forth earnest, noble men-

Men of labor- men of learning,
That can guide the plow or pen.

Not alone from dear New England,
But from other lands they come,

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O'er the broad Atlantic's billows,
Here to find a peaceful home.
From green Erin, and brave Scotland -
From old England's pleasant shore,
And from Germany and Norway,
There are thousands coming o'er.
They are leaving home and country,
And the friends they love the best
They are seeking wealth and freedom,
And shall find them in the West.
We extend a hearty welcome

To each brave, industrious hand;
He, whose heart is true and honest,
Is right worthy of our land.
With united, true devotion,

Let us work with earnest wills;
All along our own broad prairies
And among our vales and hills;
We will build fair towns and cities.
Halls of wisdom-works of art-
Colleges, and schools and churches,

That shall honor mind and heart. Here shall dwell a mighty people, Poets, scholars, world-renowned: Building up a vast Republic,

With a God-like glory crowned.

1

MRS. LYDIA M. S. MUDGETT. BORN: CANADA, 1831.

THE poems of Mrs. Mudgett have appeared in the religious press and the local papers. She is now a resident of Elmore, Vt.

MUSINGS.

We're passing through a vale of tears;
We leave our sorrows, hopes and fears,
And go to wear a crown;

In that bright world our sinless feet
Shall walk the everlasting street
And by his side sit down.

The cadence sweet we list to hear,
A note or two strike on the ear
From that celestial plain,
Then Satan comes to make us doubt,
All pandemonium gives a shout;
We lose the magic strain.
The dark and chilling stream I fear,
And Jesus prayed when he was here
The cup might be removed;
But came to do his Father's will,
A heavenly mission to fulfill

Of never-dying love.

O Jesus, take my every care,
And all my sorrows help me bear,
And let me lean on thee;

The heavenly hosts thy praises sing,
Give glory to their God and king
Through all eternity.

In an attic stands a cradle brown;
No longer swaying to and fro-
She who rocked it has long been gone
Sleeping quietly under the snow!

As I pause, and sadly on it gaze,

In fancy I see my dear mother's form As when she smiled on each baby face, Quietly nestled in pillows warm. Each child, in turn, found here a rest,Each shared alike her loving care; Now, all have left the parent nest, While all have silver in their hair. Darling Father! Precious Mother! We never shall forget your love. God grant we may again together Dwell in his glorious home above. Farewell little cradle!-ancient thing, Gladly I gaze again on thee; Sacred thou art, for thou dost bring Holy, sweet memories unto me!