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MILLIE E. NOECKER. BORN: KENDALLVILLE, IND., SEPT. 14, 1862. Miss Noecker has written for some of the leading periodicals for the past ten years; among which might be mentioned the Methodist Advocate, Fort Wayne News and the

You will try to ease your conscience,

And to lull your Soul to sleep.
But too late," will be your answer,

You refused their last request,
But to make amends to conscience,

You will then forgive in death. What is love, when life is ended?

What's forgiveness in death! Arms that clasped thee once are folded,

Lips of smiles for e'er bereft!

Oh! how soon we are forgotten,

In this busy world of ours,
If our paths were only strewn,

Not with thorns, but sweetest flowers.
All our life long, we'd be happy,

We would never more be sad, Scores of friends would then surround us,

Friends by thousands we would have. But when thorns thus sorely wound us;

And the pains thus pierce our hearts,
Quickly those proclaiming friendship,

Hasten from us to depart.
Oft we see the truest friendship,

Fade like dewdrops from our view,
For alas! this world soon wearies

Of the old friends, and wants new. But how sweet in deepest sorrow,

Is a tried, true, loyal friend; Tho' the world would scorn, condemn us, Faithful they'd be to the end.

MILLIE E. NOECKER. Brakeman's Journal. In person she is a little below the medium height. Millie is a great admirer of poetry, and takes great pleasure in her literary work.

We hear them saying, here and there,

I can ne'er forgive a wrong!
Think well each one, before you speak,

Does all blame on one belong!
You think a sin you can't forgive!

Who is free from every sin?
The day will come, when you think not,

Then you'll say, what might have been." And when beside your bed you kneel,

Asking Jesus to forgive,
Do you expect his tender love,

When a wrong you'd not forgive?
Loving hearts oft drift asunder,

By these words, - I'll not forgive,” When by loving words and reason,

You in sweetest joy might live. Soon beside the unforgiven

You will stand in deepest grief,

A LEAP IN THE DARK. À leap in the dark, oh! what's beyond,

The matrimonial brink?
Will the paths to tread be rocks of love!

Or sands in which to sink?
Will there be a sun of Love to shine,

Along life's weary way!
Or the Sun of Love, forever set,

On our wedding day?
Ah! who can see o'er the brink of time

And tell us, what is there?
It may be joy, or it may be pain,

Be comfort or despair!
Il a Bride was sure her Lover would

Crown her queen of his heart,
She'd gladly place her hand in his, and

Take the leap in the dark.

Tho' you try, you can't forget me,

Strive as hard as e'er you might, For remember after twilight

Comes the dark’ning of the night; Yes, a night so dark and dreary,

E'en the stars cannot shine through; Then with mingled joy and sorrow,

You'll think of her who loved you true.

RAY RICHMOND. RAY RICHMOND is hardly more than a school girl, and is at present finishing in music and painting at the Boston N. E. conservatory.

A REVERIE. Faintly, softly fades the light Of the chill November day, Slowly, surely creeps the night O'er the hill-tops far away. Grayer, darker grow the clouds, O'er the brown hills, lowering With the first snow of the year, Sullen, dismal, glowering. All, at last, dies from the sight And the darkness, falling Ushers out another day Ever past recalling.


IN ANSWER. A little message comes to me From o'er the distant rolling sea: A message, sweet, that gladdeps me. My kindest friend has sailed away, Beyond the wide and glistening bay, To distant lands, far, far away. His going leaves me saddened, too, For fear I dangers on the blue, Yet sailor lads are brave and true. But light of heart I'll strive to be, And send my thoughts across the sea, To him whose friend I hope to be.

RAY RICHMOND. She has already edited the juvenile department of two monthly publications, and is a paid contributor of short stories for two or three other publications.

MORNING. The purple mists of morning

Float o'er the sunlit space With white smoke interwoven

Like filmy, frost-work lace. The dark clouds on the river

Rise up and disappear, The pearly beams of sunlight

All greet the morning here.

As the sweet warm days of summer,

Heavy-laden with fragrant air,
Bade farewell to spring's bright sunshine

Met I, Love most wondrous fair.
She was tripping thro' the meadow;

I was fishing by the brook;
I gazed long, and long upon her

She gave back a startled look.
Afterward we met together,

And our looks said more than aye.
Deep into her heart I gazed, 'till

Blushing red, she turned away.
May perhaps, my looks meant nothing,

May perhaps, she smiled for naught;
What care I, if people prattle ?

Would I change for their's, my lot ? For I love her and she knows it;

And she loves me, I can tell, Not by words of adoration

But by looks I know so well. If our love is hot or scorching

Who about us need complain ?
Perfect love is never freezing;

Ever will our love remain,
Warm and pleasant, as the summer,

Never chilled by autumn air,
How I love my darling sweetheart,

Who is always wondrous fair.

DAWN. Blushing morning is at hand; Rosy tints light up the land. Distant hills against the gray -Silent watch they for the day. Dreaming cities lie in sleep Close beside the murmuring deep, On whose breast the mists still play Waiting for the coming day.


PHIL HOFFMANN. BORN: OSKALOOSA, IOWA, AUG. 16, 1868. IN 1885 Phil Hoffmann entered the field of journalism; he also about this time tended the Penn college for several terms. In 1887-8 he acted as correspondent of the Oskaloosa Daily Herald, during the session of the legislature at Des Moines. So thoroughly pleased were the proprietors of the Herald that he was installed upon the editorial staff, a position he still retains with merit. He is a fre

These words from the lips of a poor ballad

boy, As he poured out his heart in a song: • To honor in life your neighbor and friend

You may struggle the best that you can, Yet you'll find in the hour of trouble and

need A Mr. 's not always a man." Though years have sped by since that after

noon, And time wrought her changes below, Yet somehow those words still ring in my ears

And court me wherever I go.
But why should I marvel if into my mind

Those phrases should oftentimes rise?
For truth like the sea can never be stilled,

And error is all that e'er dies.
To honor in life your neighbor and friend,

You may struggle the best that you can, Yet you'll find in the hour of trouble and

need A Mr.'s not always a man."

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Last night in the beautiful moonlight,

I sat by my window alone,
And peered with an awful pleasure,

Far into the great unknown.
And each little constellation,

With its thousand, thousand skies, Seemed bursting with laughter in basking

Before my wistful eyes.
While Venus, the star of the evening,

That beautiful gem of gems,
Seemed singing in tones that resounded

Through all the heavenly realm.
And I thought of He who created

This wonderful universe,
With movements so silent, so perfect,

With beauties so grand and diverse.
Of He who masters creation

With a gentle and lenient hand
Who was, ere time was unfolded,

And will be after its end."
He who upon worlds without number

For his credits of reverence calls
Yet who sees and tenderly cares for,

Each poor little sparrow that falls. Ah! Sweet were the visions that thrilled

me, Each atom seemed laden with joy! As loudly I cried in my musings

With a feeling that knew no alloy. Vain spirit of mortal polluted

Look up at the heavens above And tell me, Oh! how canst thou battle, Against yon fountain of love?

A MR.'S NOT ALWAYS A MAN. As I sat in my room one bright afternoon

With the shades of my window thrown high, And watched far below midst the dust and the

din The crowd as it hurried fast by, I caught from the breeze that silently stole

On angelic wings o'er the throng,

RUFUS J. CHILDRESS. The poems of this gentleman bave appeared quite extensively in the periodical press. He

For oh! my glad Heart in their reach

Feels Heaven is near!
But on my lips their music dies,

Too great the rapture given;
God suffers few to pierce the skies

And leap in Heaven!
And so, though like the voice of June,

My soul glad anthems fill,
My heart at length must tire and swoon

of longing still. And I, though stirred by passion strong,

But for this feeble strain, Stand looking toward the skies of song

In vain! in vain!
Yet, mourn on, touched with grief sublime,

O beart, for joys that flee!
Still breathe unheard thy lowly rhyme

One with the sea!
Mourn on! For soon the glowing skies

Will break their seals of blue,
When like a lark my soul shall rise

And flutter through!
No more then in that golden noon,

Of song and sorrow's might;
No more my heart will tire and swoon –

No more of night!


RUFUS J. CHILDRESS. is a resident of Louisville, Kentucky, where he has a wide circle of friends and admirers.

My heart is like the lonely shell,

That trembles on the beach,
Within when e'er its billows swell

The ocean's reach.
The dawn hath kissed with rose its lips,

And they no grief should know;
Yet from the mournful tide it dips

Some kindred woe.
And though the tide dies down again,

Caught from its sombre stave,
The shell still breathes a mystic strain -

One with the wave.
So this poor shell-like heart of mine

Echoes a kindred mite
Caught from the realms of song divine

And infinite!
The tides that stir within my soul

Swell upward wild and strong,
Unfathomed through my spirit roll

Such floods of song!
I cry aloud for fitting speech

That through me earth might hear,

I love thee when the leaves are brown,
When bending skies with tempests frown,
When gleaming snows the hill-tops crown,

At morn or noon,
Or when the happy day dies down

In joyous June.
I love thy sweet, inspiring powers,
Love thee on art's harmonious towers,
Love thee amongst the dewy flowers

In throat of bird,
Or flooding earth's enchanted bowers

Wherever heard.
When brooding shadows o'er me fly,
And all the stars seem large and nigh,
I love the strange aerial sigh

That softly falls,
Like some sweet whisper breathed on high,

O'er sky-built walls.
I love thee – love thy lightest form
In throats with mirth and laughter warm,
Love thy loud voice in night and storm –

And strangely feel,
But pleasure in the dire alarm

of thunder's peal.
But love thee most 'mid yellow glooms
Which many a vestal star illumes,
Where floodest thou cathedral rooms

From floor to dome,
With echoes blown like scented blooms

From glory's home.

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