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MRS. MATTIE L. BAILEY.

BORN: PEKIN, N. Y., DEC. 18, 1844. BORN within sound of Niagara Falls and educated in Adrian, Mich., Mrs. Bailey removed to Kansas in 1871. Her first poem appeared in 1879, since which time she has written both prose and verse for the leading periodicals of America, including the Kansas City Journal, New York Tribune, Chicago Inter-Ocean and

So varied were the goes I felt,

So dark the future looked to be,
I marvelled why the Lord had dealt,

So bitterly with me.
And as I sadly mused, came then

These words, so sweet yet strangely clear, As music o'er the waters when

All is still - Be of good cheer.” . He chastens whom he loves " - am I

For this distinction fit? Oh Lord,
I proudly claim the honor high

Thus granted in thy word.
O glorious truth to hearts sore tried

By sorrows here! Who suffers most,
Whate'er of bitter grief betide,

May of God's favor boast.
And closer kinship feel with One

Who knelt in dark Gethsemane;
Who agonized till all was done -

A sin-bound world set free. 0, Love divine! O, thorn-crowned head,

0, radiant cross upraised for me; O, precious blood on Calvary shed,

Up from the depths, I fly to thee.

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BIRDIE. Are there no children there ? No dear child

faces. Blooming with fadeless beauty in that bliss

ful air; Nor prattle sweet with winsome baby-graces,

Making our home more fair ? Will she my spotless one, who has this life

outgrown, Be changed to womanhood, ere I again can

know, The loving, gentle, soul that grew unto my

own? 0, poet, say not so! Our Savior when on earth the little children

blest, And said: . Of such the kingdom is;" cannot

it be, That he may take my baby to his loving

breast, And keep her thus for me? For one bright year she led me with her tiny

hand, Dull care was banished, while joy crowned

each hour, As I watched the leaflets of my bud expand,

To form the perfect flower. A radiant vision of these hours, I seeA fair and smiling face, with soul-lit eyes of

blue; Sweet lips, whose kisses deeper rapture gave

to me,
Than lover ever knew.

[again, The golden head is nestled on my breast;

MARA.
Out from the depths I cry to Thee,

Wild are the winds that 'round me blow, High roll the waves that buffet me,

Why, Lord, why is it so ?
My dearest earthly wish denied,

My days devoid of all delight,
My life barque stranded where the tide

Goes out in darkest night.
The phantoms of my dead hopes rise,

I stretch my longing arms in vain;
They, mocking, echo back the cries
Which ill relieve my pain.

With love's mute eloquence, those wistful

eyes fill mine, With happy tears. O, sacred joy akin to pain,

An ecstacy divine! Too soon the vision fades; how would it still

this wild, Impassioned longing for what I held most

dear, To know that some glad morning I may clasp

my child, Just as I had her here. To know that in the glorified hereafter, E'en as when here - her arms outstretched in

glee, Her lovely face all dimpled o'er with laughter

Thus may she welcome me.

Beautiful laurel, stately and tall,
Bending adown o'er mossy wall,
Tiny lobelia fragile and low,
O sweet June days, move slow, move slow!
Fair fleur-de-lis, queen of the flowers,
Lifting her face to sunshine and showers,
And even the voice of the brooklet's flow,
O sweet June days, move slow, move slow!
Gentle breezes and beautious skies
Where white the fleeting clouds arise,
Nature her great heart lending so,
O sweet June days, more slow, move slow!

Peace, eager heart! Faith doth no questions

ask; but when My ransomed soul finds home, then shall be

gratified. Its hungry yearnings all, in sweet content;

For then,
. I shall be satisfied."

MRS. LISA A. FLETCHER.

BORN: ASHBY, MASS., DEC. 27, 1844. MRS. FLETCHER is an invalid, and has really never known a well day in her life. Yet beauty in every form appeals to her and she finds much sweetness and joy from couch and pillows in writing, painting and reading. During the past few years she has written many beautiful poems, of which a few are here given,

FULFILLMENT.
The hope to which we fondly cling,

And call our own,
Is oft the swiftest to take wing,

And soonest flown!
The wish for which we long and sigh,

And pray and yearn,
May be but a bitter draught to drink,

Which we should spurn.
The evil which we fear and dread,

And dare not face,
God may give the strength to bear,

And needed grace.
The good for which we scarce have hoped,

Nor all perceive,
May be sweetest in its fulfillment,

When we receive.
The joys for which we seek and strive,

And follow fast,
When we call them ours, may be

With dark o'ercast.
The trials which we fain would shun,

And cast away,
Like precious pearls may show to us

Some hidden ray.

AT SUNSET. Beyond the sunset gleaming bright, Beyond the day's last lingering light, What would be of heavenly sight, If through the gates we looked to-night? Beyond the sum of life's brief day, Beyond earth's skies so cold and gray, What would be if when we pray Heaven opened out its shining way? If aided by angel staff and rod, Beyond that silvery path we trod, Ah! what would meet our vision broad, Far o'er those billowy seas of God?

SLEEP. Weird, shadowy sleep, By which we leap

From night to morn;-
Sweet, silent dreams,

Glad, golden gleams,
Where hope is born:
Tired, fitful sleep
When slowly creep

The hours away:--
Sad making thought
With pain inwrought

Till breaks the day: Sweet, painless sleep Peaceful and deep

For hearts oppressed, Quick, fleeting hours Midst dreamland bowers, By angels blessed!

SWEET JUNE. Buttercups and daisies, golden and white, Springing to meet and gladden our sight, Tall waving grasses bending low, O sweet June days, move slow, move slow! Wild roses blooming by wayside and hedge, Columbines nodding o'er rocky ledge, Little birds singing, or high or a --- low, O sweet June days, move slow, move slow!

IRVING J. A. MILLER. BORN: WORCESTER, O., OCT. 14, 1866. Is 1876 Irving's parents removed to Marshalltown, Iowa, where he enjoyed a thorough course in the grammar school, and in which town he now resides. About 1884 he commenced to court the muse, and ever since that time has contributed quite freely to some of the most worthy and widely quoted periodicals of America. He is at present assistant editor of the Marshalltown Electric

Rode a hero, unknown, with his warning to

all, But the number who harkened and listened

was small. Came the rushing of waters – their thunder

ing roar, As they hastened, with fury, to pillage and

gore, And the trees and the houses gave way, like a

straw, In the hurricane tide of the wild Conemaugh. On! On! with that courage a patriot thrills, Shouting: Run for your lives! Run for the

hills!!” He dashed like a war-maddened Chippewa

brave, For his was a duty to rescue and save; Nor looked be about for the demon behind, Pursuing his trail like a hurricane wind, But loudly and clear (for he knew no despair His summons rang out on the evening air As the terrible waves grasped their forms

like s straw, In the hurricane tide of the wild Conemaugh. 0, God, it was fearful, for so it is said; When the waters receded and gave up their

dead, 'Mid the thousands of bodies that lay on the

ground Not a trace of the steed or his rider was

found; For a stranger he was, but his heroic deed Finds a place in the minds of the sufferers

freed. In the years to come, and the time to be, Like a phantom 'twill pass through our mem

ory, And we'll see, like a ghost of the buried past, On his steed this courier riding fast, And we'll hear, like an echo, his warning cry Where the Conemaugh dashed in its fury by.

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IRVING J. A, MILLER. Light. During the fall of 1887 he issued a book entitled Fireside Poems, which met with a ready sale. In 1888 he took editorial charge of the Star, in Union, Iowa, which position he filled for about one year. Mr. Miller was married in 1888. He is a practical printer by trade, and in person is a little above tile average height, with brown hair and eyes. Mr. Miller has also issued a book of campaign songs, which was heartily received by all.

COMPLIMENT YOUR WIFE. If you'd have ber dearly love you Ardently as God above you Compliment her worthy actions, Making no unjust exactions, Treat her always in a way That your deeds forever say: . Darling wife I love you ever, Angry words will part us never." Often kiss and hug and squeeze her, That's the way to pet and please her; Do not let her catch the notion Your's is not a true devotion. When she makes a cake or pie Eat until you nearly die. Compliment her princely dinner, Don't be growling like a sinner.

THE HERO OF CONEMAUGH. Down through a valley of love and repose, Where the roses once bloomed and the Cone

maugh flows O'er hillock and crevice, o'er dyke, bridge and

stone, Inspired by his duty and trav'ling alone,

Don't believe the guilty rabble Or the mischief-maker's gabble Of the many things she's doing, Of the other heart she's wooing; Stick to her whate'er you do, Trust her as she trusteth you, For a home of love and pleasure Is a truly priceless treasure. When your tea or supper's over, Don't start out and play the rover," Stay at home - obey her wishes Rock the kid or dry the dishes; Don't go gadding over town Like a lunatic or clown. If it please her, take her walking, Don't play mule and go to balking. If she's tired and overbearing Don't begin your awful swearing, Treat her kindly, take life easy, Don't be crabbit, rough or teasy," With a reassuring smile Kiss her once or twice a-while, And you'll notice what a change Comes from little things so strange. Love her as a lover would Treat her as a husband should, Let that courtship ever last That impelled you in the past; Make your marriage one of worth That will last beyond this earth; Court her love and wistful eye, Keep on courting till you die. Help her feel this life worth living, Be forbearing and forgiving, She will gladly bless and honor You, for blessings heaped upon her, And you never will regret That, in love, you firmly met, And when dead, in lonesome hours, She will deck your grave with flowers.

WANTED.

GIRL.
A girl that is willing to battle in life,

With a husband that's loving and true;
A girl who'd be worthy the title of wife,

And a girl that is willing to do.
A girl that can handle the duster and broom,
And do her own washing and clean upa room,
And make a good pudding or pie;

Who'll toil and not grumble,
Make work fairly rumble,
And never say .. Can't," but I'll try."

MAN.
A man who is dutiful, patient and kind,

Who is willing to labor and wait;
To marry the girl whom I have outlined,

And to brave with her every fate.
A man who'd be worthy of such a good wife,
Whose days are not given to folly's rude strife;

A man who is steady, and more;
Who'll rise without ire

And kindle the fire;
Stay home when his labors are o'er.

FRANK D. WOOLLEN.

BORN: CHAMPAIGN, ILL., AUG. 3, 1864. MR. WOOLLEN has written extensively for the local press and for leading periodicals. He is of medium height, with dark brown hair and eyes, and is now deputy county clerk of Harlan county, Nebraska, residing at Alma in the same state.

TWO POETS.
One sang in studied verse of pain

Whose heart had known no anguish; Past him the world unheeding rolled

And left his song to languish. One sang the pain, the bitter pain,

That gnawed his heart to madness, And, lo! the world kneeled down to kiss His tear-stained cup of sadness!

AXIOMS. A noble deed; an action wrought; A nation mov'd to solemn thought. A skillful hand; a drop of ink; The mass is mov'd to weep or think. A pensive mind; a noble strain; A pow'r is held o'er this domain. A chaste desire; a purer cause; A nation hails with wide applause. A modest girl; a manly boy; A father's pet; a mother's joy. A cheerful home; a household kind; Will breed no grief, leave none behind. A loyal wife; a husband true; As one will pass life's journey through. When friendship dies, and love has fled, Forevermore the heart is dead.

SWEET SPIRIT OF MY SOUL. How can I cease to long for thee,

Sweet spirit of my soul,
When life is one vast aching sea

Whose billows o'er me roll ?
How can I cease to yearn i heart,

One smile of thine to see.
When from me all life's hopes depart

As from the shore the sea ?
What joy is there for me to live,

What peace or hope have I ?
Come with thy wealth of love and give,

Or else I long to die.
Come with thy wealth of love to me,

Sweet spirit of my soul,
Ere all the waters of life's sea

Forever o'er me roll.

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JOHN LANDOR KRYDER.

O'er blurr'd past, and wonder if we, BORN: NEW BERLIN, OHIO, DEC. 22, 1833.

Shall meet again sometime, somewhere. By self-study, application and observation, Will rough places all be made smooth, Mr. Kryder gathered the rudiments of his

All leveled and even and fair; education, and at the age of nineteen taught

eteen taught | All envies and crosses forsooth, his first school. For several years thereafter

Be banished, sometime, somewhere. he was engaged in teaching and studying

And all the vows, that have betray'd | medicine. In 1878 he commenced the practice

The ears and hearts of brave and fair. of medicine, and has been engaged thereat

And all the wrecks, that they have made

Restored again, sometime, somewhere.
And wild humors, of idle hours,

That filled the eye with castled air,
And painted rainbows, thro' the showers,

Unfold again, sometime, somewhere.
Will broken loves, and severed ties,

That strew dead seas, with wild despair.
In realms of peace, 'neath azure skies -

Be reconciled, sometime, somewhere.
Fair hope inspires; the eye of faith

Invites the wish, and builds the pray'r,
Love, there shall rule, instead of wrath,
Sighs change to smiles, sometime, some-

where.
Yes, on the verge where two worlds meet,

All things will be made even there:
Serf and King, Priest and Clown, will greet,

On equal terms, sometime, somewhere.
And that far shore of prophetic dreams

With all its myst'ries grand and fair,
Will be disclosed, when best it seems,

In God's good will, sometime, somewhere.

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JOHN LANDOR KRYDER. until the present time. He has written considerable poetry from time to time, more as a recreation when not engaged in the more arduous duties of his profession; these poems have appeared in many leading newspapers and magazines. Dr. Kryder is six feet tall, Weighs 150 pounds, and row resides at Cedarville, Ind.

BY-PAST TIMES
There are treasures in mem'rys urn;
Embalmed with the loves of the past,
And we have lived, to know aud learn,
Their joys were too fragile to last:
Yet while affection's ties remain,

Those by-past times come back again.
Forever o'er the sea of thought,
Like gentle swells of peaceful waves
That hide the wreck and ruin wrought,
By tempest when it fiercest raves,

A heart-calm to unrest and pain,

Comes some sweet by-past time again.
Wonderful sea, Oh! changing tide,
Forever freighted with weal or woe;
Joyous sunbeams dance and ride,
Thy billows crest, or cradle low.
And o'er thy bosom now and then

Floats some sweet by-past time again.
Some idle song in sweet low trills,
That wafts along the shaded years;
Soft as the purl of meeting rills,
Endearing hopes, dissolving fears,

SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. I think to-night of drifted years,

Lying behind in the grave of care, Of life's pages, written in tears,

Torn and scattered, sometime, somewhere.
I hear the night-wind's mournful sob,

Like spirit whisp'rings in the air,
And think me, will this heart's wild throb

Cease soon, and rest, sometime, somewhere.
Low murm'rous voices speak to me,

Is my thoughts go hither and there

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