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ALBERT S. HAWKINS. TAE poems of Mr. Hawkins have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press. Mr.

MRS. MARY J. O. WHITING.

BORN: NEW YORK CITY, AUG. 17, 1834. THE poems of Mrs. Whiting have appeared in the Union Signal, Daughters of America and various other publications. She was married in 1864 and resides in Belioond, Iowa. Mrs. Whiting is a great advocate of temperance, and is very popular in her adopted city.

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TO MY LAST TOOTH.
Farewell; a last, a long farewell, my true my

oft-tried friend;
This life of ours we've spent as one comes to

a sudden end. Through thick and thin, whate'er betide we've

firmly held together;'Tis hard to break the tender ties, the loving

cords to sever. 'Twas sixty years ago when you, a pearl of

rarest beauty, First came to me to take your place and do a

servant's duty. You did what all the world has done from

generations old, You pushed your little brother out and left

him in the cold. And you usurped the place he held, while to

the dog's he went:It may be only just that you should after him

be sent. You've served me well, stood firmly by,

ALBERT S. HAWKINS though you have grumbled sore,

Hawkins is a resident of Midland, Texas, And I have firmly stood by you, and all your

where be has already gained great popularity sharpness bore.

and respect as a journalist and lawyer. How many times with aching pain my tongue

A LOVER'S LAMENT. has wagged its way,

In the love of a maiden I once took delight, Because your cruel biting self forgot where

But where is the love I once knew? duty lay. But that is passed, we'll let it go; it gives me

It has gone! It has gone! For alas, the fair greater pain To feel your leaving comes so hard, and we'll

Like all of her kind, proved untrue. not meet again.

She said that her love for me would endure, But I'll not ask you to remain, your lot is sad

That lore like her love would remain, (name,

But memory of falsehouds that sullen her and lone, And you're the last of all your set who've

My heart will forever retain. broke with you and gone;

Her words were spoke in jest I suppose, Then go my friend. It grieves me sore that the

My words were in earnest I know, cruel steely clasp

My gift was pure love, not much you will say, Must pinch your brittle, broken crown with

'Twas all that I had to bestow. its clinching grasp.

She accepted a heart, an innocent heart, But so it is. When we are old and useless

A heart that was trusting and true; (again, grown - oh! oh!!

Having gained this, her end, she turned then You're sticking tight--oh! oh!! oh!!! oh!!!!

To conquests more daring and new. oh, will you never gol

But fair maiden I'll say, tho' now far away. Farewell;- farewell;- an aching void within That a lesson I've learned, yes 'tis true, my gum I feel;

When a loved one is wanted, some other I'll 'Tis all that's left of my poor tooth;- may

seek, time the anguish heal.

| When a flirt is desired, I'll seek you.

maid,

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JULIUS LAFAYETTE M'DONALD.

Then the night space around where the angel

has been cess. Since 1887 he has labored in Toledo, | Is illumined by myriad wings wbere Elder J. L. McDonald has a devoted | In an instant- the host of heaven break band of worshipers to minister unto. He

forth was married in 1883 to Miss Sadie C. Agner. And together exultantly sing: The poems of this minister have appeared quite extensively in the religious press.

Glory, glory to God, in the highest - above

Peace on earth and good will toward men. Now night come between, and the angels are

hid ANNUNCIATION OF CHRIST'S ADVENT.

From the shepherds, entirely again.
I am thinking to-night of a time long ago,
When a manger once cradled a king;

Let us rise, say the shepherds, and hasten And the plains of Judea were startled from

away, rest,

To the city of blessed Bethlehem; By a song that the angels did sing.

And see this great Savior, made known unto Behold the poor shepherds attending their

us, flocks

And his parents, and worship with them.

WILLIAM LEIGHTON, JR.

MOTHER EARTH.

| Old mother earth, so great thy family, BORN: CAMBRIDGE, MASS., JUNE 22, 1833.

Small is the share of love thou giv'st to one, This gentleman has published several books, Out of thy teeming, ripe fecundity, and is well and favorably known in the liter Brood after brood thy countless children ary world. Two dramatic poems from his pen,

come. The Sons of Godwin and At the Court of

Lo, 1, thy son, to thy maternity
Make my appeal! Hast thou a mother's

heart?
Or art thou callous to thy offspring's cry?

In human loves perhaps thou hast no part,
And all of tenderness to us deny.

Hath summer's sunshine no beguiling art,
To draw thy heart to all the host that cling
To thee? Ah, mother earth, if thou dost

know
What joy the throbs of sweet affection bring,
Thou can'st not then life's crowning bliss

forego.

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WILLIAM LEIGHTON, JR. King Edwin, are very fine; and a long poem entitled Change has been well and favorably received. He has also written several Shakesperian sketches and prose essays. Mr. Leighton was married in 1860 to Miss Mary Jane Reed, and is now living at Concord, Mass.

THE SONS OF GODWIN.
Life -a sbort day- an interval between
Nothing and darkness-flitting consciousness,
Vivid and startling as the lightning's flash;
And like that blinding giare beholding all,
But in an instant gone beyond recall.
Death - a grim phantom ever haunting life-
The night that swallows day- a frightful

pause-
The black reverse of glory's shining shield –
Life's opposite, whose emblem is the grave.
Lite, Death - the two conditions of one thing,
Whose margins meet; - which is the normal

state?
Which real, and which the shadow?-which is

health?
And which disease? to-day we have the one,
To-morrow comes the other - a slave's spear,
A random arrow, some disastrous chance,
And on this day of life, a black eclipse.
To him who dies it is as if the world, -
This solid, steadfast earth, on which is writ
Forever in its sunshine,-at a touch
Melted again in chaos. And what then?
The future, grandly pictured by the church,
Is it a fact or fable? Let that pass.
O Tostig! where thy valor now, thy strength,
Daring ambitions built above all hope?
Two days ago thou wast elate with life,
Now as inert and senseless as the sod,
Cut by the heel's sharp track.
And I must meet my mother; her last words
Harold, be merciful unto my son,
Ring in my ears; but louder than her words
Fate called to him. He fell, as falls a star-
Across the heavens a bright and gleaming

track,
Then quenched its light forever. So to me.
My soul forewarns, will come the shaft of

death.

THE FLOWERS.
I see no use in them, quoth Peter Bell,
These wild-flowers of the woods; they bloom

and die
In secret nooks, where not a human eye
Looks on their blossoming. It were as well
A constant blight their opening buds befell.
He knows their use whose heart of sympathy
Throbs to the touch of nature's poesy;
Who hears sweet song tones and a rhythmic

swell
of music in the flowers. Though no eye view
Its beauty, who can say the blooming vale
Is purposeless? or that the painted sod
Hath not a use? the tints of varying hue
May sing to angels, as to men, a tale
In mystic verse of harmonies of God.

And hold some friendly token up

To glad my yearning sight,
Or clasp the band I sadly stretch

Into the empty night.

CLARENCE H. PEARSON.

BORN: OSSIPEE, N.H., FEB. 21, 1859. The subject of this sketch evinced a taste for literature at a very early age, and at fourteen published for one year an amateur journal. In 1882 he was for a time city editor of the Saginaw Herald. Subsequently Mr. Pearson was admitted to the bar, and in 1883

LIFE'S GAME.
We strolled across the moonlit fields,

The air was laden with perfume,
And all the earth seemed filled with mirth,

Moonlight and love and apple bloom;
She raised her eyes of azure hue
And all her soul was shining thro',

For hearts were trumps.
But ere the trees bore fruit there came

A rival suitor to her door
With jewels rare to deck her hair,

Of gold and silver muckle store.
She slew the love her lips confessed
And wore his gems upon her breast -

Diamonds were trumps.
Maddened with grief I rashly strove
· To drown my woes in ruddy wine,
My worldly self, my hopes, myself

I sacrificed at Bacchus' shrine.
My days were dregs, my nights were foam,
And every club house was my home,

For clubs were trumps.
Old Time and I sit vis-a-vis,

Outside the winter's wind doth moan,
No friend is near to aid or cheer

And I must play my hand alone.
The cards are dealt, the trump is turned,
Grim reaper, thou the stake hast earned,

For spades are trumps.

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LLORENTA.
CLARENCE H. PEARSON.

Thou wert a blossom beautiful and sweet began the practice of his profession at Glad That bloomed a space to glad our worldly win. In 1884 he was married to Miss Flora 0.

sight, Biehn. Mr. Pearson has contributed to the

But envious angels thought it was not meet Detroit Free Press, Drake's Magazine, Texas

That earth should wear a flower so pure and Siftings, and other prominent publications.

bright

[feet Suffering much from rheumatism, Mr. Pear And bore thee hence on voiceless wing and son removed to his old home at Laconia, N.H., | To deck the bosom of the Infinite. where, as he has humorously remarked, he is dividing his time between law, literature and

MY AUTOGRAPH. lumbago.

My autograph she begged the night

When first her beauty filled my sight;
PENSEE.

Not just your name, you know, quoth she, They say the shades of those who pass

But something nice beside, maybe Death's mystic river o'er,

A poem or a maxim trite. Anon return to scenes and friends

I yielded to the witching light Beloved of them of yore.

Of her soft eyes and did indite, They tell of wondrous secrets learned,

Entwined with flowers of poesy, From those whose souls abide

My autograph. In that dim, distant land that lies

She perches on my knee to-night, Beyond the Stygian tide.

And in her eyes so clear and bright I listen unbelieving still,

The old light dwells -- ah, woe is me! For were thy spirits free

My check-book in her hand I see, To leave Death's realm, I know that thou And once again she begs me write Would'st sometime come to me:

My autograph.

JOHN VANCE CHENEY.

MY CASTLE IN THE AIR.

Or in the east or in the west,
Born: DEC. 29, 1848.

Where shall I build my bird a nest; AETER teaching for a while Mr. Cheney en Northward or southward – whither roam tered a law-ofhce, and was admitted to the To build my little love a home? bar a few years later. Ill-health compelled

Up yonder, in the clean, sweet air, Mr. Cheney to visit the Pacific coast, where

I think that I could keep her, there, he now resides at San Francisco. He has pub

Too much an angel for the ground, lished three volumes, The Old Doctor, Thistle

For Heaven somewhat too – warm and round. Drift, and Wood Blooms, the first a prose work, and the latter two volumes in verse. He

DEATH OF AUTUMN. was married in 1876 to Miss Perkins, a hand

They have led her away, some and brilliant lady who had just return Up the stairs of day; ed from a sojourn of six years in Europe - a Step by step in the mellow light, graduate of the Royal Conservatory of Stutt Have led her away gart. Mr. Cheney is an industrious man, and

To the turret gray is librarian in the Free Library of his adopted | Where morning meets the night. city. MY CHOICE.

EMMA HOWARD WIGHT. I'd rather be

BORN: BALTIMORE, MD., Aug. 25, 1863. 'Neath a greenwood tree,

Miss Wight was educated at the Baltimore With a song and a handful of daisies,

Academy of the Visitation, and when quite Than the darling of victory

young evinced a decided talent for writing, In the blaze of the wide world's praises. I'd rather ride On the wings inside, Which waft where the world may not after, Than fold fair Fame as a bride To feed on her sighs and her laughter.

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FANCY'S FLOCK.
Fancy's flock in dreamy close,
Soft they rise when darkness goes;
Tasting sweets of sun and shade,
Down the meadow, up the glade,
Here the field and there the grove,
Now they rest and now they rove.
Up and down all happy ways
Fancy's flock at pleasure strays,
Up and down and far and wide,
Pretty shepherds at their side,
Some before and some behind,
Lest they meet the chilly wind,-
Hark! the little silver bell!
Pretty shepherds tend them well.

A DAY DREAM.
'Twas not 'neath spectral moon,
But in tbe day's high noon,
That, pillowed on the grass,
I saw a vision pass.
Strange quiet folded 'round,
Strange silence, close – profound;
Sweet peace, sweet peace and deep,
Bade every trouble sleep.
“() spirit! stay with me,
Lying all quietly;
If this is death,” I said,
.. Be my lot with the dead.”

EMMA HOWARD WIGHT. After leaving school she wrote occasionally for amusement, but never for publication, until a little over a year ago at the earnest solicitation of her friend, Miss Bertba von Hillern, who is herself well-known as an artist and writer. Articles by Miss Wight have ap peared in various papers, which hare been extensively copied. She has also written serer al novels, which are soon to be published.

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