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HIRAM HOWARD BROWNE.
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,
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;
Loud did the thunders peal,
That made the strong oaks reel;
Its pent-up wrath outpour,
Rushed by with deat'ning roar;
Against my hot brow sent,
A fiercer storm was pent;
Was earth and life to me,
To come and set me free;
To take me on its tide,
Out on its billows wide;
As they who stop and drink of the fabled Lethean waters,
And then forget to think.
Under a storm-cast sky,
The wild tide rushing by.
Under a star-lit sky,
And clouds had all passed by;
The wind had gone to rest,
To silence in the west;
Grow dim and fade away,
Old Sol brought in the day;
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,
By that all-piercing light,
Beyond the stars and sun,
When life and work are done.
Under a morning sky,
God's love and peace were nigh.
Spirit of purity wandering in disguise,
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 -
Thou thing etherial glowing on this flower,
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'
Sandy quit the game,
the sunshine as it dropped,
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.
WAVES OF MEMORY.
The waters glide along -
To list to memory's song.
Brings back a look or tone -
Of all I call'd my own.
In all its beauty now,
A loving friend's fair brow,
How oft at even tide,
The scenery far and wide.
The happy past again:-
Its wailing gives me pain.
With them our paths pursue:-
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.
Prince Tiptoe one morning was born,
Arose from the ripening corn.
And the hilltops were hazy and blue;
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.
And twirled till he almost forgot
He was really Prince Tiptoe or not.
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?
O solemn realm debatable,
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?
Thus comes the three-fold gift of Life,
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!
JOHN SAMUEL ROSS.
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 clouds drift low,
Faded, her waking dreams.
Some flower to bloom
In the heavenly June,
Dear heart, on her early rose.
WHY WILL A BOY LEAVE HOME.
And a fortune try to find?
And leave all friends behind?
The trouble it often gives,
So long as either father or mother lives.
And travel this wide world o'er,
With that which makes them poor.
The wild story o'er and o'er,
Still living poor, oh, so poor!
Who want to travel the same old road;
To carry such a load.
Although you wish to roam,
Behind whose mystery
And clamor to be free!
To giver and receiver,
Though soul and body cleave her!
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.
Then life's brief play is o'er-
And tallies by the score.
MRS. HELEN W. CLARK.
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.
We're players,- one and all;
When older play baseball.
Are played by great and small;
But young men play baseball.
Be active -- never fret,
Nor swear, get mad, or bet.
Until they are played out;
Be sure and not tick out.
Some bolt - can't toe the mark,
When you pitch-never balk.
They hold their heads too high;
Than play out on a fly.
They fail, then sneak away;
Whenever foul you play;
Unworthy of a man,
Steal every base you can.
But I've a better plan,
As often as you can.
Will beat us nearly blind:
Use whitewash - that's the kind.
In every game 'twill pay,
Life is a pleasant play.
Be ready to excel,
AS STRANGERS MEET. Was it a dream? O Summer skies
Smile softly down on us once more,
Your silvery benedictions pour.
In harvest fields of burnished gold;
As once you sang, in days of old !
As happy lovers, fond and true,
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.