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Upon this bank I have stood in days gone by;

In youth's bright, happy hours I've wander

ed here,


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
Beneath the sod, whose voice I'll never

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


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The day is done;

The setting sun,
Growing red, sinks out of view;

The lowing herds

And twitt'ring birds -
I hear them on the Calcasieu.

The old saw mill

As death is still, Save sundry hissings now and then;

'Neath the sky blue

Gathers the dew,
Glittering in the sunlight's sheen.

The Calcasieu

Reflects the blue And beauteous sky that bows above,

And from afar

A little star
Reflected, seems to speak of love.

What is that? Hush!

I hear a slush!
I look; I see a little boat;

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,
It dies away upon the river:

Soft, rippling waves

Behind she leaves,
That makes the shadows dance and

'Neath starry beam,

On down the stream,
The lovely maiden fades away;

The zephyrs sigh

For her gone by ;-
I bid farewell her gentle lay.

'Tis calm once more;

The days of yore Crowd past me with their wondrous store;

And, ere we knew,

I wonder who
Dwelt on this beauteous Calcasieu?

Perhaps this mound

Upon the ground
Was built by some old chieftain, who,

With his Red Men,

Made his bed then,
Upon the banks of Calcasieu!

Those Indian men

No doubt have been Often on our river's sheen

The rough canoe

And arrow true,
Borne on our lovely Calcasieu.

But what, unseen,

The mirrored sheen,
Breaks into myriad ripples, bright ?

The zephyrs stir-

I think of her,
Who passed away into the night!

The pine's weird voice,

That low, sweet noise,
It makes me sad, yet I rejoice!

The wild winds swell

And break the spell --
I rise to go; sweet scene, farewell!

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.

My little cousin Mamie,

Who lives in Cedar Grove,
Is the sweetest little creature

I e'er shall see or love.
She's five-year-old or over,

And cute as she can be;
I'll tell you something funny

She said one day to me.
She saw a mole upon 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.
Her pitiful cries are heard

All down Main street,
And to the poor girl comes not a word

From those that she meets.
The stout, the wealthy, the great, -

They all pass her by:
Nor will those of her own state

Administer to her wailing sigh.
O think of the poor orphan girl!

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,
What will be her fate?

Ah, I readily see:
She will open the golden gate
And quickly hide from thee.

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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!

'Neath the Natural Bridge's dizzy arch
A youth once carved his name;

And when above the yawning chasm,
He hung, as if with life's last spasm,
He struck his knife into the fint,

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 within the year the lichens grew

And buried it out of sight.


In careless leisure my name I trace
On a perishable page;

And I know the ink may quickly fade,
Or the leaf be torn, or the book mislaid,
Or fire may burn, or flood despoil -

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;
Full many a year after ruthless fate

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

black brink,

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.

In the old world, when I was dead,
I followed where my fortune led;

O tyrant Fate!
All senseless, soulless, save to be
Slave of capricious destiny.

O cruel tyrant Fate!
Then dawned my birthday, and to life
I sprang, and unto doomful strife;

() 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,
Till they compass all the world.
Endless files go marching by,
Men of lowly rank amd high,
Some in broadcloth, gem-adorned,
Some in homespun, fortune-scorned;
But God's scales that all are weighed in
Heed not what each man's arrayed in.

Russet garb, and couch of moss,
Treasures free from rust or loss --
Why should not my life be gay?
I am rich; who says me nay?
I am rich; who says me nay?
Friends have I in long array -
Sun, and rain, and cloud and dew,
Fields of green and skies of blue;
Pictures drawn by nature's hand;
Bocks the soul may understand,
And a life-long holiday --
I am rich; who says me nay?
I am rich; who says me nay?
Whom have I to envy pray?
Crown encumbered king? or sage
Poring o'er the midnight page?
Midas starving with his gold?
Better far, a thousand fold,
Is Bohemia than Cathay?
I am rich; who says me nay?

Prince, thy bounty I decline!
Quaff with me this rustic wine!
Equals thou and I to-day -
I am rich; who says me nay?

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

dreamless bed!

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
That make a woman's life appear

A slave to any cause.
When you grow up, my darling boy.

In justice always scorn,
And ev'ry wrong try to destroy,

Until a good is born.
Remember that in future needs

Posterity may call Upon the men whose earnest deeds

Gave equal rights to all.

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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.
When you grow up, my darling boy,
. Admit the truth so plain,
That woman's rights are to employ

The products of her brain;
To feast in banquet halls of fame,

Beside her brother, man;

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