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BORN: CORNISH, ME., Nov. 15, 1838. AFTER teaching school for a while Mr. Browne studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1862. Four years later he was married to Miss Emily M. Blazo. Mr. Browne now resides in Boston with his wife and daughter. Since his youth Mr. Browne has been an occasional contributor of both verse and prose to various literary and other publications.

TO A DROP OF DEW, Pearl of the skies! Gift of the swarthy night, To glow and sparkle in the misty light, Amid the tresses of the fair-haired morn! What gem so rare her beauty could adorn? For thou art fairer on the grassy lea, Than were thy charming rival of the sea.

Now pendant shining on the slender blade,
Reflecting tints in changing light and shade,
Of diamond, ruby, emerald, sapphire, seen
Like tiny jewels of some fairy queen -
Too pure and beautiful to be of earth,
Thou gem etherial had in heaven thy birth!

SUNLIGHT DRIVES THE MIST AWAY. I stood at night by the river,

Under a storm-cast sky; The wind that swept thro' the tree tops,

Gave forth a dismal sigh;
Darker and black grew the storm-clouds,

Loud did the thunders peal,
Vividly bright flashed the lightnings,

That made the strong oaks reel;
Angry and fierce did the tempest,

Its pent-up wrath outpour,
Till the river swelled to a torrent,

Rushed by with deat'ning roar;
But I felt not wind nor raindrops,

Against my hot brow sent,
For deep locked within my bosom,

A fiercer storm was pent;
And darker far than the night storm

Was earth and life to me,
Till I longed but for oblivion

To come and set me free;
I longed for the surging river,

To take me on its tide,
And bear me away to the ocean.

Out on its billows wide;
To forget and be forgotten,

As they who stop and drink of the fabled Lethean waters,

And then forget to think.
Thus by the river at midnight,

Under a storm-cast sky,
I watched by the lightning's flashes

The wild tide rushing by.
Again I stood by the river,

Under a star-lit sky,
When the storm had spent its fury,

And clouds had all passed by;
The waters had ceased their tumult,

The wind had gone to rest,
The rumbling thunders had sunken

To silence in the west;
I watched the stars in the heavens

Grow dim and fade away,
As up through the eastern gateway,

Old Sol brought in the day;
And as the mist on the river,

Kissed by the morning's ray, Went floating adown the valley,

Then broke and passed away. Just so the gloom and the shadows,

That make our lives like night,
Will some day lift and be scattered

By that all-piercing light,
That comes from beyond the tempest,

Beyond the stars and sun,
To lead us home to our Father,

When life and work are done.
And thus I stood by the river,

Under a morning sky,
Unrest had gone with the tempest,

God's love and peace were nigh.

Spirit of purity wandering in disguise,
With no abiding place in earth or skies:
This morn a gem of sparkling, purest ray;
This noon but vapor boundless space away-
At eve descending to the earthy plane,
At morn ascending to the skies again!

Now heavenward soaring on the zephyr's

wingNow sparkling in the depths of woodland

spring Now with the cloud, upon its steed, the wind, Circling the world, new scenes and climes to

find, Now in the glittering crystal of the frost Now in the ocean wave by tempest tossed.

Shining at eve in sunset's glory splendid -
Now in the rainbow's gorgeous colors blended,
In sun-lit shower now falling from the sky-
Now in the tears of wan-faced sorrow's eye-
Beginning now the petals of the rose-
Now in the lily's cup seeking repose.

Thou thing etherial glowing on this flower,
So evanescent, changing with the hour,
I fain would pluck thee in thy beauty rare,
To deck, in splendor, bright Maude Marion's

hairArt gone! rude Eos, from its dainty cup, Like Egypt's queen, has drunk her jewel up.

A. A. WOODBRIDGE, PHD. But ef anything should happen to any of

them pals, BORN: NEWCASTLE, ME., JULY 20, 1840.

I never should forgive myself, I know; At the age of seventeen Mr. Woodbridge For cribs is mighty plenty in that city full uv taught school, and upon graduating entered

sin, the teacher's profession. He was principal

And them boys kin make a cyclone think of Richmond academy five years; professor of

she's slow. classics in Gorham's seminary one year; principal of Rockland high school five years; pres

'Taint es 1 am any better jest because I kep' ident of Maine Educational Association, and

the ranch, An' did'nt go to Frisco on a tear. I've ben thar too, an' you kin bet I'm dealin'

from the top, When I tell ye I an' Sandy made a pair. Pizen an' Indjans! did'nt we have - no, that

ain't jest the thing, Poor Sandy's off his roost, an' you kin swar, That when a feller's planted, I ain't givin'

him away,
Especially when he allus dealt 'em squar.
'Twas a Sunday mornin', jest like this when

Sandy quit the game,
An' everything was quiet as the dead,
An'a shower er gold-dust could'nt er beat

the sunshine as it dropped,
Through the scrub-oak leaves awigglin' over-

head. All on sudden, Sandy sez, -sez he, old pard,

come here." He'd ben rastlin' with a fever more'n a week, An' this mornin' arter sunnin he'd been actin'

kind er queer; It had ben two days he had'nt tried to speak. Sez he, old pard, I'm goin'- I shall break

camp 'fore an hour. There, jest shet down that wood mill, and

don't fuss. ABIEL A. WOODBRIDGE, PH.D.

I'm dyin'— that's the English on't, an' one conductor of teacher's institutes and educa

thing I must tell tional lecturer several years. He has been Afore the boys git 'round to raise a muss." associate editor and contributor to some of the leading periodicals of America. In 1877 he took a voyage to the coast of Africa and spent a year in trade and travel. Returning

THE IMMORTAL. to America he again entered the educational Ever-living snow-capped Sierra! field, in which work he continued until 1887, Ever-living? or everlasting? when he became connected with a large pub Is it living? or is it lasting? lishing house in Boston. As a lecturer Mr. Pan me the truth and throw over the error. Woodbridge has gained a national reputation. His lectures and sketches of travel are gen

Wintry-locked seer! Are you eternal?

No? What am I then?" Once you were erally enlivened by a vein of humor, and are

youthful. always enjoyable.

Come, now, let's reason. Let us be truthful. SANDY'S WILL.

Read me the rock-records locked in your Wal, the boys have gone to 'Frisco, and left

journal. me on the dump.

Leaf after leaf, to the birthday- the vernal, 'Taint their fault, fur they wanted me to go; | Back through the roll of the infinite ages, But I seemed to feel as ef I wanted jest about Down to the plastic, the single-word pages a week

Warm from the womb of the molten materTo listen and to talk to Placer Joe.




MRS. KETTIE C. FISHER. THE poems of this lady bave appeared in various publications. She is the wife of William H. Fisher, who follows the occupation of a farmer.

Oft from the ocean of the past

The waters glide along -
I hush the beating of my heart

To list to memory's song.
And every ripple of its sea

Brings back a look or tone -
A voice of lov'd ones far away --

Of all I call'd my own.
A little star that dwells above

In all its beauty now,
Brings back unto my memory dear,

A loving friend's fair brow,
How oft beneath its light we stray'd-

How oft at even tide,
As hand in hand we rov'd around

The scenery far and wide.
But hush my heart it seeketh now

The happy past again:-
Oh! memory hush thy lovely song -

Its wailing gives me pain.
For tho' on earth we may no more

With them our paths pursue:-
We know that we will meet on high,

The faithful and the true.

| And she said, " there's a cottage, my deary,

On its porch you must quietly drop," It was sheltered, and shaded, and airy,

And an oak tree high over it rose, And his Highness came down like a fairy,

On the tips of his downy white toes. And softly he danced to the measure

Of the thrush's song up in tbe tree, And forgot, in his light-bearted pleasure

That danger anear him might be,An urchin was slowly advancing

Whose pansy-blue, wondering eyes, Saw not in that small atom dancing

A Fairyland Prince in disguise. But he knew there was nothing to match it

In the length and breadth of the town; And he said, with a shout, I will catch it,

That beautiful white thistle down." Ha!the sly little breeze was but hiding,

And watching her nursling at play; And forth she came noiselessly gliding

And Prince Tiptoe was up and away!

JOHN T. LANDMAN. BORN: BRATTLEBORO, VT., Dec. 7, 1822. MR. LANDMAN was married in 1861 to Miss Martha Aiken. He served in the cival war, and now resides in South Londonderry, Vt.


Born: St. Louis, Mo. Tais lady has contributed quite a few poems to St. Nicholas, Good Housekeeping, Golden Days, and Demorest's Magazine. She still resides in her native city.

In the soft, snowy heart of a thistle

Prince Tiptoe one morning was born,
When the sound of the partridge's whistle

Arose from the ripening corn.
When the sunlight was dreamily tender,

And the hilltops were hazy and blue;
And a faint, indescribable splendor,

In many a cloud-rift came through. Then a breeze from the southwind's domin

Flew by and Prince Tiptoe was whirled (ions Away on invisible pinions,

From his own little silk-curtained world.
He was tossed in the air like a feather,

And twirled till he almost forgot
His name, and could scarcely tell whether

He was really Prince Tiptoe or not.
But the gay little zephyr grew weary,

And declared she should soon have to stop,

PLEASURES. Does mortal live upon this mundane sphere, Who will not sometimes pleasure's God re

vere? Some sacrifice their all on pleasure's shrine, And life and soul to fair delights resign, In gambling halls, by folly's midnight lamp, A multitude their moral nature's cramp: Transgression's ways will prove a curse at

last, And leave their vot'ries in the meshes fast. The maudlin poisonous waves of liquor roll With deadly force o'er many a captive soul; Though spakes and devils occupy the cup. They're pleased to drink the cursed mixture

up. And others yet the Golden Calf adore; That subtle god they worship o'er and o'er; And pave with wealth an easy way to woe: They're sure to let the gems of heaven go. Renown and Power, again, some lives control, And permeate the hungry sordid soul: Let warriors, rulers, live for worldly fame: What good in such a soulless empty name? Yet thousands in the lap of pleasure lie, And, like the moth around the candle, die; But few are wise in this vain world of ours, And millions choose to cull the deathly flowers

MRS. REBECCA P. REED. What word shall reach past mortal speech

Back from Eternity?
BORN: BREWER, ME., FEB. 28, 1840.

O solemn realm debatable,
This lady graduated from Laselle female

Whate'er thy joy or woe, eminary in 1859, being poet of her class. For Through wrestling love, and rending groan, a year she remained at that institution as a That woe or joy we know! teacher of Latin, History and Literature.

O birth divine, what lips of dust In 1876 Mrs. Reed with her husband and three

Shall utter all thy price! children moved to Milwaukee, Wis., where she

What seraph's tongue hath ever sung now resides. Both her prose and verse have

The woe of God in Christ. appeared quite extensively in the periodical

Or remembered all the ghastly wounds press.

Our tortured souls have riven,

The conflicts grim with sense and sin,

Before we breathe in Heaven?
It is so still, so still,
Here in the shadow of the brown old mill;

Thus comes the three-fold gift of Life,
Hushed in the noon-day quiet, like a gem

Through triple doors of Death! Slumbers the pool within the forest's hem, At royal rate pays kingly state, And lazily tbe cattle lift their eyes

Sharp cost our being hath. In the calm wonder of a half surprise,

So vast our value - think, O soul, When a little squirrel dropping down a tree,

Earth, Heaven nor Hell can win; Almost disturbs their placid reverie.

Eternity and Deity

Alone, redeem from sin!
And yet the heart of all the silence lies,
becalmed within the Miller's daughter's eyes,
Now, while she stands and dreams beside the

And waits his coming, as so oft before!

BORN: COOKE CO., TEX., JAN. 31, 1870. The wheel stands quiet, and the mid-day | In 1887 the subject of this sketch went to the rest

Indian Territory, but returned fifteen months Brings her the greeting that she loveth best. later to Texas, where he taught school for a Hush! her's the silence full of tenderest bliss while, and is at present learning the printing That waits its breaking in her lover's kiss! business at St. Jo.

The summer herbage hath lost its dew
And May-time plash of streams,
Misty and slow

The clouds drift low,
Vanished the breezes that June once blew,

Faded, her waking dreams.
And yet, is under her faded vest
Autumn is nursing close

Some flower to bloom

In the heavenly June,
She need not weep that her feet have prest,

Dear heart, on her early rose.

Why will a boy leave home,

And a fortune try to find?
Why will he attempt to roam,

And leave all friends behind?
Does he know, oh, could he know!

The trouble it often gives,
He'd stay at home, he would not go,

So long as either father or mother lives.
They go their way, they run their race,

And travel this wide world o'er,
But at last they come face to face

With that which makes them poor.
Time rolls on, and old age tells

The wild story o'er and o'er,
How zad a fate they have to meet,

Still living poor, oh, so poor!
Perhaps they have children now,

Who want to travel the same old road;
Oh, how it pains the father's heart

To carry such a load.
In conclusion let me say,

Although you wish to roam,
The grandest pleasures that are ever found,
Are always found at home.

o dread and awful gates of Birth,

Behind whose mystery
Waits the blind life with voiceless strife

And clamor to be free!
O vast apocalypse of Life,

To giver and receiver,
When shuddering throes of mother woes,

Though soul and body cleave her!
O great, dim border-land of Death,
Girding the life to be!

CASSIM B. HAWES. BORN: SHOREHAM, VT., FEB. 18, 1812. THE poems of Mr. Hawes have appeared in the periodical press generally. For many years Mr. Hawes taught schcol. He followed agricultural pursuits for some time, and then practiced as a physician. Mr. Hawes has now retired from business, and resides in Fox Lake, Wis.

Whatever be the game to-day

Remember, play it well.
Again the Umpire calls - game,"

Then life's brief play is o'er-
May you all have a priceless name,

And tallies by the score.


BORN: MISSOURI. | For the past decade this lady has contributed to various periodicals, and is now writing for the Saturday Night, Golden Days, Peterson's Magazine, Youth's Companion, and Demorest's Magazine. She was married in 1881 to Dr. W. S. Clark, and now resides in Festus.

This world is full of games, my boys,

We're players,- one and all;
Young children play with worthless toys,

When older play baseball.
Checkers and chess, billiards and dice,

Are played by great and small;
Young ladies play croquet quite nice,

But young men play baseball.
Since life's a playing match throughout,

Be active -- never fret,
Be quick to run – but don't run out,

Nor swear, get mad, or bet.
While some on tick play every game,

Until they are played out;
When you shall bat, take first-rate aim,

Be sure and not tick out.
While some pitch quoits,some pennies pitch,

Some bolt - can't toe the mark,
Because they pitch into the ditch,

When you pitch-never balk.
Some fast young men play all for show,

They hold their heads too high;
You better drive your balls too low,

Than play out on a fly.
Some play such a dishonest hand,

They fail, then sneak away;
But never run boys - firmly stand,

Whenever foul you play;
The clergy say 'tis base to steal,

Unworthy of a man,
Don't let such preaching cool your zeal,

Steal every base you can.
Smart thing some think to run from home,

But I've a better plan,
Be smart to make a clean home run,

As often as you can.
Some with soft soap spread thick or thin,

Will beat us nearly blind:
But if you would be sure to win,

Use whitewash - that's the kind.
Be generous, peaceable and kind;

In every game 'twill pay,
For then my boys you'll surely find,

Life is a pleasant play.
When the great Umpire calls, to play,

Be ready to excel,

AS STRANGERS MEET. Was it a dream? O Summer skies

Smile softly down on us once more,
And golden robin, blithe and sweet,

Your silvery benedictions pour.
O reapers, sowing your blades again

In harvest fields of burnished gold;
And wood-dove, sing your tender strain,

As once you sang, in days of old !
For then we met, as lovers meet,

As happy lovers, fond and true,
The wood-dove sang a love song sweet,

The skies had donned their fairest blue, And as we traced, on love's sweet page

The vows that joined us heart to heart, We little dreamed a day would come

When we should wander far apart. Oh! well, the flowers can never bloom

For us as in those rapturous days, For now we meet as strangers meet

With cold, estranged, averted gaze. The ashes of our perished love,

From which the smoldering fire has fied, Lie scattered by the winds of Heaven,

Sole memory of the love now dead. And yet, does there not come one thrill

Across the widening gulf of time To 'mind us of those happier days

Beneath a fair Arcadian clime? Does there not come one maddening thought

To bridge the gulf - alas, too late! That we might yet be lovers true

But for the ruthless hand of fate? Ah! yes, the golden dream bas fled,

The blue has faded from our sky. The ashes of our love lie dead,

And we are strangers, you and I. No more beneath the skies of June,

No more amid the summer flowers, Can we reclasp the broken links

Of that ill-fated love of ours.

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