106

WILLIAM ROBERT FISHER. BORN: JEFFERSON CO., IOWA, JULY 12, 1865. WILLIAM commenced writing poetry at the age of sixteen, and two years later published a volume of poems in pamphlet form. At the age of twenty he wrote a poem of one thou

WILLIAM ROBERT FISHER.

sand lines, and has written ten times as much more since that time, of which there are a number of translations from German, Danish and Norwegian authors. Mr. Fisher has high aspirations, and his literary career has yet but just begun.

EQUALITY.

Our fathers told us long ago,

And pledged to die for what we know,
That all are equal born;
Among the nations let it fly,

And shout that message to the sky
Till earth hath learned to scorn.

To scorn the despot on his throne,
But not the royal born alone,

The usurer as well;

The triumpher o'er innocence,

Ill-gotten, blood-bought eminence,

And all that speaks of hell.

With them there are no low nor high,
And we are brothers, you and I,
And brothers of the king,

Though lessened is his manhood's claim,
For being duped with notions tame
Of .. blood right"--such a thing.
His.. blood right" and man's only one,
Is right to live as man has done
In fellowship with man;

To have his dangers, hopes and fears,
With him rejoice, with him shed tears,
Win honor if he can.

But not alone we scorn the base,

For love hath claims upon the race,

That love called charity,

Which earth must have ere that bright day

When knowledge hath eternal sway

And all mankind are free.

SIGHT.

The eyelids cannot dim the sight,

Nay when they're closed 'tis far more

bright,

Both in day dreams and dreams of night.

In dreams of day mine eyes may see,
A castle and an icy tree,
Glossed by the sun all gorgeously.

In dreams of night a thousand things,
Wondrous as Saturn with his rings,
O'ershadow me with condor wings.

TOO LATE.

O mock me not with glorious eye,

Too late, too late;

Nor pity to a soul deny

Accursed of fate.

Thou'rt victor, let thy love forbid

Thou be elate,

I cannot hope as once I did, Too late, too late.

THE SONG OF YOUTH AND AGE. There's potency in youthful dreams, As Keats, and White, and Drake attest, Who dared to touch immortal themes Ere their frail beings sank to rest.

Yet highest glory is for him

Who like old Milton sings with power, The song which Meditation grim, Has given in life's silver hour.

MRS. ANNIE MARIA CLARK.

BORN: STILL RIVER, MASS., SEPT. 21, 1835. MRS. CLARK has written two volumes of prose-Light from the Cross and Olive Loring's Mission, both of which have been highly praised. Her poems have appeared in many prominent periodicals. She now resides in the beautiful and historic old town of Lancaster, Mass.

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS.

.. A kiss for your thoughts, Sister Alice,"
I heard little Charlie say,

As we sat 'mid the twilight in silence
At the close of a busy day.

And Alice said, speaking softly,

My fancies have wandered afar,

To Bethlehem, where the wise men came,
Led on by that wonderful star.
To-morrow, you know, is Christmas,
And close to my heart to-night,
Came thoughts of the watching shepherds
And the glorious, beautiful sight.
..When the angels stood all around them
In the midnight, calm and still,
Singing Glory to God in the Highest,

On earth peace and to men good will.'
..And sweeter than all, dearest Charlie,
Was the thought that came to me then,
Of how much the Lord must have loved us,
To have come as a child among men.
..To live here and labor to save us,
If we will but love and obey,
And striving to keep his commandments,
Seek to walk in the heavenly way."

. And it almost seemed that an angel

Whispered close to my heart, soft and clear, Fear not, for I bring you good tidings, my

child,

Greatest joy to bless and to cheer.

"And, Charlie, I think that to-morrow

Will be bright with a clearer light,

And I hope I shall do more to make you glad, For the thoughts that have blest me tonight."

JOHN LAWRENCE CLARK. BORN: STILL RIVER, MASS., Nov. 30, 1871. THE subject of this sketch is the son of Mrs. Annie Clark, whose name appears on this same page. Although quite a young man, John has written several poems of merit that have received publication.

BALLAD OF ST. VALENTINE. In early times there lived a saint, None better in the almanac,

Who used to kiss the pretty maids,

Of whom in Rome there was no lack. At length the pagans did destroy

This somewhat amatory bishop, And, as he perished at the stake, He sent a very pious wish up, That he might reach a paradise Where there were girls in goodly host. Then, with this very saintly prayer, The holy man gave up the ghost.

"Tis told, when by such cruelty

The sweet St. Valentine was dying,

That every little maid in Rome

Did make her black eyes red with cry-
ing.

On second month and fourteenth day
This good saint's martyrdom befell.
And since that year the day has been
A sentimental festival.

BRIDGET.

A pleasant friend to me
It little Bridget Nee,

Though her grandpa came from Erin
long ago;

But in her pretty face

There never is a trace

But a true New England blossom she
did blow.

The ancestors, may be,
Of pretty Bridget Nee

Were barons very grand and very harsh;

I really hope 'tis so,

For 'twould pain me much to know

They were ordinary trotters of the marsh. The Yankee girls can say

Whatever things they may,

And laugh and sneer at pretty Bridget
Nee:

That's but another reason

Why in this summer season

She is a friend very pleasant unto me. Should you be cast awhile

On the shore of Erin's Isle,

Young ladies of a certain high-toned
school,

And the people looked askance
With a very scornful glance,

Would you say those people kept the
Golden Rule.

But I will moralize,

Which is something I despise,

Though of course 'tis appropriate at times;

And now I'll have to close,

And go to writing prose,

Which is not as interesting as these rhymes.

JAMES ARTHUR EDGERTON.

BORN: PLANTSVILLE, O., JAN. 30, 1869. RECEIVING the degree of A. B. at the age of eighteen, Arthur then went to Michigan, where he became associate editor of a state historical and biographical encyclopedia, with headquarters at Kalamazoo; and later was managing editor of the Evening Herald

JAMES ARTHUR EDGERTON. at the same place. In 1888 he became connected with the Marietta Register of Ohio, with which he is still at work. His first publication of poems was made in 1889, which is a work that has been liberally noticed by the American press, and has received a fair circulation.

BIRTH OF A DAY.
Once, when over the north
A wealth of grass and flowers,
A music in the air

Proclaimed that it was June,
A beautiful day was born,
That with an unheard step,
Led by the kindly Sun,
Sped round the sleeping earth.

She was the youngest babe
Born unto passing time,
From out the sable folds,
That cling about the night-

Night's spotless, gemmed skirts,
Her roseate face peeped forth.

The jeweled stars looked down
Upon her ruddy glow

And paling shrank, abashed.
The moon's white face grew dark,
Her dreamy flood of light,
As neath an ashen veil,
Was buried in the sky.

The night grew old and died.
A blush spread o'er and far
Along the somber dome.
And as over the sky

The smile of day grew bright,

Breaking upon the earth,

From off the flowery fields,

The still earth answering smiled.

Supreme as any King

That ruled in days of Eld,

Upon a shifting throne

Whose feet stood on the hills,

The young queen ruled alone.
The ancient Sun rose up

And crowned the new-born day.
With dark-hued light and deep
He gilded as he rose

All the wood-crowned heights;

And with a softer glow

The verdured, grass-clad slopes.

With kindly eye he looked,
From out his morning home,

Far in the blushing east,
Looked down on Nature's face
And straightway she grew glad;
Upon the tinkling brook

That laughed its answer back;

Upon the drooping flowers
That hid from sterner night,
That raised their jeweled heads
And ope'd their wondering eyes;
Upon the meadows, strewn
With tear-drops that were shed,
By elfs that live in air,
For the departed night,
And thousand glinting gems
Sparkled with shimmering light.

The moving shadows crept
Long-drawn across the fields;
The scattered herds rose up
To crop the dewy grass;

The glad-voiced birds sang out
The melodies of morn;
And o'er the outstretched fields
Of sunrise far and wide,
Where busy haunts of men
Dotted and blotched their face,
The sound of wakened life
Resumed its echoing sway.

MRS. SARAH A. THOMAS.

BORN: HOULTON, MAINE.

REARED in an atmosphere of literature, it has been the ruling passion of her life. Her father was a man of high mental culture, brilliant in conversation, and a fine reader of prose and poetry. She commenced to write poetry at the age of ten, and shortly afterward several short stories, which were never published. In 1872 Mrs. Thomas contributed to a New York Magazine entitled For Everybody; since then she has contributed to the leading periodicals of America, including the Waverly

MRS. SARAH H. THOMAS. Magazine, Ballou's Magazine, Saturday Evening Post and the Chicago Ledger. Mrs. Thomas has about twelve hundred pages of unpublished manuscript that she intends to issue at some future time. She has written for publication under the noms de plume Rena Snow, Blanche Raymond, Mary F. Schuyler, and Josephus. Mrs. W. H. Thomas now resides in a beautiful little home near the city of El Dorado, Kansas, where she numbers amongst her friends many ardent and enthusiastic admirers.

TO MY HUSBAND. Twelve years of sunshine, and of storms Since first our lives were joined in one;

But, had the sky no threatening clouds,

We would forget to prize the sun.
And, gliding down life's quiet stream,
With life one joyous summer day,
We would not note our rapid flight
Were there no landmarks by the way.
I would not call to memory now

The sorrows of those vanished years:
Our steps led through affliction's path,
Bordered by bitter falling tears.
But I would have you think to-day

Of all that made life seem most dear,
Of hopes that tint with pleasing ray
The prospects of the coming year.

It seems that those who love are doomed
Affliction's bitterest cup to drain,
As if they with their mutual strength
Were better formed to bear the pain.
Or it may be, had fortune smiled,

Our love with years had colder grown: Yours might have followed fancy's paths, And I have doubted e'en my own.

Perhaps that Fate has been more kind
Then we, dear heart, shall ever know:
The purest gem may worthless seem
If scanned by firelight's fitful glow.
Then at our lot we'll not repine,

Though cold and dreary seem the way, But journey on, heart joined to heart, Until we find the perfect day.

A DREAM.

In the gathering twilight calm and gray,
My thoughts take wings and fly away,
To a wooded glen where the fallen leaves
Lie yellow as grain in its golden sheaves;
But even there no rest I find,

For rest is not for me.

Then I fly to a fair, Elysian land
With sparkling waters and golden sand,
Where perfumed breezes lightly blow,
And the orange and palm together grow,
And the air is music's soft refrain,
Yet they do not soothe my pain,
For rest is not for me.

I rise on the wings of the silent night
And soar through realms of starry light,
To a land whose streets are paved with gold,
(Oh! half its beauty has ne'er been told,)
Where a thousand years shall be as one,
And songs of joy are never done,
Ah! here is rest for me.

I awake to find it only a dream;
But this one thought is a joy supreme,
That I, wien my mission here is o'er,
Shall reach that land and weep no more;
For though life's cares may dim the light,
There's One who will guide my steps aright,
To that rest which waits for me.

110

A QUESTION.

..What's a sigh, infant?" an old man said As he placed his hand on the curly head; The child glanced up, in mild surprise, With a question in its laughing eyes: "Oh, man of learning hast thou never read 'Tis an effort to strengthen life's slender thread?"

..What's a sigh, school-boy?" the sage then asked,

As the little fellow whistling passed;

Know you not — you, who, once like me, Thought only of days that are to be? Have you never felt the rapturous thrill Of climbing a little higher still?"

..What's a sigh, maiden?" she paused in the dance,

With her winning smile and sparkling glance; 'Tis the coquette's shield, 'mid the gay

Eoliann breezes speed the swift-winged

hours.

Our time of meeting may be far away, But still, I know that we shall meet some day.

It may be in the autumn, when the trees Have changed their airy hues for gold and brown,

And earth, robbed of its verdure, seems to plead

For every faded leaf slow fluttering down. But though the autumn winds may sadly

sigh,

We may not meet in sorrow, you and I. Or we may meet in winter when the earth Is robed in fleecy folds of purest white; With crystal gems on house top, tree and

tower,