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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,
So bitterly with me.
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,
Thus granted in thy word.
By sorrows here! Who suffers most,
May of God's favor boast.
Who knelt in dark Gethsemane;
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.
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
[again, The golden head is nestled on my breast;
Wild are the winds that 'round me blow, High roll the waves that buffet me,
Why, Lord, why is it so ?
My days devoid of all delight,
Goes out in darkest night.
I stretch my longing arms in vain;
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,
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;
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,
And call our own,
And soonest flown!
And pray and yearn,
Which we should spurn.
And dare not face,
And needed grace.
Nor all perceive,
When we receive.
And follow fast,
With dark o'ercast.
And cast away,
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;-
Glad, golden gleams,
The hours away:--
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.
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.
With a husband that's loving and true;
And a girl that is willing to do.
Who'll toil and not grumble,
Who is willing to labor and wait;
And to brave with her every fate.
A man who is steady, and more;
And kindle the fire;
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.
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,
Whose billows o'er me roll ?
One smile of thine to see.
As from the shore the sea ?
What peace or hope have I ?
Or else I long to die.
Sweet spirit of my soul,
Forever o'er me roll.
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.
That filled the eye with castled air,
Unfold again, sometime, somewhere.
That strew dead seas, with wild despair.
Be reconciled, sometime, somewhere.
Invites the wish, and builds the pray'r,
All things will be made even there:
On equal terms, sometime, somewhere.
With all its myst'ries grand and fair,
In God's good will, sometime, somewhere.
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.
Those by-past times come back again.
A heart-calm to unrest and pain,
Comes some sweet by-past time again.
Floats some sweet by-past time again.
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.
Like spirit whisp'rings in the air,
Cease soon, and rest, sometime, somewhere.
Is my thoughts go hither and there