N. J. CLODFELTER.

BORN: ALAMO, IND., DEC. 14, 1852.

N. J. CLODFELTER, the Wabash Poet, and author of Early Vanities, Snatched from the Poorhouse, etc., was from his youth a boy of strong hope, vivid imagination, and a great lover and close observer of nature, but peculiarly averse to farm life. He became an early and careful student of ancient history, biography and poetry, and read with deep

N. J. CLODFELTER.

interest and much care all the most prominent poetical works of ancient and modern times. Mr. Clodfelter commenced his efforts at poetic writing when a mere boy, many of his shorter poems having been written when between the age of thirteen and seventeen. His first volume of poems was published in 1886, and has met with a very large sale. Snatched from the Poorhouse, a prose work, has also been received with great favor, the sales of this book alone having reached nearly one hundred and sixty thousand copies. From the sale of his works he has erected a beautiful home, known as Knoll Cottage, on a high knoll in the city of Crawfordsville, Ind., at a cost of nearly $20,000, where he now resides, and which in 1889 was visited by death, and cruelly took from him his pretty and accomplished little wife Cinderilla, the star and light of his beautiful home.

SPIRITS OF THE STORM.

Roll, thunders, roll!

On the cold mist of the night,
As I watch the streaming light,
Lurid, blinking in the south,
Like a mighty serpent's mouth
Spitting fire.

Peal on peal, the thunder's crashing,
And the streaming lightning's flashing,
Like great giants coming o'er us,
Dancing to the distant chorus,

In their ire,

Sowing fire,

From the wild sky higher, higher, While the heaving angry motion, Of a great aerial Ocean,

Dashes cloud-built ships asunder,

As the distant coming thunder

Rolls, rolls, rolls,

And shakes the great earth to the poles.

Roll, thunders, roll!

You awake my sleeping soul,

To see the war in rage before me, And its dreadful menace o'er me,

Lightning,

Brightening.

Flashing,

Dashing:

Thunders booming in the distance, Till the earth seems in resistance To the navies sailing higher,

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O'er the wild clouds dropping fire;
And there he comes! the wing'd horse comes,
Beneath great Jove whose mighty arms
Hurl thunder-bolts, and heaven drums
Her awful roll of sad alarms:

He stamps the clouds, and onward prances,
As from him the wild lightning glances;
By his neigh the world is shaken,
And his hoof so fleetly dances
That the lightning's overtaken,
And he feeds upon its blazing
Shafts, as if he were but grazing;
Stops, paws the clouds beneath his form,
Then gallops o'er the raging storm;
Flies on! his long disheveled mane,
Streams wildly through the leaden plane
Of the dull skies,

The while the drapery of the clouds,
Wraps this spirit as in shrouds,
Our darting eyes

In vague surprise
Arise,

And trace the wandering course
Of heaven's fleet-foot winged horse!
Roll, thunders, roll!

As lightnings in the arching scroll,
Streak the heavens in their flight
By their dazzling flow of light;
While old Neptune, all alone,
Is sitting on his mountain throne,

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O'er the sea,

In a mood so lonely, he

Thrusts his trident by his side,

With such force that the great mountain

Opeus a deep cavern wide,

And bursts forth a living fountain

Sparkling with its silvery tide;

And the Nereids, fifty strong,

To the water's babbling song,
Like fairy wands

From Neptune's hands
Sally from this cavern wide,
Sailing o'er the gray cold rocks,
With their fairy rainbow locks,
Down upon the water's brim,
Either way the surface skim,
Till their taper'd fingers' tips
Gently in the water dips;
Then beneath the raging skies
Neptune in his chariot flies

O'er the sea,
With his trident in his hand,
In a bearing of command,
Fitting to his majesty,

He calls to his daughters

To quit the wild waters,

He calls but they heed not his word:

Then his trident he hurls

At his sea-nymph girls,

But the truants - they flee from their lord. Unto the clouds they go

In the whirlwinds of the storm,
Arethusa leads the way
Wheresoe'er the winds may blow.

She lithely moves her graceful form
As if she would herself survey,
And then she rides the southern wind
And bids her sisters follow,
And leave old Neptune far behind,
Lord of his mountain hollow,—

To nurse his wrath
And tread his path,
And curse his fairy daughters,-
These mountain elves

That freed themselves
From the lord of ocean's waters.
He grasped a trident in his hand
That mystic rose at his command,
And wildly blew till the great ocean
Trembled like an aspen-tree,

And winds that were in wild commotion,

Whirling through immensity,

He'd by his magic art control

And gather in a secret scroll

And hurl them at his Dorian daughters
O'er the heaving angry waters,
Till the growling thunders roll,
Giving spleen to Neptune's soul
As he sees them dart through air,
Daughters fifty, all so fair,

Free from the Ionian Sea,

Designed to be

Their destiny.

Roll, thunders, roll!

Till the many church-bells toll
Once in unity,

Touched by the enchanting wand

Of his majesty,

Who's arbiter of sea and land, And marks each destiny.

But there!

The fair-faced nymphs of air, Metamorphosed from the Dorian sea, O'er the waters,

Lovely daughters,

Through the misty clouds they flee, Their fairy forms

Float o'er the storms

So swift and magic'ly

That on the wings of the long streaming

flashes

They ride, and they dance their delight, Wear crowns of electrical dashes,

And bask in their dazzling light.

Where the deep-voiced thunder peals louder,
And the long sheeted lightnings play fast,
We see them peep through the dark cloud, or
Ride off on a sulphurous blast.

When the storm to its fullness is raging,
And all Nature at war seems to be,

The cloud-sphere is then more engaging
To them than a wild breaking sea.
But now the growling, rolling, grumbling,
Thunders in the distance mumbling,
Fainter, fainter, dying, dying,
And the lightning dimmer flying,
O'er the dark cloud westward lying,
As the morning in her glory
Bursts forth like an ancient story,-
The while the resting sunbeams light
On this dark cloud of the night,
And the arching rainbow's given
To the spirit-forms of heaven,
In a moment unrolled
In its pinions of gold,
And quick as its birth

It o'ercircles the earth:

And there the spirits of the storms
Sit and rest their weary forms.

EXTRACTS FROM SIOUSKA." Their trysting place, their trysting place, Adown beneath the slanting hill,

Where weaving ivies interlace

With creeping vines above the rill, And reeds and flowers grow down beneath, And deck the wild and glowing heath, And vipers rustle in the weeds, As antler'd deer leap by with grace, And panthers prowling thro' the reeds, Are welcomed to their trysting place.

She feels a kiss upon her lips,

A pressure of her finger tips,

In sweet compassion; is her mind,
Though peopled with such thoughts re-
fined,

In a deep rhapsody, while keeps
The hawthorn's vigil as she sleeps
So placidly?

The pretty water-lilies bloom

Amid the flag and knotted weeds
So purely white, like rays of light
They shine among the tangled reeds.

DANCE ON THE LETHE.
EXTRACTS.
Roared the River, clashed the bones,
Chimed the harps in softer tones,
Every sound was in its place,
Every fairy moved with grace,
Not a discord broke the spell,
All was music in the dell:

Some would wake, and some would sleep,
Some would dance, and some would weep,
Some would laugh, and some would cry,
Some would sob, and some would sigh;

Roared the Styx in thunder tones;
Beat the water with their bones,
Every crash, and gentle chime,
Kept within its proper time.

PLEASURES OF HOME.
EXTRACTS.

Oh! sweet days of romping childhood,
Oh! the little ills of childhood,
Each day turns its written pages,
Turns them gently out of sight, then
Folds them down in logic order,
To remain in dusty covers,
For the age of meditation.
Down this deep dark vale of silence,
Hands will gently rise before us,
There to point the weary traveler,
Backward o'er the path he's traveled:-
Oh! the golden thought, if golden:
Oh! the gloomy thoughts, if gloomy;
Will still follow, onward, onward,
Down the valley dark or golden,
As the light or shade behind us,
That we made to follow onward,
In the footsteps left behind us.
Let me live within the sunshine
Of the loved ones in my cottage,
Where hearts flutter with winged joy,
When my step is heard approaching:-
Home, oh! home! the sweetest harbor,
For the weary soul to rest in;
Where is treasured love and joy,
Peace and honor, born of heaven,
All uniting into pleasure.

THRENODY.

And I have sung in vain so long,

I scarce can feel new courage rise, The wealth of soul I've giv'n to song, Still to my sorrow multiplies:

I know not why I've sung in vain,
For in my breast I've felt the power,
Of poesy swell up again,

And blossom in a lonely hour;-
The hope I've nursed within my breast,
Is now of doubtful mien and cast;—
The fire is smothered, and oppressed,
That glows spontaneous to the last.

PURITY.

Where is the maid so chaste and pure,
That virtue firmly blends with grace,
And honor binds herself secure,
Above a ruined, fallen race?
"Tis not - oh, no,-- the vain coquette,
Whose roguish eye is steeped with woe,
And sober mien a woven net,

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To catch some triste or silly beau. "Tis not the flirt who steals your heart, And in return gives hers forever, Then steals it back by cunning art, And leaves you love's strong cords to sever. "Iis not the one whose painted cheeks

Are powdered up and crimsoned red, Who primps her mouth up when she speaks, Till words seem fast within her head.

"Tis not the handsome giddy jilt,

That by superior charm allures Whose very conscience aches with guilt, And guilt itself her soul insures. "Tis not the quaint loquacious maid, Whose flattering tongue inclines to move In language that true hearts evade, And virtue never can approve. It is the maid whose potent mind, Stands zealously at virtue's test, Whose inmost being is refined,

And purity her soul's bequest.

INTRODUCTORY ACROSTIC SONNET. Naught this volume have I penn'd for praise Or condemnation, and I shall disclaim All early expectations of a name; However, pleasant hours in early days Came to me as I wrote these simple lays. Lost in the labyrinthine bowers, or shame Of poesy, it matters not there came Despondency to greet me, and the plays, For sporting childhood, had no charm for me. Enough to know, then, why I wrote to kill Long time that drags me on against my will, To the dark brink of vast eternity, Encompass'd by oblivion's silence, still Retiring in the vale of Lethe's hill.

CLINTON LYSANDER LUCE.

BORN: STOWE, VT., SEPT. 28, 1854.

AT the age of eighteen Clint left home, his mother having died the same year, and went to Minnesota, near Albert Lea, making his home with an uncle. He never admired farming as an occupation, and consequently em braced an early opportunity to attend the high school of Albert Lea and fit himself for teaching, which calling, coupled with farming, he pursued until the autumn of 1878 when he

To friends whose hands I always failed to clasp.

I often dream of days that now are here,

Of hopes that urge me on my toilsome way; Of stars that shine,my wayward path to cheer, Up to the realms of longed-for famed day. The more I strive the farther off it seems This goal for which I vainly dream and hope, The sun obscured - to me it hides its beams While I in doubt my rayless pathway grope. Then I have dreams of life not yet begun, Hidden away in years-long years to be, On wheels of life where golden threads are spun

When toil is done - the weary spirit free. This dream is one I fain would realize;

To prove that life is not quite all in vain, But if it reaches far beyond the skies Before death comes-oh, let me dream again.

CLINTON LYSANDER LUCE. entered the office of the Freeborn County Standard. In 1882 he became attached to the Albert Lea Enterprise in the capacity of associate editor, and in July of the next year he succeeded to a half interest in that paper, and still holds the position of editor and proprietor jointly with Hon. M. Halvorsen. Mr. Luce enjoys studying literature, ancient mythology and medicine, and writes more for other publications than his own, both in prose and verse.

DREAMS.

I dream of days now long forever fled

A time when life was earnest, real and true, Before the hope of happiness was dead;

Before life's sorrows filled my heart anew With fleeting fancies - wishes never gainedThough oft they seemed close to my eager

grasp;

Ambition lured to heights I ne'er attained,

DISAPPOINTMENT.

How deep our vigils or how flow our tears,
Is not determined by the length of years
We live and living find how false a friend
Can be. 'Tis thus we find the world does

trend.

Who lives for friendship lives not wise or well, He yet will live to hear its funeral knell.

A ONCE FAMILIAR FOOTFALL.

I hear a footfall on the stair without, Ascending, now, how loud it greets mine

ear,

I seek to know the owner- oh the doubt, That fills my soul with anguish and with

fear.

How long that stairway-step by step I hear
That sound once so familiar,now how rare-
Upon my hearing comes the sound so clear,
It seems to vibrate heaven and earth and
air.

But list the top, the fatal step is passed!

It comes! My doorway close. It draweth by!
Be still, sad heart! The world that is so vast
Has little need for sorrow or its sigh.
My door is reached-and will he come to me-
And take the chair now vacant -woe be-
tide-

He enters not- that I should live to see
Him pass me by upon the other side.
If this be life as others find, I swear,

I get no pleasure from the useless strife-
There is no happiness without despair,
In every heart I find that woe is rife.
And so for footfalls now no more I list,
How worse than foolish e'en to have a friend,

I close my heart alike to one and all,
And to the world no cordial greeting send.

REV. W. AVERY RICHARDS.

BORN: CLYDE, OHIO, DEC. 28, 1838.

AT the age of twenty-one Mr. Richards entered the ministry of the Methodist church, and has been stationed at Dixon, Prairie City, Sioux City, Fort Dodge, Spirit Lake and sev

AUTUMNAL.

Purple, and Green and Gold!
Lo! the year is growing old,
And the night-winds chill the dews
Until they are pale with cold;
New tastes old trappings refuse,
And the groves and prairie wide,
And landscapes on every side,
Are donning Autumnal hues
Of Purple, and Green and Gold.
Purple, and Green and Gold?
"Tis a painter skilled and bold
That is touching the picture fair;
And the tints he is seen to hold
In his hand, are rich and rare,
And they assume a Magic place
In the scene he deigns to grace,
While he shades it here and there
With Purple, and Green and Gold.
Purple, and Green and Gold!
There's a loveliness untold

In the fading grass and leaves,
And he who cannot behold
A glad beauty here, but grieves
At Autumn's change, stands aloof
From charms, and a somber woof
In life's web he throws, and weaves
No Purple, and Green and Gold.
Purple, and Green and Gold!
The buds which we saw unfold
In bursting Spring, spreading wide
Such a charm-spell uncontrolled,
But ope'd to the Autumn tide-
This brighter, maturer stage
Of verdure, and foliage,
And of fruits now glorified
In Purple, and Green and Gold.
Purple, and Green and Gold!
Oh! when we are growing old,
When youth and the ripening prime

Of life are past, and the cold,

Cold winds shall blow, may the time

Of our Autumnal show

A moral glory bright, and glow

In colors more sublime

Than Purple, and Green and Gold.