MRS. MATTIE L. BAILEY.

BORN: PEKIN, N. Y., DEC. 18, 1844. BORN within sound of Niagara Falls and edueated 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

MRS. MATTIE L. BAILEY. the local press of Michigan, Indiana and Kansas. A woman of decidedly quiet domestic tastes and habits, Mrs. Bailey has written mainly for relief and pleasure of expression. She has had three children, one of whom is now living-Robert Victor, a bright child, of nine years of age, who is gifted with remarkable oratorical powers.

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.

So varied were the woes 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.

O, Love divine! O, thorn-crowned head,
O, radiant cross upraised for me;
O, precious blood on Calvary shed,
Up from the depths, I fly to thee.

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, move slow, move slow!

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.

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!

Inspired by his duty and trav'ling alone,

Rode a hero, unknown, with his warning to all,

But the number who harkened and listened was small.

Came the rushing of waters - their thundering 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!!"

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He dashed like a war-maddened Chippewa

brave,

For his was a duty to rescue and save;
Nor looked he 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.
O, 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.

COMPLIMENT YOUR WIFE.

If you'd have her 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:

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.

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.

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 up a 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!

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 in 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,

JOHN LANDOR KRYDER.

BORN: NEW BERLIN, OHIO, DEC. 22, 1833. BY self-study, application and observation, Mr. Kryder gathered the rudiments of his education, and at the age of nineteen taught This first school. For several years thereafter he was engaged in teaching and studying medicine. In 1858 he commenced the practice of medicine, and has been engaged thereat

O'er blurr'd past, and wonder if we,

Shall meet again sometime, somewhere. Will rough places all be made smooth, All leveled and even and fair; All envies and crosses forsooth,

Be banished, sometime, somewhere. And all the vows, that have betray'd

The ears and hearts of brave and fair. 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 skiesBe reconciled, sometime, somewhere. Fair hope inspires; the eye of faith

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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.

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 now resides at Cedarville, Ind.

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,
As my thoughts go hither and there

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,