JOHN WILLIAM EVERETT. BORN: 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 JOHN WILLIAM EVERETT. in the university at Waco, Texas, he contributed several poems to the local press. He next attended the Mississippi college at Clinton, where he continued his studies as a theological student, a profession he intends to follow. Besides his poetic writings, he has contributed prose to various publications; and he has published a musical composition. REFLECTIONS. ON THE BANKS OF THE AMITE RIVER. Tis late; the sun is sinking in the west; The wind moans lonesome through the waving trees; The twit ring birds have hushed to seek their rest; The swallow's wing beats homeward on the breeze. The river moans and ripples as it flows; Upon this bank I have stood in days gone by; In youth's bright, happy hours I've wandered here, 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 Was built by some old chieftain, who, With his Red Men, 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, It makes me sad, yet I rejoice! I rise to go; sweet scene, farewell! MAMIE. 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; And then she said..I 'spec' With a topknot, and she said: 46 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' shut the stars from sight?" ROBERT F. WARREN. BORN: CERULEAN SPRINGS, KY., FEB. 14, 1869. MR. WARREN now lives in Belleview, Ky., clerking in a dry goods store. He is a great lover of poetry and occasionally writes short poems, more for recreation than fame. OUR PILGRIMAGE. We are marching to that lovely land, Our feet are ever turned that way 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. THE ORPHAN GIRL. All down Main street, And to the poor girl comes not a word The stout, the wealthy, the great, They all pass her by; Nor will those of her own state O think of the poor orphan girl! Cast out in this dark world With naught to shelter her but heaven. Her lot, oh 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. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON BORN: NEW YORK CITY, OCT. 7, 1857. EDUCATED at Pennington seminary, New Jersey and university of the city of New York,he was married in 1878 to Sue Rockhill, daughter of Capt. Z. 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 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. THE VICTOR. In the old world, when I was dead, All senseless, soulless, save to be O cruel tyrant Fate! Then dawned my birthday, and to life I sprang, and unto doomful strife; O foeman Fate! And fought my way, ere set of sun, 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! NAMES. '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 flint, 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 And I know the ink may quickly fade, But my name, I trust, shall live, 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 teeth 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 Eternal summer time. 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, I am rich; who says me nay? I am rich; who says me nay? I am rich; who says me nay? I am rich; who says me nay? Prince, thy bounty I decline! -- BOOKS AND BINDINGS. Some in paper, plain and cheap, There is one with gold agleam, Here's a tome in paper plain, Soiled and torn and marred with stain, As mind's pinions are unfurled, 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. I tread the stones of Manhattan, the stones that are hard to my feet, As hard as the hearts around me, as hard as 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 bruised 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 tempted my boyish feet Away from the clover-meadow, from the windWoven 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? LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. LOUIS N. CRILL, JR. BORN: SPRAGUEVILLE, IOWA, JUNE 3, 1867. LOUIS engaged in the mercantile business in 1882, 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 his writings have in a LOUIS N. CRILL, JR. comparatively short time appeared extensively in many prominent publications, including the New York Truth Seeker, Sturdy Oak, and the American Nonconformist. In person Mr. Crill is five feet ten inches in height, weighs 175 pounds, and has dark hair and eyes. MOTHER'S ADVICE. When you grow up, my darling boy, To show the world in deed and name When you grow up, my darling boy, 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. BORDER ECHOES. 91 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 are 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 humble 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 guile; 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. |