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With joy its cup to fill.
Those springtide spells of beauty

That filled our hearts with joy,
Are changed to hours of duty

Our earnest thoughts employ. The thrill of bush and wildwood

Where youthful fancy played; The flowery paths of childhood

That led through dells of shade Were changed to paths when lovers

In fondest passion dream, Of secret joys that hovers

Where love doth reign supreme, Recall the fondest token

By early childhood earned -The spell of years is broken

The sweets of knowledge learned.

WE HAVE A LITTLE BABY. We have a little baby

To cheer our hearth and home, To fill our hearts with gladness,

And cause us not to roam. Its eyes do glitter fondly —

In sweet affection shine; We see the image plainly

Of beauty most divine. They hold a hidden magic

In every look and stare, Compelling pure devotion,

Unceasing love and care. We have a little baby

Our leisure to employ; It drives away all sorrow

And fills our lives with joy. The clouds have southly drifted.

The sky is bright and clear, Then comes the tiny tendril

To draw our hearts so near; And like the gentle zephyr

That woos the morning sun, It brings to us the emblem

Of heaven here begun.
We have a little baby

So sweet, so pure, so fair,
To bear our name and fortune,

To drive away dull care.
It is a little fairy,

Bedewed with winsome smiles, And 'neath its little dimples

We see its gleeful wiles. Just like the morning roses,

Just like the morning dove, It is a little blessing

To link our lives in love.

I have gazed on the morning of life,

On the rose tinted flush of the scene,
When the fancy of youth was still rife

And the beauty of springtide was green. When the future was shining with splendor,

Not a cloud in the dome of the sky: And the pathway of youth was made tender

Though the driftwinds of sorrow were nigh. I have gazed on the moontide of life,

On the midday of withering heat;
On the mingling of trouble and strife

And the feverish brow of defeat.
I have gazed on the heights of ambition

That ascend to the zenith of fancy:
I have heard the pulsebeat of Life's mission

And I know that true Bliss is the aim. I have gazed on the ev'ning of life, .

On the sweetness of calm and repose;
On the surcease of sorrow and strife

And the grandeur that living bestows.
I have seen the gray shadows fast falling

'Round the tottering frame of old age, And the echoes of night are fast calling

Mother Nature has turned the last page. I have gazed on the sunset at last,

On the vision of crimson and gold – When the shade tints of ev'ning are past,

Then the beauties of Dawn will unfold. I have gazed on the casket containing

The remains of a dear one who's gone, And the symphonies sweet are refraining, On the flight to the beauties beyond.

Oh fast the years are fleeting

My youthful days are gone,
A childish heart's fond beating

Is past the gray of dawn.
Bring back those years of pleasure

So free from toil and care; Those years that gave full measure

To every joy full share; Bring back the golden beaming

Of childhood's hopes and fears, Bring back the silver gleaming

Of early gleeful years. Resound those notes of laughter

That echoed through the air, Bring back these long years after

The joys that now are rare; Bring back the eager yearning

For river dale and hill, Where childish hope was burning

EXTRACT. Charming the maiden that snatches a rose

To pin on a lover's breast; Grand is the passion the heart.only knows

When love is by love caressed.


HUBBARD M. SMITH, M. D. Dr. Smith also has two daughters living at

the old homestead. The Doctor is still activeBORN: WINCHESTER, KY., SEPT. 6, 1820.

ly engaged in the practice of medicine, being EARLY in life young Hubbard apprenticed

now the oldest of his confreres at Vincennes. himself to a saddler, and worked at that business until about twenty-one years of age. About this time he commenced the study of

SONNETS – CUPID'S PLEA. medicine, but did not practice until 1844. Two

Are matches made in heaven? Ah! no, not years later Mr. Smith married a friend of his

all; youth; settling in Vincennes, Indiana, in 1849,

For circumstance, and art, and mammon where he has since resided. He has ever since been engaged in the practice of his profession, Much of the pairing of the world, they who excepting about ten years in which he was

Mark not the fact are deaf to Cupid's call, engaged either in editing and publishing the

Yet, when, contrariwise, some people seek Vincennes Gazette or acting as postmaster.

The course of nature's plan to overthrow, Mr. Smith has filled many important posi

Success may follow for awhile; but woe And sorrow afterward dire vengeance wreak. A monitor presides within the breast

Of every mortal, as a living soul,
Restless, and vigilant, and e'er in quest

Of some congenial spirit to console
The aching heart, and give its longings rest,

And nothing else its cravings will control.
To farthest verge marked by the night and

day, Ere blighting sin the human race had

cursed The heavenly orbs their courses run, as first Through space they started in their trackless

way. So, in accord with laws divinely made, When left to freely choose, all creatures

mate, And not by accident, which some call fate, And thus, through love, is Nature's voice

Are laws which seem to govern earth and

Not made for man? Can he set them aside,
When they for all creation's sum were given?
Can he, through station, pomp or wealth,

or pride,
Or fame, atone for pure affection riven,

That on Love's altar once was deified ?

The wedding bells with silver tongues may tions - including U.S. Pension Surgeon for

ring twelve years; and now fills the office of trustee Their merry chimes, the ear to charm and to the Presbyterian church and the univer

please, sity. His poetical compositions have been And riches bring with them luxurious ease; published in the leading periodicals of Amer But, ah, too oft they leave a poignant sting ica. Mr. Smith is a member of several Where naught but joy seemed only due; for medical societies, and has contributed prose

love to the medical press and associations. He Cannot be bought with gold; respect, at became one of the charter members of the

best, Western Writers' association of Indiana, and Is all that mammon gains by rich behest has read several poems before that body. His Affection pure it cannot buy or move. sons have become well known as men of abil Society, with artful charms may win ity - one as a United States Consul; another With dazzling rays, but all its glamor as a musical composer; a third son as a com

soon mercial traveler; and the fourth son is suc Wears off, as pleasures fade from gilded sin; cessfully practicing law in Dallas, Texas. | And even Fame the heart cannot attune,


When mated not by love, for naught within One answering chord sends back to prof

fered boon.


BORN: RHENISH BAVARIA, JUNE 6, 1843. M. H. PETERS, the author of the following thoroughly American sentiment is by birth a German; was brought to this country when a babe and bas grown up thoroughly imbued with the spirit of our institutions. He served

With an arm of might,

At the dawn of light,
The blacksmith hies to his shop away

To labor till

The whippoorwill
At evening sings his vesper lay.

The bellows blow,

And the coals soon glow, Like the dazzling rays of the noon-day sun;

The huge sledge swings,

And the anvil rings
For the daily task is now begun.

The sparks as bright,

As the meteor's light,
From the vivid metal swiftly fly;

Whilst wreaths of smoke,

· From the burning coke, In beauteous columns rise on high.

List! list, the peal,

As on the steel
The hammers swiftly fall with might,

Like clashing swords,

When army hordes Contending meet in deadly fight.

Though on his brow

The sweat stands now, He heeds it not but toils away,

Since Heaven has said,

Man's daily bread
By labor shall be gained each day.

The world may sneer

And cast a leer,
At the sooty smith, whilst passing by;

But what cares he,

With a heart as free
As the curling smoke ascending high.

'Tis not the shade

Of man, or trade, Which he labors at, that gives him worth;

But heart and mind,

Which stand behind,
That give him greatness on the earth.

No specters grim

Appear to him,
At night to mar his sweet repose:

For in his mind

Sweet peace is shrined, And on his cheeks health's hue e'er glows.

As thus he toils,

Life's sad turmoils
Are things to him as light as air;

For no thoughts resti

Within his breast,
But those which hope doth bring there.

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THE GOLDEN RULE. I ask not for myself a right

Which I to others would deny; With all mankind I'd share the light Nor would I rule by force of might,

But on the Golden Rule rely. áll men have their paternity

In common with their fellow men; Equality, fraternity,

Should rule the heart and guide the pen. And when this hallowed rule prevail Tyrants, crowns and kings shall fail, And man and woman equal born Shall stand erect that glorious morn And recognize the right of each To liberty of thought and speech.


Borx: ANOKA, MINN., OCT. 8, 1864. WHEN two years of age his parents removed to Kalamazoo, Michigan, where he received his education, graduating at the high school with honor. The following year he entered the university of Michigan in the literary department, and received the degree of A. B. In 1885 be commenced newspaper work as city

That was quite a hig) old raven Mr. Poe has

told about. I kept thinking, thinking, thinking, as those

stars kept blinking, blinking, And the more I thought about it, I was more

and more in doubt; Edgar's logic knocked me out. And I found no explanation to that curious

situation Here's the lamp upon the table, and the raven

on the door, And the lamplight o'er him streaming threw

his shadow on the floor. Think of where the lamp was sitting and you

cannot help admitting 'Twas an awful crooked shadow to have ever

reached the floor. 'Twas a hump-backed, cross-eyed shadow if it

ever saw the floor. So I sought a clear solution to that shadow's

dire confusion, And my only strong conclusion was that Ed

gar had the snakes. I am sure he had been drinking and he must

have had the snakes. So perhaps the raven, sitting on the cornice,

never flitting, With its fiery eyes a burning into Edgar's

bosom core Was the whisky he'd been drinking just before

he fell to thinking Of his lovely lost Lenore.

It was bug-juice, evermore. Or perhaps the maiden, deeming such a fellow

too demeaning, Had preferred to share the fortunes of the

friends who'd gone before, And had perished, broken-hearted, as fair

maids have done before. Maybe he disgraced and slighted till she felt

her life was blighted And her lonely soul, benighted, wandered to a

fairer shore, Maybe Edgar's drinking killed her, as it has

killed girls before. It was benzine, evermore. Get most anybody frisky on a quart or two of

whiskey, And he'd think he saw some shadows, or some

ravens, or some floors, And the lamps would get befuddled, and the

shadows awful muddled, And he'd see one crazy raven perched on for

ty-'leven doors; And he wouldn't know a shutter from a dozen

lost Lenores. It is my profound opinion that if Poe had

kept dominion O'er his brains and o'er his reason, as they

used to be of yore,-

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That if he had been less frisky and had guzzled

down less whiskey He'd have never seen that raven on the bust

above his door. Very likely that same evening be'd been on a

bust before.
And got sober - nevermore.

Would just cover their person with clothes; And in making home happy and cheerful

Would their beauty and graces employ, And would not try to dazzle creation

Like the beautiful Helen of Troy.


BORN IN ENGLAND, MARCH 2, 1843. ALFRED received a good education, having studied oriental languages, and also took the first prize at a military college. He has visited Australia, Cape, Celon, India, and in fact voyaged around the world. Mr. Morrison came to Canada in 1876, was there married ten years later, and is now professor of English in the Brantford institute. Prof. Morrison has published a book entitled The Art Gallery of the English Language.

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Helen's husband was King Menalaus,

And they lived in contentment and peace In a quaint little Attican city

In the southwestern corner of Greece.
Now this king had a friend - Mr. Paris -

A son of King Priam, of Troy,
And he had him there once for a visit

And a small fishing trip to enjoy.
Now this Paris was just a young dudelet

And there came a large party of state,
And he went with the fair Mrs. Helen

And he waltzed with her there very late. Mrs. Helen looked awfully handsome

And she wore an exceeding low dress, With a large jewelled pin on the corsage,

And she flirted with Paris, we guess. Well, she waltzed so exceedingly lively

And she asked him to hold her so tight, And she leaned upon Paris so heavy

That his head soon began to be light; She was friendly and quite confidential,

As she waltzed with such exquisite grace, And her costume so naively suggestive,

Mr. Paris was clear off his base. Mrs. Helen was only in fashion.

She was trying to be at her best. In society's bright upper-ten dom

She would like to outshine all the rest. But this Paris, though just a mere dudelet

Was a stern and determined young boy, So he finally won Mrs. Helen

And she ran away with him to Troy. On his ear then arose Menalaus

And he purchased a large carving-knife And he called all his legions together

And he started out after his wife. To assist him came Mr. Achilles

That is Homer's ferocious old boy Mr. Hector, too, joined the procession,

Then began the renowned Siege of Troy. And for years raged the terrible battle

In bloodshed, and carnage and strife
On account of the King Menalaus

And his beautiful, runaway wife.
And at last the Greeks entered the city,

And they slaughtered the Trojans in joy --All because of the immodest dressing

Of the beautiful Helen of Troy.
So the question . Is marriage a failure?"

Would have probably never arose
If the lovely society ladies

Time chimes upon the bells of years,

The fairy bells of infant hours,
The iris-tide of smiles and tears,

The drowsy-hood of dreams and flowers; The glamour of the cradled bliss,

The nectar of the mother's kiss! Time flies — the infant grows apace,

A cherub still in form and face. Time chimes upon the bells of years,

The silver bells of joyous youth, Persuasive peal that boyhood hears,

Sweet changes ring on trust and truth, The whitest light in mem'ry's ray,

The sunniest hour of friendship's day! Time flies – the peal is hushed for aye,

Trust, truth, and boyhood pass away. Time chimes upon the bells of years,

The golden bells of manhood's prime, A peal of mingled hopes and fears,

The crown'd king, the painted mime; The friends, the foemen in the strife,

The good attained, the baffled life! Time flies - The peal subsides amain,

Above the victor and the slain. Time chimes upon the bells of years,

The iron bells of life's decline, The peal comes muflled to the ears,

Across the shade, across the shine; The regal sun toward the west,

Flame mantled, seeks his crimson rest! Time flies -- the hour of night is tolled,

The world is worn and life is old. Time chimes upon the bells of years,

The spirit bells of life renewed, Beyond the mists the morning clears,

To show the Future rainbow-hued. The change is rung by deathless hands,

Beyond the finite shifting sands! Time flies -- but time and age are dead

And youth returns to reign instead.

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