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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

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.

A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD. 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

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.

SUNSET.

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 drift winds 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.

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.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

HUBBARD M. SMITH, M. D. BORN: WINCHESTER, KY., SEPT. 6, 1820. EARLY in life young Hubbard apprenticed himself to a saddler, and worked at that busiIness until about twenty-one years of age. About this time he commenced the study of medicine, but did not practice until 1844. Two years later Mr. Smith married a friend of his youth; settling in Vincennes, Indiana, in 1849, where he has since resided. He has ever since been engaged in the practice of his profession, excepting about ten years in which he was engaged either in editing and publishing the Vincennes Gazette or acting as postmaster. Mr. Smith has filled many important posi

HUBBARD M. SMITH, M. D. tions-including U. S. Pension Surgeon for twelve years; and now fills the office of trustee to the Presbyterian church and the university. His poetical compositions have been published in the leading periodicals of America. Mr. Smith is a member of several medical societies, and has contributed prose to the medical press and associations. He became one of the charter members of the Western Writers' association of Indiana, and has read several poems before that body. His sons have become well known as men of ability-one as a United States Consul; another as a musical composer; a third son as a commercial traveler; and the fourth son is successfully practicing law in Dallas, Texas.

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Dr. Smith also has two daughters living at the old homestead. The Doctor is still actively engaged in the practice of medicine, being now the oldest of his confreres at Vincennes.

SONNETS-CUPID'S PLEA.

Are matches made in heaven? Ah! no, not all;

For circumstance, and art, and mammon

do

Much of the pairing of the world, they who Mark not the fact are deaf to Cupid's call, Yet, when, contrariwise, some people seek

The course of nature's plan to overthrow, 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

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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

obeyed.

Are laws which seem to govern earth and

heaven,

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
ring

Their merry chimes, the ear to charm and

please,

And riches bring with them luxurious ease; But, ah, too oft they leave a poignant sting Where naught but joy seemed only due; for love

Cannot be bought with gold; respect, at

best,

Is all that mammon gains by rich behest Affection pure it cannot buy or move. Society, with artful charms may win

With dazzling rays, but all its glamor

soon

Wears off, as pleasures fade from gilded sin; And even Fame the heart cannot attune,

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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 rest

Within his breast,

But those which hope doth bring there.

MATTHEW H. PETERS.

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 has grown up thoroughly imbued with the spirit of our institutions. He served

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MATTHEW H. PETERS.

four years as a union soldier during the war of the rebellion, and was twice severely wounded, rising from the rank of a private to the rank of Major in his regiment-the 74th Ohio. He has served one term in the Illinois legislature, and was mayor of Watseka four years. In 1872 he started the Iroquois County Times.

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.

All 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.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

JOSEPH BERT SMILEY.

BORN: 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 he commenced newspaper work as city

JOSEPH BERT SMILEY. editor of the Battle Creek Union. The following year he took a position on the Kalamazoo Herald. He has since filled many important positions, and is now engaged on the Joliet Daily News, as poet and comic specialist. Although a comparatively young man, Mr. Smiley has already published two books; and he also occasionally lectures.

POE'S RAVEN.

How distinctly I remember, late one evening last November,

I was sitting on a barrel that the moonlight gloated o'er

Twas an empty cider barrel and was useful

now no more

Worthless, now, forevermore.

As a few lone stars were blinking. I betook myself to thinking,

And I thought of that old raven Edgar Poe has told about

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That was quite a high 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 Edgar had the snakes.

I am sure he had been drinking and he must

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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 forty-'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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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

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.

ALFRED H. MORRISON.

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.

CHIMES.

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 muffled 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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