JOHN LEWIS BEARD.

BORN: DECEMBER 29, 1858.

MR. BEARD has written extensively for the periodical press, under the nom de plume of

JOHN LEWIS BEARD.

Mart Flippin, for the past ten years. He is an artist by profession, and resides at Winston, N. C.

TO A DIAMOND.

You come from 'neath the hills, oh, thou recluse! [rays

That thou may'st drink the sun's refulgent To blend thy glory with the world's gay hues, And thus the name of thy creator praise. But man's perverted taste sets thee in gold, And pins thee on his front to mark his state; The sum of money which thou cost when sold,

Was paid by him his foolish pride to sate. Why should'st thou be compelled to deck the breasts

Of men devoid of wit or common sense? If thou could'st speak and have thine own requests, [pense.

Sure thou would'st choose a nobler recomThen seek again, oh gem, thy mountain home, Where thou can'st sparkle with the morning dew;

Or look up to yon splendid star-lit dome, And there a 'semblance of thy beauty view.

MRS. MIRIAM A. CHRISTIAN.

BORN: LOGAN CO., W. VA., MAY 3, 1859. A FEW of the poems of Mrs. Christian have appeared in the local press. She was married in 1880, but is now a widow, and resides at Christian, W. Va.

MIDNIGHT MUSINGS.

When the moonlight's softly streaming,
O'er my native hills and vales;
And the whippoorwills are dreaming,
And the owl has ceased his wails;
And the highest stars in heaven
Glitter in the streamlets clear;
And the world to rest is given,
Save some traveler on the way;
Then I stand and view all nature,
In her beauty, by the light,
Of the myriad golden lanterns,

Swung above the world at night!
And I'm wrapt again in childhood,
When I played upon the lawn!
Or with friends I roam the wildwood,
A maiden not yet grown!
And the words of friends departed,
On the fragrant breeze is borne-
Words of some who broken-hearted,
Left this world sad and forlorn!
Then again I'm lonely wandering
By the crystal mountain brooks,
Where some cataract is thundering,
Or at school among my books,
Seeking knowledge of past ages,

For my heart had thirsty grown,
And I longed to drink from sages

And to fathom the unknown!
But my life was sad and weary
For an evil star had shone,
Which bespoke a life most dreary,
For the one beneath it born!
Love then spied the path I wended,

From his pearly throne above,
And two dreary lives he blended
With his magic wand of love!
And we took our flight together,
As the sun sank in the west,
And we comforted each other,

And I dreamed that I was blessed
But alas! my dream soon ended,

And I found that all is woe!
And that joys and griefs are blended,
Where e'er I chanced to go!
But I've traveled 'neath love's bower,
Past the noontide of my life,
While death's plucked the sweetest flower
Which grew 'round me as a wife..
Now my Star of Hope's descended
The horizon of the west,
And my dreams of youth are ended,
And I fain would sink to rest.

E. L. JONES.

BORN: CRAWFORD CO., IND. AFTER receiving his education at Fort Branch, Mr. Jones followed successfully the occupation of a farmer, agent, clerk, law stu

dent, court officer and teacher, which latter profession he now follows. He has written quite a few poems of merit, many of which have received publication in the press.

THOUGHTS.

A noble thought, a thought sublime,
Whether clothed in prose or dressed in rhyme,
If hurled before the public gaze,
Will fan some humble spark ablaze.
"Twill help the future in her strife,
Between the darkness and the light;
"Twill help some person, place or thing,
However darkly stained by sin.

A thought that breaks the reins of sin,
That rends and wrecks its walls within,
Is but an angel clothed in words,

In garments of this sinful world.

A thought that's dressed in garments white,
That lends the world pellucid light,
That deals to error deadly blows,

Is but a skylight here below.

A thought that shines upon our eyes,
That tends our deeds toward welkin skies,
Is but the truth, the truth alone;
And the truth itself can be our own.

MARCUS A. STEWART.

BORN: MADISON, WIS., SEPT. 21, 1852. IN 1882 Mr. Stewart published a volume in verse entitled Rosita, which received high commendation from the press. His poems have occasionally appeared in the press.

AGE AND YOUTH.

In days of old-as I have been told-
There stood on the brow of a hill
An oak tree lone, with moss overgrown-

Perhaps there's a trace of it still

An oak so tall, its shadow would fall

At even far over the vale,

An oak whose wood had gleefully stood,

The fury of many a gale.

A slender shoot sprung up at its foot,

And flourishing mounted high,

Being sheltered well from frosts as they fell,

And wintery winds whistling by;

For the old tree hung above it and sung

A lullaby all the year through,
And thus they say, as time passed away,
Instead of one oak there were two.

And side by side they towered in pride,
Their branches on high interlocked,
The old and young, together they clung,
Together the tempest they mocked;
And when decay had eaten away

The heart of the old oak tall,

Till low he drooped, the young oak stooped, And lightened his parent's fail.

MOON-SET.

Dian's orb is slowly sinking
Down behind the misty height,
And the morning stars are winking
Brighter in the waning light,
And a thousand shadows linking
Deepen now the gloom of night.
As those stars seem brighter, nearer,
In the swiftly gathering gloom,
So our youthful joys grow dearer,
As we lose our youthful bloom;
And we see our errors clearer
In the shadow of the tomb.
As those stars but faintly glimmer
In the soft, subduing rays

Of the moon, our faults grow dimmer,
Should one virtue gather praise;
Yet they shine out sharper, grimmer,
When its honors cease to blaze.

As the flitting shades before us
Seem to mock the queen of night,
Apprehensions gather o'er us
When fair Virtue takes her flight,
Leaving nothing to restore us
Save the memory of her light.

HARMON HIATT.

BORN: GUILFORD CO., N. C., JAN. 20, 1819. NEARLY a hundred poems of Mr. Hiatt have appeared in the Grange Bulletin, Boston Christian Register, and the local papers of Indiana. He has written numerous poems on farming subjects and is known as the

HARMON HIATT.

Farmer Poet of Indiana. Mr. Hiatt is of Quaker parentage and was married in 1838 to Miss Mary Harris, and now resides at Crawfordsville, Ind. Miss Louise Hiatt Brown, a granddaughter of the subject of this sketch, is also represented in this work.

THE GROWING CORN.

I see that on Parnassus' height
The archers draw the bow,
And sing its praises with delight,

How sweet the measures flow

Each knight now makes the welkin ring,
As loud as bugle horn;

Be mine the nobler task to sing
About the growing corn.

The lives that in these germs have lain
In silent, sweet repose;

A graceful form and beauty gain
By Nature's gentle throes.

No sudden bound is here displayed
To change the wond'rous scene;

Nor is progressive work delayed

Till all is robed in green. Each stalk contains a pearly drop Through all the day, so dear; Nor will it drink the morsel up

Till evening shades appear.
Whence came this drop 'mid burning sun,
When zephyrs hide away?

Or why not rise, like mist, and run
With silvered clouds of day?

Perhaps the Fairies, o'er the field,

While weary mortals slept,

Had come with store of tears concealed,
And stood, and sighed, and wept.

Perchance, they may have marked the spot,
In their nocturnal walk,

And came with tiny watering pot

And poured on every stalk.

But science comes to show its worth,
And teach what brought them there;
'Tis vapor from the mellowed earth,
Condensed by cooler air.

Each hill presents a graceful bow,

As through the day I toil;

And seems to thank the passing plow

or turning o'er the soil.

These crackling sounds I often hear,

Like Lilliputian fight;

Will soon present the pendent ear,
And tassled plume to sight.

The nodding plumes with parent dust
Wave o'er the silken fold;
And passing breeze or Midas-touch
Will turn the ears to gold.

Then may the widow's heart rejoice If craven hunger worn;

For starving child with feeble voice, Will call for golden corn.

Put up the bow, it tells a tale

That men should love to hide; When o'er the hill and through the vale He bore it by his side.

And feeble women tilled the ground, And labor laughed to scorn;

And fed to him, the worthless hound, Her shining ears of corn.

THE LITTLE GIRL'S SONG. We love to join in singing, When seated by the fire; Our mirthful voices ringing, Speak forth the heart's desire.

ANTICIPATION.

Look upon my Fancy's limning;
Listen to my Muse's singing!

I will tell thee, wifle mine,
Of our home in future time:-
Of our home, its joys and pleasures,
Sunny nooks and priceless treasures.

It shall be a cottage low,
By its walls a brook shall flow:

Trees shall wave their verdant heads
O'er the rose, that perfume sheds
Through the garden where the ringing
Notes proclaim the song birds singing.
Leafy bines shall climb the door,
With fair clusters covered o'er:

And the rustling leaves shall sigh When the evening winds float by,

FAREWELL.

Farewell! alas, it should be spoken!

That ties thus formed should e'er be broken! That we should hopeless part forever!

Yet fare thee well!

Tho' 'tis a knell

To hearts that fain would sunder never!

They're passed! those days of joy and glad

ness,

Whose hours the ebon wing of sadness Ne'er tinged with earthly blight or sorrow! Ah, nevermore,

On Time's dim shore,

Shall Hope proclaim a glad to-morrow.

The dreams my youthful fancy cherished,
Of fame and glory, all have perished!
And nevermore on earth shall brighten
My bitter fate!

The leaden weight

Of ruined hopes no power can lighten.

To the dull wave of Lethe's river
Haste thee, O, soul! and wash forever
From Memory's page, the last sad token
Of other days!

Whose sunny rays

No more can cheer this heart now broken!

As caverned streams with sullen motion
Roll sunless to the boundless ocean,
E'en so will life, by sorrow molded,
Roll sunless by
Without a sigh,

Until in Death's dark night enfolded!