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ARNOLD HENRY ISLER.

BORN: SWITZERLAND, 1848.

AT the age of five the subject of this sketch was brought to America. When nine years of age he ran away from home; and three years later, when the civil war broke out, he again ran away from the place he was then making his home, and became a member of the 23rd Ohio Infantry. He served through the war from beginning to the end, as a private, scout, spy, and color-bearer, and has often been written up as the youngest soldier of the war. After the war young Isler settled down in

O, sweet is the sleep of the dead! Quiet their rest in the clay;

Unmoved by the strife and tread Of humanity, day by day Unmoved by the terrible sway Of the masses fighting for bread. Oh, sweet is the sleep of the dead! Quiet their rest in the clay.

I'm weary; I would I were dead! At rest in the cold dark clay. I'm tired of the strife I've led,

Of the struggle day by day, Just to live like a slave and say, I drink, and I eat my own bread. I'm weary; I would I were dead! At rest in the cold dark clay.

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PAINTER, PAINT A PICTURE.
Painter, paint a picture,

Of a maid most fair;
Make the colors richer
Than June roses are:
Give it all the sweetness
Of the song of birds,

Graced with the completeness

Of the poet's words.

Give the face the brightness

Of a summer day,

With a look of lightness

And a touch of play; Give the mouth a splendor Of the budding rose, Tempting, soft and tender In its sweet repose.

Give the eyes the fire

And passion of a soul Strong in its desire

To break beyond control; Give the hair the beauty

Of weird loveliness, Truant in its duty

To its fair mistress.

Give the form the glory,

And the queenly mien, Of her who lives in storyEgypt's fairest queen; Give it airy motion Of a fairy sprite, Claiming heart devotion By a royal right.

Painter, paint a picture
Of a maid most fair;
Make the colors richer
Than June roses are;
Give it all the sweetness
Of the song of birds,
Graced with the completeness
Of the poet's words.

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

DO I LOVE THEE?

"Do I love thee?"

Ask of the bee,

If it loves not the flowers of Spring;

Ask of the bird,

If it loves not to fly and sing;

The answer they return to thee

Is mine,

And thine,

Marie.

"Do I love thee?"

Ask of the sea,

If it loves not the wind's shrill hiss; Ask of the rose,

If it loves not the dewdrop's kiss: The answer they return to theeIs mine,

And thine,

Marie.

Do I love thee?"

Ask not of me,

Look in my eyes and read love there:
List to my heart,

And hear it beat in sad despair;
The answer they return to thee--
Is mine,

And thine, Marie.

THE MONTHS OF THE FLOWERS ARE

OVER.

The months of the flowers are over,
The fair, sweet summer is dead;
The perfume of the sweet-scented clover,
With the soft, warm breezes has fled;
The green woods, but yesterday ringing
With the voices of glad birds singing,
Are silent, yellow and red;
Alas, for the soul of the rover,
That on summer joys has fed!

For the months of the flowers are over,
The fair, sweet summer is dead.

The joys of the singer are over,

The days of his youth have fled;
No longer will fields of green clover,
And flowers respond to his tread:
The world, that was yesterday ringing
With notes of a joyous youth's singing,
To another gay songster is wed;
Alas, for the soul of the rover,

That on summer joys has fed!

For the months of the flowers are over,
The fair, sweet summer is dead.

THE KISS.

I met her one night

O sweet little Miss!

'Neath the stars so bright.

I met her one night,
And to my delight

She gave me a kiss!
Perhaps 'twas amiss

In that fairy sprite To give me a kiss: Perhaps 'twas amissBut oh! the sweet bliss I tasted that night.

'Neath the stars so bright, O sweet little Miss! With no one in sight, 'Neath the stars so bright, To our hearts' delight We gave kiss for kiss.

O sweet little Miss!

What intense delightWhat infinite blissO sweet little Miss! Lies hid in a kiss,

On a starlit night.

A GLANCE.

I caught but a glance of her eye,
So tender, and blue as the sky,
As she hurriedly passed me by.

Her face-more worthy than my praise,
So sweet and so pure in its grace,

I caught but a glimpse of her face.
Though she hurriedly passed me by,
Her face, and the glance of her eye,
Will haunt me until I die.

MY VALENTINE. A girlish face with wondrous grace, With features passing fair; With mouth like rose in calm repose, As of Love's presence unaware. Cheeks soft as plush and quick to blush When word or look surprise; And auburn hair - ah! I declare,

None know how much her hair I prize. Sad, blue gray eyes that ne'er disguise The soul from out the gray,

A soul so good that womanhood
Seems bettered by its magic sway.
A form of mold as fine as gold
And graced with queenly air;
A fairy step, by which she crept
Into my heart and nestled there.
O sad, sweet face! in all this place,
There is no love like thine.

O heart so true! it is for you

I pray God bless my Valentine."

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

EUGENIE E. CLARK.

BORN: PADUCAH, KY., DEC. 10, 1869. THE young lady whose picture and name appear here is one of the quite accomplished young ladies of Paducah. Graduating from college, Miss Clark has devoted much of her time and her talent since to literary pursuits, mostly over the nom de plume of Geneva. Her writings on various subjects, both in prose and poetry, have won for her a very enviable reputation, both at home and abroad. Her first literary effort was at the age of ten, when she wrote a poem which promised her subsequent literary ability. She has lately

written an opera, which she is now setting to music, and which competent critics who have examined it pronounce a sure success, as the public will soon have a chance to verify. Miss Clark has also written a novel, which Eastern publishers have examined and declared full of power and great promise. As a contributor to the local literature of the city her articles have been most flatteringly criticised, and show a graceful and easy flow of language and thought. There is evidently quite a brilliant future before Miss Clark if she shall decide to utilize the talent she has for authorship. Her poems have been widely read and admired by lovers of the muse throughout the United States.

TO A ROSE. LA BRIDE.

113

Pale, perfect flower, to thy petals cling
A sweetness born of dew, of sun, of heaven;
An incense that upborne to paradise,
Meets wafts of angels' breath in downward
sighs

Swayed earthward, that to mortal souls it bring

The dream of happiness that shall be given.

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I gaze upon your leaves now curled and dry And yellowed into pale and softened gold, The days and weeks and months - a year has past

Since he who gave thee sighed, when we at last

Knew that the time had come to say good-bye Till many moons should wave and buds unfold.

Thy faint breath whispers of one sunny hour Passed where the trees and blossoms wove

their spell

Of trembling sweetness in the dappled shade; The drowsy note of birds borne from the glade Came on the truant breeze, that wooed the flower

Then tossed her fragrant kisses o'er the fell. In thy pure heart the subtle perfume lives, As lives in mine the sweetness of that hour. Whate'er betide, whate'er the years may bring, The fragrance of a thought to thee will cling. Though fame or place whate'er the future

gives

To me, to thee I give all in my power

A kiss, a tear, a sigh, pale, perfect flower.

PATIENCE.

Long and wearily I waited,

Waited Jamie for thy coming,

Listened for thy loved footsteps

Tearful leaflets sighed: He comes not."

Long and wearily I waited;

Pitying skies wept all day with me;
E'en the birds were silent, while I
Watched and waited, but you come not.
Shall I ever feel your hand-clasp
Warm my blood like wine, and tingle
Through my veins like drops of ichor?
Feel your warm lips' tender clinging?
Yes, I hear your solemn promise,
And a soothing peace falls o'er me
Like a heavenly benediction;
And my waiting heart hath patience.

EXTRACT.

Oh! golden moon, that sifts thy yellow dust
In gleaming mist o'er all the silent earth,
Tell me, dost look upon another face
So sad as mine, another heart so sad?

ANNA C. L. BOTTA.

BORN: BENNINGTON, VT., IN 1828. THIS lady was educated in Albany, N. Y., and began early to write for literary periodicals. Mrs. Botta's style is musical, elegant and finished. Among her best poems are Paul at Athens, Webster Books, and Wasted Fountains. She has published in periodicals numerous stories, essays and criticisms, and has edited various works. A new edition of her poems appeared in 1884.

THE DUMB CREATION.

Deal kindly with those speechless ones,
That throng our gladsome earth;
Say not the bounteous gift of life
Alone is nothing worth.

What though with mournful memories
They sigh not for the past?
What though their ever joyous Now
No future overcast?

No aspirations fill their breast

With longings undefined:

They live, they love, and they are blest,
For what they seek they find.

They see no mystery in the stars,
No wonder in the plain;
And Life's enigma wakes in them
No questions dark and vain.

To them earth is a final home,
A bright and blest abode;
Their lives unconsciously flow on
In harmony with God.

To this fair world our human hearts
Their hopes and longings bring,
And o'er its beauty and its bloom
Their own dark shadows fiing.
Between the future and the past
In wild unrest we stand:
And ever as our feet advance,

Retreats the promised land.

And though Love, Fame, and Wealth and

Power,

Bind in their gilded bond,

We pine to grasp the unattained,

The something still beyond.

And, beating on their prison bars,
Our spirits ask more room,
And with unanswered questionings,
They pierce beyond the tomb.
Then say thou not, oh doubtful heart,
There is no life to come:

That in some tearless, cloudless land,
Thou shalt not find thy home.

JOHN HAY.

BORN: SALEM, IND., OCT. 8, 1838.

JOHN HAY practiced law in Illinois in 1861, but immediately after went to Washington as assistant secretary to President Lincoln, remaining with him, both as a secretary and a trusted friend, almost constantly till the death of Mr. Lincoln. He then served the government in various capacities. In 1870 he became an editorial writer on the New York Tribune, where he remained about five years. Pike County Ballads is his best book of verse. Col. Hay is supposed to be the author of Breadwinners.

JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE.
Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,
Becase he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit

Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three year
That you hav n't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?

He were n't no saint,-them engineers
Is all pretty much alike,—
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And another one here, in Pike;
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row,
But he never funked, and he never lied,—
I reckon he never knew how.

All boats had their day on the Mississip
And her day came at last,-

The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle she would n't be passed.
And so she came tearin' along that night-
The oldest craft on the line-
With a nigger squat on the safety-valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,

And quick as a flash se turned, and made
For that willar-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

BLANCHE HERMINE ADAMS.

BORN: VANCOUVER, WASH., OCT. 22, 1871. MISS ADAMS is the daughter of Major Enoch George Adams, the poet, lecturer, journalist and soldier, who is fully represented elsewhere in this work. In 1885 she removed with her

And may our class as time shall pass
Forever to the right,

Aye cling with zeal, and always feel
We ev'ry wrong must fight.

When life shall fail with ache and ail,
And earthly hopes decline,
Then let us cling like ivy ring,

To higher things divine.

Aspire to heaven with sins forgiven,
As ivy climbs the steeple

And heavenward go from things below,
Alluring other people.

115

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ARBOR DAY POEM.

O'er castle old where wealth untold
In years long since gone by
Had held its sway for many a day,

Which now in ruins lie.

The ivy green how oft 'tis seen

By some observant guest!

To him the thought with truth well fraught
Comes with a sudden zest.

That wealth may flee on land and sea,
But we may safely hold

Close to the right with all our might,
As ivy ruins old.

Our ivy green that you have seen
Is planted here to-day,

Now may it preach or may teach
A lesson in its way.

MT. HOOD.

In the far and glorious West,
Rearing aloft its snowy crest,

Stands a mountain lone and grand
Like a sentinel at hand.

Overlooking fir and pine,

Overlooking New World's Rhine,

Lordly stream of Oregon,

River poets boast upon

Hood in purity sublime,

Changeless still in lapse of time,

Show'st how great thy beauties are,

Nothing can thy whiteness mar.

'Gainst the azure hemisphere,

Standest thou without a peer.
Hard thy summit is to reach,
As the fame desired by each.
Only birds that strongest spring
Brush thy summit with their wing.
Though the seasons come and go,
Summer's heat and winter's snow,
Thou remain'st still the same,
Like unto the spotless name
Of some great soul that has fame
Left untarnished still and pure,
Name that ever will endure,
Through the ages long to come,
Till are all men summoned home.
Scorn by it is heeded not,
All mere trouble is forgot.

Towering above the ills of life
Beneath it sinks all din and strife,
Thus thou, monarch of Cascades,
Where beneath, o'er hills and glades,
Roar the streams and water falls,
Disregarding banks and walls.

Or when on a sultry day,
Through dry forest fires play,
Thou dost firm untainted stand,
Luring with a beckoning hand
Like a saint in saintly robe,
Grandest monarch on the globe,

I within thy shadow born,
Hail thee, glorious as the morn!

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