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EARL MARBLE.

BORN: OHIO. Is his youth Earl Marble worked at setting type on some of the leading newspapers, and later this journalist edited a humorous publication, American Punch. In 1880 he became editor of Folio, a musical journal, which position he held for seven years. He

. Abijah Dunn! Abijah Dunn!

So shot a summons through the air
Long hours before my later one

To see the sun's bright rising glare.
- Abijah Dunn!” This summoned him

To greater glory than the sun's,
| Spilled over the horison's rim,

As up the sky he glowing runs.
• Abijah Dunn!" The midnight bleak

Stood still a moment as the Voice
Came down the old man's soul to seek,

And bear to realms where all rejoice.
“ Abijah Dunn!” The hovel dark

Brief moments surged with spirit light, And then, forever, cares that cark

Were drowned in blisses that requite. .. Abijah Dunn! came higher up!

Thine earthly house meets not thy needs; Dire want has filled thine earthly cup,

But heaven's o'erflows with souls of deeds.
Thine earthly hut possessions built,

Of which, alas! but poor thy part;
Thy heavenly house, with richest gift

Adorned, is built of what thou art.

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Abijah, great Jehovah's son!-
For such thy name's significance -
Thy father, here, Abijah Dunn,

Hath kept thee an inheritance,
And taken from thy life below

A thought or act, as love did warm,
Its walls to deck; as thou didst grow,

Its shape enlarged to grander form.
« Abijah Dunn! Abijah Dunn!

That window toward morn's brightest skies, The glass-like diamonds in the sun,

Came when thou bidst one hopeless rise, And turn his gaze to glory's realm;

And yon bright room, so sweet within,

Grew like Aladdin's when life's helm,
EARL MARBLE,

Thou seized, and steered from shoals of sin. has contributed much in stories, verse and . Abijah Dunn! dost thou recall sketch to the Independent, Youth's Compan

A smile that dried a poor child's tears? ion, Appleton's Journal, Lippincott's Maga- | That smile, a picture on the wall, zine, Detroit Free Press and other publications.

Will sing of sunshine through long years. In addition to his published operettas, songs Rememberest thou a fallen one, etc., he has written a musical comedy. Mr.

Long since returned to kindly dust, Marble is at at present editor or the Lead

With whom thou shared, Abijah Dunn, ville Herald-Democrat.

When others sneered, thine only crust;

.. From tears of thankfulness she shed .. A HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS.”

| Grew trees whose fruits like pearls catch - Abijah Dunn; Abijah Dunn!

light, Where art thou this bright Summer morn? And o'er the walks that thou wilt tread Awake and greet the rising sun,

Dispel forever aught like night, Whose rays both earth and sky adorn." And throw their gleam to towers that grew Beneath his porch, since toddling child,

When aspiration with thee dwelt, I oft had lingered for awhile,

And windows catching heaven's blue Charmed by his glance, as woman's mild, When eyes looked whence the suppliant And more than woman's sweet smile.

knelt.

.. Abijah Dunn! thy home is here,

• Not made with hands,' but builded, lo! Above earth's labors, year by year,

As thou didst toward fulfillment grow." Ah! blest at last whose lives be true!

And sad those lost in earthly rust! Those builded better than they knew," And these find but decay and dust.

CALLIE L. BONNEY-MARBLE.

BORN: PEORIA, ILL. THIS lady has written a great many poems, stories and sketches for the Voice of Masonry and Family Magazine, Youth's Companion, Wide Awake, Boston Transcript, Living Church, Chicago Times, Inter-Ocean, and the leading periodicals of America. Two prose

And, early at the service,

She gave me bow and smile.
The sexton old had vanished,

The organist asleep;
I asked if ancient customs

It were not well to keep. - Oh, yes," she gravely answered;

.. To which do you refer?" .. To one the Greeks now practice;

'Tis pleasing ) aver." Oh! something quaint and olden!

And could we do it here?" Slyly I glanced about us,

And saw no one was near. .. I think we might," I answered;

For how could I resist? I wonder if the preacher

Knew some one had been kissed!

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GOOD-NIGHT.
The golden gleam of the western sun

In a flood of amber light,
Streamed softly in at the window, where

It lingered to say good-night. And slowly, sweetly the vesper bell

Rang out in the evening air, While floating upward the music came

Like the sound of an angel's prayer.
Then over the misty clouds of pearl,

In a glorious wave of light,
The daylight faded from earth away,

And was lost in the starry night.
And clearly, softly the day went home,

With its record of joy and pain,Written in shadow or gleaming light,

The eternal loss and gain.

CALLIE L. BONNEY-MARBLE. works from her pen, Wit and Wisdom of Bulwer and Wisdom and Eloquence of Webster, have been highly praised by the press. In 1889 she was married at San Francisco to Earl Marble, a well-known poet and journalist. As a writer of prose and verse Mrs. Marble is gaining a national reputation.

UNDER THE MISTLETOE. I stood beneath the mistletoe,

Nay, do not chide me! How should I know that one would come

And stand beside me?
How should I know that he would claim

The forfeit from me?
To surmise even such a thing

Would ill become me.
And then you know the Christmas song,

Of Peace, good will toward men," Kept running through my mind, mayhap

Obscuring mental ken.
The circumstance, not I, to blame

That there should be I trow,
A kiss, a vow, a promised bride
Beneath the mistletoe.

AN EASTER CUSTOM. I met her Easter morning In the old cathedral isle,

MRS. DORCAS FOSTER COOKE.

BORN: SOMERSET CO., ME., MAY 25, 1839. MRS. COOKE is a resident of Oconto, Wis., where her husband is a nurseryman and farmer. Since her twentieth year the pro

INDIAN SUMMER. Indian summer's golden days,

Tho' the leaves are sere and brown, The lonely heart now breathes thy praise,

Blue-crested jays scream thy renown. Oh! blest incensed reviving air;

Than balmy June's most perfumed flower, That lines the walks, thou art more fair,

Indian summer's golden hours. Indian summer's golden hours,

How soft thy breeze o'er smoky hill, Bears autumn leaves and wrecks of flowers,

Ere winters breath comes cold and chill. I love thy tints, thy sweet perfume,

Thy dimmest ray, thy loudest tone; Thy voiceless morn, thy mellow moon, Indian summer's golden day.

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HUBBARD ALONZO BARTON.

BORN: CROYDON, N. H., MAY 1, 1842. For many years this gentleman held the position of superintendent of schools. In 1879 he became the editor and one of the proprietors of the N. H. Argus and Spectator.

MRS. DORCAS FOSTER COOKE. ductions of this lady have appeared more or less in the periodical press. In 1888 she published, in conjunction with Mrs. Julia Ellen Jenkins, a neat volume of poems entitled Memories, a work that has been well and favorably received.

DROPS OF DEW.
Radiant spark of trembling light,

Little silver spray;
The spear of knot grass' shining bright

In gorgeous array.
As diamond bright it does entrance,

The various rays combine,
Garnet and topas at a glance,

With violets do entwine.
Yes, there's the ruby's clearest hue,

And amethyst so gay,
And sapphires ever changing too,

The emerald; but stay,
It all in one bright rainbow seems,

And by the breezes tossed,
Like sudden gleams on life's dark stream,

Is quickly, strangely lost.

FLAG OF OUR COUNTRY. O flag of our country and emblem of glory! How dear to my heart is the shrine thou

infold, How noble the deeds enbalmed in thy story,

How sacred thy trust to the millons untold. The Royal of Britain may cause admiration To well in the heart of the Englishman's

breast; The German Inperial point admonition To the foe that would dare that nation's

behest. The Stars and the Stripes have a far grander

meaning: They stand for freedom and liberty's law; For learning and progress and Christ's spirit

gleaming, The grand, hailing future our forefather's

saw. They tell of a nation whose glory and

grandeur Are known in remotest abodes of the earth, Whose blessings are shed on the poor and the

stranger, As well as the rich and the subjects by birth. Then guard ever well our lov'd ensign of free

dom, Protect the proud emblem on land and by

sea, Sing its praises in song and hopeful Te Deum, And long let it wave o'er the land of the

free.

MRS. CLARA KING-TAYLOR.

BORN: HARTFORD, Conn., JAN. 4, 1866. This lady was married in 1886 to William H. Taylor, secretary of the Connecticut Weekly Press Association, and resides at Rockville, Conn. Mrs. Taylor is a gifted writer, and has gained quite a reputation as an author, writing with equal success both poetry and prose. She is undoubtedly the best known poetess and writer of her age in New England.

As a preacher, teacher, power,

In the field of usefulness. We would see its numbers widen

In good work and motive pure; Without difference or envy,

It must succeed and endure.

REV. TRUEMAN S. PERRY.

BORN: OXFORD, ME., DEC. 20,1898. In 1861 Mr. Perry was appointed one of the clerks of the U. S. senate, at the same time acting as correspondent for the Portland Press, Transcript, Washington Chronicle and other papers. In 1873 he was ordained as a Congrational clergyman, laboring for twelve years at Cumberland, and is now a pastor of the above demomination at Limerick, Me. He was married in 1854 to Miss Elizabeth G. Hale.

INDEPENDENCE DAY.
Hail to thee, glowing eastern sun,

Thou king of light,
Send out thy gleams o'er us, great orb,

Thy rays most bright.
Goddess of peace and union fair,

Wave high to-day
The banner of thy freedom strong,

In colors gay.
Shout now for liberty anew,

Thy anthems swell;
One hundred years and 'leven ago

Oppression fell.
Fathers felt the fetters loose,

The tyrant quailed,
He dropped the sword to fight no more;

Our rights prevailed. This is our Independence day,

Reminder dear
Of hours when faithful hearts fought long

Without a fear.
They loved thy true and noble cause,

Sweet Liberty,
May we in every future year

Be true to thee.

THE PRESS.
Genius, wisdom, wit and humor,

Sparkle in the timely toast,
As they grace the well-filled table, .

Which the Tontine well can boast.
The Connecticut Weekly Press

Might honor a royal board; Its value to the state and home

Is mightier than the sword. To-day the Association

Has met; and this its object: Mutual gain and protection;

To bless the Craft, its project. The want of fraternal concourse

Will no longer cloud the skies; The light of growing ambition

Will kindle new enterprise. Friendship, strength will crown the union,

Raise the standard of the press

SILVER. Five and twenty years have sped, Gentle heart, since we were wed! Some in shade, but more in light, Some bedimmed, but more bedight; Five and twenty years have run Since the day that made us one. I will weave a simple lay, Wifie mine, for thee to-day: Glad and thankful shall it be, Time has touched us sparingly; He has stolen away our youth, He has left us love and truth. Loyal faith and tender love, Fortune's golden gifts above, More than praise of sweetest tongue, More than plaudits said or sung; These have made us rich alway, These our treasures are to-day. Blessings on thee, gentle wife, Who hast crowned with love my life, Shared each sorrow and annoy, Doubled for me every joy, Sweetness of the sweet lang syne, Blessings on thee, heart of mine. Unto Him whose will benign Made thee mine, and made me thine, Who has filled our lot with weal, Made us loving, kept us leal, Kindly led us on our way, Render we our thanks to-day. Thanks to God for years gone by, For these moments now that fly; May He guide us hand in hand, Journeying toward the better land, Keep us still in trust and love,Bring us to the home above.

ALICE W. ROLLINS. Praying again to be its patient guest.
BORN: BOSTON, MASS., JUNE 12, 1847.

And as my senses wake,
ALICE WELLINGTON was taught by her father. | The beautiful glad soul to take,
and completed her studies in Europe. She

The twilight falls: taught for several years in Boston, and in 1876

A lonely wood-thrush calls married Daniel M. Rollins of New York. The

The day away. Ring of Amethyst is the title of her volume of | Where hast thou been to-day, poems. She has written several prose works. | O soul of mine?" I wondering question her.

She will not answer while the iight winds stir INDIAN SUMMER.

And rustle near to hear what she may say. Linger, 0 day!

Thou needst not linger, day!
Let not thy purple haze

My soul and I
Fade utterly away.

Would hold high converse of diviner things The Indian summer lays

Than blossom underneath thy tender sky. Her tender touch upon the emerald hills,

Unfold thy wings;
Exquisite thrills

Wrap softly round thyself thy delicate haze, Of delicate gladness fill the blue-veined air. And gliding down the slowly darkening ways, More restful even than rest,

Vanish away!
The passionate sweetness that is everywhere.
Soft splendors in the west

JOHN BURROUGHS.
Touch with the charm of coming changefulness

BORN: ROXBURY, N. Y., APRIL 3, 1837.
The yielding hills.
O linger, day!

AFTER receiving an academic education, John
Let not the dear

taught school eight or nine years, and then beDelicious languor of thy dreamfulness

came a journalist in New York. For ten years

he was a clerk in the treasury department at Vanish away! Serene and clear,

Washington, and at the end of that time was The brooding stillness of the delicate air,

appointed receiver of a national bank. In 1874 Dreamier than the dreamiest depths of sleep

he settled on a farm in Esopus, N. Y., devoting Fall softly everywhere.

bis time to literature and fruit culture, except Still let me keep

the months when his duties as bank-examiner One little hour longer tryst with thee,

called him away. He has issued several volO day of days!

umes of prose, and has contributed largely Lean down to me,

both prose and verse to periodicals. In tender beauty of thy amethyst haze Upon the vine

WAITING.
Rich clinging clusters of the ripening grape

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Hang silent in the sun,

Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;
But in each one

(wine,

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, Beats with full throb the quickening purple

For lo! my own shall come to me. Whose pulse shall round the perfect fruit to I stay my haste, I make delays, shape.

For what avails this eager pace?
Too dreamy even to dream.

I stand amid the eternal ways,
I hear the murmuriag bee and gliding stream; And what is mine shall know my face.
The singing silence of the afternoon,

Asleep, awake, by night or day
Lulling my yielding senses till they swoon

The friends I seek are seeking me:
Into still decper rest.

No wind can drive my bark astray,
While soul released from sense,

Nor change the tide of destiny.
Passionate and intense,

What matter if I stand alone?
With quick exultant quiver in its wings,

I wait with joy the coming years;
Prophetic longing for diviner things,

My heart shall reap where it has sown,
Escapes the unthinking breast;

And garner up its fruit of tears.
Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist,
But shrinks before the keen, cold ether, kissed

The waters know their own and draw
By burning stars; delirious foretaste

The brook that springs in yonder height; Of joys the soul - too eager in its haste

So flows the good with equal law To grasp ere won by the diviner right [bear.

Unto the soul of pure delight. Of birth through death - is far too weak to The stars come nightly to the sky: Bathed in earth's lesser light,

The tidal wave unto the sea; Slipping down slowly through the shining air, Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Once more it steals into the dreaming breast, Can keep my own away from me.

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