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

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.

FORGIVE.

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,

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!

FORGOTTEN.

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,

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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.

A LEAP IN THE DARK.

A 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!

If 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.

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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.

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.

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.

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 gladdens 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.

A SONNET.

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.

BUTLER S. SMISER.

BORN: OLDHAM CO., KY., JULY 6, 1862. MR. SMISER is now engaged in publishing the Indian Citizen at Atoka, Indian Territory.

BUTLER S. SMISER.

He has been reading law for the past few years, and intends to follow that profession.

TO THE MEMORY OF A RUSTIC. Dear old rustic, famous rustic,

Oft I've on thy lap reclined
While I read the works of Dickens-
Copperfield and Old Hard Times;
Many a peaceful hour I've lingered

With thee, 'neath the cooling shade
Of that old grape vine, so precious,
When its fruit red-ripe is made.
Day by day I've kept thee company,
Heeding not the flight of time;
Hour by hour I lingered with thee,
Musing o'er some pleasant rhyme.
Heat and sun were all forgotten,

'Neath thy cool and balmy shades As the downy breeze came rustling Through thy green inviting blades. How I grieve to know that early

You and I are doomed to part, But I'll always cherish fondly

Sweetest memories in my heart. Other friends will hover 'round thee, Seek thy shade with calm delight,

While I court another's shadow,

Lingering 'neath its folds 'till night. Then it is I'll fondly cherish

Sweetest thoughts of olden times Spent in calm communion with thee And some poet's pleasant rhymes. Lovers fondly seek thy shelter, Seal their vows beneath thy shade; For no one will ever shun thee "Till thy vines are all decayed. Now, I leave thee, lovely rustic,

To thy future friends and fates But I'll ne'er forget thy friendship, Though I roam in other states. Time may leave its marks upon me, Turn my locks to aged white, But I'll never cease to love thee While my eyes have earthly sight.

MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.

I love to sit on a calm, clear night,

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When the moon is hid and the stars are

bright;

And ponder the depth and power of love
That prompted the God of nature above
To fashion this world by his wondrous might,
And give it such gems of peace and light.
Till I see in the east the nightly Queen
As slowly she rises, so calm and serene;
And ghostly shadows of peering height
Are made by the flickering, misty light.
All nature is clothed in peace, profound;
Made more sublime by the distant sound.
Of a bugle song, on some neighboring hill;
Or the gurgling eddy of a rippling rill;
Or the mournful howl of a lonely hound
That echoes back from the hills around.
My soul seems to rise and float with the wind,
While to tangible things my vision is blind.
On, on through eternity's ages I roll.
As I follow the steps of my wandering soul.

MAY DAY.

Oh! the chattering children, with faces so bright; [delight! How they frolic and ramble, with childish The time has seemed ages, as day after day, They looked for the coming of the merry spring May.

The mind and the heart are the soul of a man, Which recks not of sin in its beautiful plan; But the body is human, and wars with the

soul;

As it passes through time to eternity's goal. We dream of the future, we dream of the past; The one we have blasted, the other we blast. We hope while we live if we die in despair, And trust all the future to mercy, through prayer.

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

PHIL HOFFMANN.

quent contributor to numerous periodicals, including the Chicago Herald and Burlington Hawkeye, and is one of the editorial staff of the Midland Monthly. His prospects for a bright future are very encouraging, considering the fact that he has only just attained his majority. Mr. Hoffmann is orderly sergeant of the military company of his native city, and in business and social circles he is a general favorite.

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,

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 afternoon,

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.

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.

RUFUS J. CHILDRESS.

THE poems of this gentleman have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press. He

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

MY HEART.

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,

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 songIn vain! in vain!

Yet, mourn on, touched with grief sublime, O heart, 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 swoonNo more of night!

MUSIC.

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 stormAnd 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.