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Upon this bank I have stood in days gone by;
In youth's bright, happy hours I've wander
JOHN WILLIAM EVERETT. | Borx: CEDAR GROVE, LA., DEC. 13, 1869.
Ix his youth his parents removed their place of abode several times, finally settling in Lake Charles, LA, when the subject of this sketch was sixteen years of ago. His father is editor of The American in that town, and young Everett also resides there. While still
With one who now is sleeping silently
hear! Ah, yes! Upon this bank of rocks and sand,
Beneath the shady trees that bow above, I've kissed her cheeks, and pressed her little
hand, And spoke to her in tender words of love. How often has she knelt to write her name
Upon the ground upon the river's strand, And stood and watched the wavelets as they
came, And washed the writing from the glittering
sand! She knew not then while standing by my side,
And gazing at her name as't disappeared, That her own life, so lovely - and my prideWas pictured there in emblems she had
reared! Ah, life is short! But oh, how beautiful
Is her's to me while memory draws it nigh! How gentle! Oh, how mild and dutiful Was she, who-lovely, darling girl --should
die! Yes, time has borne her from this sacred
place; No longer meet we by the river's shore, No more shall I behold her lovely face, And her sweet voice shall greet me, never
EVENING ON THE CALCASIEU.
The day is done;
The setting sun,
The lowing herds
And twitt'ring birds -
The old saw mill
As death is still, Save sundry hissings now and then;
'Neath the sky blue
Gathers the dew,
Reflects the blue And beauteous sky that bows above,
And from afar
A little star
What is that? Hush!
I hear a slush!
A maiden fair
With golden hair, Sweetly, softly sings, afloat!
- Look, Auntie, at that chicken
With a whatnot on her head." One morning she awakened
And asked when it was light, Had Dod pulled back the turtains
An' shui the stars from sight?"
ROBERT F. JVARRE . BORN: CERULEAN SPRINGS, Ky., FEB. 14, 1869. | MR. WARREN now lives in Belleziew, Ky..
clerking in a dry goods store. He is a great lover of poetry and occasionally writes short poems, more for recreation than fame.
She glides along;
I hear her song,
Soft, rippling waves
Behind she leaves,
On down the stream,
The zephyrs sigh
For her gone by ;-
'Tis calm once more;
The days of yore Crowd past me with their wondrous store;
And, ere we knew,
I wonder who
Perhaps this mound
Upon the ground
With his Red Men,
Made his bed then,
Those Indian men
No doubt have been Often on our river's sheen
The rough canoe
And arrow true,
But what, unseen,
The mirrored sheen,
The zephyrs stir-
I think of her,
The pine's weird voice,
That low, sweet noise,
The wild winds swell
And break the spell --
OUR PILGRIMAGE. We are marching to that lovely land, Where saints are in power - children com
mand; Our feet are ever turned that way
To lead us from this mortal fray. Prestige of glory doth attract our sight,
We are marching with the just, the right, Our swift thought is our guide;
We're walking with Jesus, side by side. Lovely attractions have gone before;
The ones that we love, the ones we adore, Fond recollections to them doth fly; -
We'll join them soon; yes, by and by. 'Tis the vision of Future that makes us true,
And leads us upward from this land of dew; Slowly we march to the heavenly portal Where all is truth, light, immortal.
Who lives in Cedar Grove,
I e'er shall see or love.
And cute as she can be;
She said one day to me.
And then she said . I'spec' I know something you've got
A big corn on your neck?" One day she saw the old hen
With a topknot, and she said:
THE ORPHAN GIRL. Out upon the street in the cold,
Goes our little wanderer, Lately from the dusty mold -
The goods box yonder.
All down Main street,
From those that she meets.
They all pass her by:
Administer to her wailing sigh.
Her age is scarcely seven, Cast out in this dark world
With naught to shelter her but heaven, Her lot, ob it must be drear
For one so delicate and small To stand and not shed a tear
As she watches the snowflakes fall,
Ah, I readily see:
WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON
BORN: NEW YORK CITY, OCT. 7, 1857. EDICATED at Pennington seminary, New Jersey and university of the city of New York,he was married in 1878 to Sue Rockhill, daughter of Capt. 2. Rockhill of New Jersey. For past eight years has been on the editorial staff of New York Tribune. Mr. Johnson has lectured frequently and made many other public addresses. He is the author of several books
To this new world, the victory won.
O hated foeman Fate! Now all is sense, and life, and love, And footsteps unrestrained rove;
O baffled Fate! And where I lead, Fate follows me, Myself and lord of destiny.
O baffled, vanquished fate!
And when above the yawning chasm,
Dreaming each rude and ragged dint Through the coming years' unceasing march Would herald his deathless fame.
But the name was only read
By eagles in their flight,
And buried it out of sight.
In careless leisure my name I trace
And I know the ink may quickly fade,
In a thousand ways my pen's poor toil May come to naught, and a vacant place Alone wait the coming age.
But my name, I trust, shall live,
Safe kept in memory's shrine;
Shall have faded this fleeting line.
WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON. and scores of poems which have had wide circulation in the periodical press of America and England. In person he is slightly under average size, but robust and athletic in a notable degree, with hair and eyes nearly black. Mr. Johnson in winter lives in Brooklyn, N, Y., and in summer divides his time between mountains and sea-shore.
AUTUMN. The aster glows the falling leaves beneath, The golden rod gleams by the hedgerow
brown, As tho' the dying summer in the frost king's
Had hurled her gauntlet down. So when'the shades of solemn silence sink
Upon us, and we reach life's latest breath, The soul exultant bids, e'en on the grave's
Defiance unto death! We perish not. The mounting spirit towers
In conscious immortality sublime, And gains beyond death's feeble, fleeting,
winter hours Eternal summer time.
O tyrant Fate!
O cruel tyrant Fate!
() foeman Fate! And fought my way, ere set of sun,
IN BOHEMIA. I am rich; who says me nay? I have bread to eat each day, Water from the mountain rill, Woman's lips to kiss at will,
As mind's pinions are unfurled,
Russet garb, and couch of moss,
THE STONES OF MANHATTAN. I tread the stones of Manhattan; I, who have !
journeyed far From the meadow-sward and the moss bank,
and the streamlet's pebbly bar; I, who have wandered hither, allured by the
tales they told Of how the stones of Manhattan were reeking
with ruddy gold.
BOOKS AND BINDINGS. On my study shelves they stand, Well-known all to eye and hand, Bound in gorgeous cloth of gold, In morocco rich and old, Some in paper, plain and cheap, Some in muslin, calf and sheep; Volumes great and volumes small Ranged along my study wall; But their contents are past finding By the size or by the binding. There is one with gold agleam, Like the Sangreal in a dream, Back and boards in every part Triumph of the binder's art; Costing more, 't is well believed, Then the author e'er received. But its contents? Idle tales, Flapping of a shallop's sails! In the treasury of learning Scarcely worth a penny's turning. Here's a tome in paper plain, Soiled and torn and marred with stain, Cowering from each statelier book In the darkest, dustiest nook. Take it down, and lo! each page Breathes the wisdom of a sage! Weighed a thousand times in gold, Half its worth would not be told, For all truth of ancient story Crowns each line with deathless glory. On my study shelves they stand; But my study walls expand,
I tread the stones of Manhattan, the stones
that are hard to my feet,As hard as the hearts around me, as hard as i
the faces I meet. Hot is their breath in summer, with fever of
selfish greed, Cold is their touch in winter, as hearts to the
hand of need. My heel strikes fire from the flint, but the
spark is dead ere it burns,Strikes fire in my angry striding, but is bruis
ed by the stone it spurns.And echo scorns with a stony voice the cry of
a soul's despair Breathed out on the thunderous throbbings of
the city's desert air. Oh! faithless stones of Manhattan, that tempt
ed my boyish feet Away from the clover-meadow,from the wind
woven waves of wheat! I thought ye a golden highway; I find ye the
path of shame, Where souls are sold for silver, and gold is the
price of fame! But my weary feet must tread ye, as slaves on
the quarry floor, And my aching brain must suffer your piti.
less uproar, Till the raving tide shall sweep above, and
careless feet shall tread On the fatal stones of Manhattan, over my
POETS UNKNOWN TO FAME. Who questions if a brazen trumpet sound,
Or silver clarion, or pipe of reed, When echoes linger 'mid the Switzer hills? Who seeks the poet's name or native bound,
So but his song be melody indeed, And his inspired word the spirit thrills?
LOUIS X. CRILL, JR. Borx: SPRAGUEVILLE, IOWA, JUNE 3, 1867. · Loris engaged in the mercantile business in
1842, and is the proprietor of a general merchandise store in Richland, Dakota, where he now resides with his wife, whom he married in 1888. He has but recently commenced to court the muse, yet bis writings have in a
To show the world in deed and name
That woman's in the van. When you grow up, my darling boy,
Stand firm for truth and right; Disdain the fact that mother's joy
Is tinged with one sad blight. Endeavor with your strength sincere
To abrogate the laws
A slave to any cause.
In justice always scorn,
Until a good is born.
Posterity may call Upon the men whose earnest deeds
Gave equal rights to all.
BORDER ECHOES. Ripples of laughter will echo, in a valley of
anguish and pain; Carols of birds rent the air, when with sorrow
the sky is aflame. Nations are boasting in luxury, while its
sovereigns are living in need; Liberty sits on its pedal, while the millions in
serfdom do bleed. Musical strains aro vibrating, while the notes
of distress reek the air; Sunshine is sending its blessing, and the
shadows of trouble are there. Great are the names of the wealthy, but hum
ble the tiller of soil; Pinioned are angels of fortune, but wingless
the daughters of toil. Gilded the rainbow of hope, that bows o'er a
life of despair; Sweet are the songs of the birds that warble
in seasons of care. Gay are the symbols of fashion, in a city of
mis'ry and pain; Grand the cathedrals of state, while the poor
live in hovels of shame. Rosy the tint of the sunset, that is domed in
the sky of the west; Drifted away by the breezes are the clouds of
dismay and distress. Noble the man of the present, that is free
from illusion and guilė; Soothing the proffer of kindness, in an hour
of misfortune and trial. Robed in the mantle of glory, is the goddess of
justice and right; Chased by the light of the morning, is the
darkness and gloom of the night. Onward humanity struggles, through the
mist and the storm do they glide; Tossed on the waves of the ocean, and then drifted ashore by the tide.
MOTHER'S ADVICE. When you grow up, my darling boy,
To manhood, good and true, You'll find your sister don't enjoy
The rights by justice due; You'll find it true that custom gives,
To man the higher place; That woman only strives, and lives
To perish in the race.
The products of her brain;
Beside her brother, man;