REV. NATHAN F. CARTER.

BORN: HENNIKER, N. H., JAN. 6, 1830.

IN 1865 Mr. Carter graduated at the theological seminary in Bangor, and in 1869 became pastor of a church in Orford, N. H., which position he held for five years. He then went to Bellows Falls, Vt., and in 1879 to

REV. NATHAN FRANKLIN CARTER. Quechee in the same state, where he still labors. For several years Mr. Carter has been one of the editors of the New Hampshire Journal of Education. He has just completed a work entitled The Native Ministry of New Hampshire, and has also a volume of poems ready for publication.

GREAT THOUGHTS. Great thoughts in mighty souls born into life, [sky, Like towering mountains, lean against the Their radiant summits far above all strife, Fixing with wonder many a gazing eye. So far above the common level rise,

[soul

Their morn-empurpled heights, they fill the With awe and reverence, till in mute surprise, It deems them altars near the Eden goal, Whereon the incense of a great life burns, Diffusing sweetest fragrance evermore; Or glow like watch-fires, blessing him who yearns

For trusty guidance on Time's pilgrim shore!

The lowly one toils earnestly and long

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To climb their steep but ever verdant sides, Yet, rising higher, he feels the heart grow strong,

To mount where everlasting spring abides, To gather holier sweets distilling there, To see serener prospects yet unknown, To breathe a purer life-awakening air, And find himself a nobler being grown. And thus he presses on, tili victor-crowned, Upon the heights, he, with enraptured ken, Drinks in the vastness of the scene around, A better man among earth's worthy men! And these great thoughts of mighy souls are

ours,

Stamped with a time-long immortality, A gift ne'er growing old, whose greatness

towers

Above all gifts by gold or fame made free. We feast upon them, as on viands rare, And feel a newer life spring up within; They give the longing spirit wings to dare A loftier flight for good we fain would win. Their influence wakes a hymn of blessedness, Sounding a victor's pæan in our ears, Whose sweet refrains, enshrined in good deeds bless

A plodding world, as stars a night of years!

IN THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

In the battle of life do the best that is in

thee,

Climb up with a will and an eye on the stars,

The noblest of names aspiring to win thee,

At the price, if need be, of perils and scars! There is room in the radiant spaces above thee;

On the tops of the mountains are conquer

ors' palms;

Live grandly for God,- make the great world love thee,

For the sowing of sunshine and giving of alms!

Grow virtues and graces to ripen for glory; Seek riches and honors that pass not away; With manifold blessings make golden life's story;

For the good of humanity labor and pray! Be a peer and a prince in the grace of forgiving;

Keep ever to pathways the saintly have trod;

In love with the good, be the best of the living;

Do the best for the world by the favor of God!

With a bold, brave heart, and a holy endeav

or,

Girt surely and well with an armor divine,

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Press on to the conflict, surrendering never To the foes that confront thee in darkening line!

What is servile and groveling heartily scorning

With an eye on the prize, not a moment delay,

But valiantly press to the Gates of the Morning,

And live in its fullness of glory for aye!

REV. GEORGE R. KRAMER.

BORN: BALTIMORE. MD., MAY 26, 1839. THE poems of the Rev. George R. Kramer have appeared quite extensively in the Portland Argus, Brooklyn Times, and the periodical press generally. As pastor of the Brook

REV. GEORGE ROBERTS KRAMER. lyn Union Ave. Baptist church, this gentleman has gained a national reputation as an eminent divine. He was married in 1865 to Miss J. Hill. Personally the Rev. George R. Kramer is about the average height, a little robust, with brown hair and gray eyes.

THE DEMON OF THE NOON. Now comes the hush of the noon; a sabbath hush

In summer time; upon her throne this hour Sweet silence sits. Yet many sounds are heard

But such as stillness ne'er invade; those

sounds

Which welcome find within the realm of peace And quietude. The dreamy buzz of beesHymns of the birds-Harps of soft forest winds

And singing brooks which glide o'er mossy rocks,

Are but the ministers of Silence; not
The rivals of her reign.

Oh! let me linger and enjoy this calm -
I'll sin no more. My soul is peaceful, like
Yon lovely stream. I feel no tempter near,-
No! darkness is the hour to fiends belongs;
In gloom their wings they flap; the light they
shun-

Their deeds of evil cannot stand the day.
Oh! let me while away, in reverie sweet,
An hour. All foes are far, I know no fear,

swing

The gay, forbidden fruits!

I do so well remember now, that while;
The pestilence in darkness walks, so grim;
Destruction in the noonday wastes.

Ah! yes, the life it saps- the soul it wastes-
The fiend, indeed, is in the darkness camped.
Yet to an angel of the light, himself
Transforms, and thus he walks in shining

noon.

O, Christ! upon the verge of sin I stand,
And tremble o'er the deep and awful gulf.
Me keep in innocence. Me keep in life.
My will I shall not praise. I look to Thee.
I whirl above the flood-I have no strength!
I reel above the fire I know no will.
Safe! Now I rest amid the pastures green -
A poor, weak sheep; yet how secure I am!
All honor to " the Everlasting Arms."

SITTING IN THE AUTUMN TWILIGHT.
Sitting in the Autumn twilight

Of the sad November day,
Thinking of the happy moments
Which with summer passed away.
Thinking of the golden sunshine

Of those bright and blessed hours,
Calling up that form of radiance
That faded with the flowers.
Gleaming waves of roaring ocean
Breaking on the shining sand,
Mem'ries of the isles and gardens,
Edens of the sea and land.
Mournful winds the leaves now tossing,
Wail the splendor which has fled,

And o'er the fields and through the forests
Hymn the requiem of the dead.

MRS. MINNIE W. PATTERSON

BORN: NILES, MICHIGAN, 1845.

AT an early age this lady taught school and took pupils in music and painting. She gradu ated with honor from Hillsdale college at the age of twenty years, afterward receiving from Alma Mater the degree of A. M. Soon after leaving school, she opened a studio in Chicago, at the same time contributing to the Sunday Times and other periodicals. In 1867 she was married to John C. Patterson, a former class

MRS. MINNIE WARD PATTERSON. mate at Hillsdale, who is now a prominent member of the Michigan bar, and has also been twice elected to the senate of that state. The poems of Minnie Ward Patterson have appeared in the Boston Transcript, Youth's Companion, Wide Awake, Peterson's Magazine, Detroit Free Press, and various other publications. In 1875 she published Pebbles from Old Pathways, a neat volume of over two hundred pages of choice poems, which bear the true poetical imprint. Mrs. Patterson has translated several volumes into English from the Norse language and literature, which have received high commendation.

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dearer grow;

Sweet, to him, the mystic strains they sum

mon at gloaming

Echoes of voices loved in the wonderful

long ago.

Each has his treasures old - reminders of early rambles,

Gathered with merry hands from the paths

we used to know;

Yours may be gems and flowers-mine are but pebbles and brambles,

Yet may you hold them dear, for the sake of the long ago.

MY OWN WIFE MARY.

Oh, bright is the glow of the deep starry skies, And the sunshine that smiles everywhere; But dim is their light by the love in thine

eyes,

And the flash of thy soft, sunny hair. Though costly the pleasures of palaces princely,

Though pleasures and wit meet in many a

hall,

Yet give me the cottage where Mary, sweet

Mary

And I dwell in happiness deeper than all. Come to me Mary, my own wife Mary,

Come sit as of old on my knee,

While I clasp to my heart rarer treasures than gold

An Eden of gladness and thee! Around us all glowing with purple and gold, The blossoming meadows are spread; And roses and lilacs our bower enfold,

All drooping with fragrance o'erhead. The bright, cooing birds build their nests at our window,

And fearlessly warble the wealth of their glee,

But sweeter, ah, sweeter the voice of my Mary,

That whispers in low, cooing love-notes to

me.

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DECORATION DAY.

All honor to the fallen brave

With lofty pæans greet the dead! Let garlands wreathe each lowly grave! Let laurel crown each honored head! 'Mid shot and shell and sabre stroke, They bore our colors through the strife, Till stricken 'mid the battle smoke

They died to save our country's life! Though angry skies in blackness bent, And shook the shrinking world in wrath; Though lurid lightnings madly spent Their unchained fury in their path; Through wilderness of woven pine,

Through shiny pool and tangled brier, They marched in brave, unbroken line, Or sunk beneath the clogging mire! O'er scorching rocks that cut their feetIn hospital and prison pen Some sank with hunger, thirst and heat, But died no less like patriot men! Though spices may not wrap our dead, Nor lofty pyramid ariseWhere justice triumphed while they bled Their names breathe incense to the skies!

Dust may return to dust, but deep

Within the hearts of Freedom's sons, Embalmed forever, love shall keep

The mem'ry of these faithful ones! And coming years shall swell our lays,

And weave new laurels for each head, While grateful freemen shout the praise Forever due our noble dead!

NOW WE PART.

Now we part, if ever parting
Shadows love of birth divine;
Still unspanned the gulf between us,
You soar your way, I plod mine:
But each laurel you may gather
Shall my altar fires renew,
And my hymns be all of gladness
That the world holds such as you.

DOT AND DOLLY.

Sweet little Dot on the doorstep sits, with Dolly wrapped in a shawl,

Her own thin dress is faded and patched, but Dolly has none at all,

She kisses and cuddles her little pet in a way 'tis joy to see,

And whispers, “I know we's poor, but I's got you, and you's got me!"

Rocking her treasure to and fro, in the silent summer air,

Her chubby chin to her bosom went, and her hands forgot their care;

Her dimpled feet into dreamland slipped, just as upon the scene

A lady rode, with jewels and silk begirt like a very queen.

Her happy darling, just Dot's own size, the child and the dolly spied,

Then pointed, grasping her mamma's arm, to the half-wrapped pet, and cried,

.. O, mamma! look at her dolly-see! are n't you 'fraid its catching cold?

Please let me give it Rosa's dress - you know its getting old."

She slipped from the carriage, and quick the work of the little maid was done,

And Dot's poor dolly was in a dress, the prettiest under the sun!

Gold and silver, satin and gauze, stockings and bright blue shoes,

And money, as much in her pocket put, as a doll in a year could use.

Then away, with a smile that almost laughed, so great was the giver's glee, She went, with many a backward look, and said ..I's afraid she'll see!

Hurry up Tom, mamma!" and quick away to their palace home they flew, While Dot was dreaming a wonderful dream, of fairies and Dolly, too.

They had satin dresses and gauzy wings, all speckled with drops of gold:

They danced in troops on the lilac leaves, and a leaf would a dozen hold;

And Dolly was dancing with all her might, in the prettiest dress of all, And spangled wings, when up sprang Dot, afraid lest her pet should fall.

She opened her eyes, and merrily laughed, in happiness and surprise,

As Dolly dressed in her fairy best, looked into her wondering eyes.

"O mamma, what shall I do?" cried Dot, in a comic tone of dismay,

My Dolly has borrowed a fairy's clothes, and the fairies have runned away!

..I's afraid she's been naughty and stealed — but then I don't most think she would;

I guess they did it o' purpose, cos my Dolly's so awful good!

You pitty, sweet girl! I'll let you wear 'em awhile, I guess, and then,

If they wants 'em ever, we'll give 'em back, when the fairies come again!"

Well, that was a long, long time ago- sweet Dot is a woman grown,

And little ones gather to hear her tell a tale of her childhood flown;

And many a story she tells at eve, but nicest of all she knows

Is the one that tells of Dot and her doll that

borrowed the fairy's clothes.

From the ancient igneous mountain, from the everlasting hills,

Where the God of host was present to his people on the morn,

Where the weary thunders crashed to earth and the vivid lightning kills,The truth arrayed in battle's din, anew on earth was born.

From the highest crags o'er mount and plain, it flashed a glittering flame,

A sweeping power within itself, the essential power of God,

Which to the poor black manacled gives a glory and a name,

Which truth has 'graved on human hearts with more than iron rod.

'Till the battling din of thousands swept o'er the fields and coasts,

All along the deep ravines, and on the flinty mountain's path

Cometh heavy tramp of armies, almost un

numbered hosts,

As the messengers of heaven sweeping by in lurid wrath.

Oh, 'twas glorious to behold the work, though fearful was the strife,

Yet no fear was ever borne to our soldiers in that shock;

"Twas the work of the ecstatic, who most freely gave his life

To place the everlasting truth upon the eternal rock.

Oh! how deep we felt our mission when the sulphurous flame arose

Into sheets, and streams, and flashes, amid

the horrid din,

When we stood as God's own children to fight

His ancient foes,

Who were hurled from heaven's battlements because of primal sin.

THE GREAT MASTER POET.

Far back of the ages, when time was unknown,

And the substance of earth was in primeval

gloom,

When the planets were formless e'er God from

His throne

Had ordered these worlds from their chaotic

tomb,

And the essence of matter was floating in

space,

And the kingdom of God had no kingdom of

grace;

Then the form of the Master left heaven and

state,

And by His volition all things did create. Then world after world in its orbit was placed,

And the song of the spheres was proclaimed near and far,

And the paths of the planets were all interlaced,

And His flat gave light to the sun, moon and star,

And the symphony grand its wild chorus began,

Which hence should be learned and be sung

o'er by man;

Have you thought, Oh my friends, that the poet sublime,

Was the Being creating all planets and time?

Have you dreamed that His epics are written in stone?

That His lyrics are bathing the mountains in mist?

That grandly sublime on His heavenly throne,
He sang the first note that did ever exist?
A harmony swelling with rhythm so grand,
That it echoes e'en now over oceans and
land?

And surges through space as it has all these

years,