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MOODY CURRIER.

BORN: BOSCAWEN, N. H., APRIL 22, 1806. GRADUATING in 1834 with high honors from the Dartmouth college, this gentleman has since received from his alma mater the degree of LL.D. For a number of years he practiced law at Manchester, N. H., and since 1848 has

been a prominent banker. Mr. Currier was the governor of his state in 1884 and 1885 and has filled many other prominent political positions. In 1881 a neat volume of poems appeared from the pen of this gentlemen, entitled Early Poems, which has had a wide sale and has received the enconiums of the press throughout the United States.

THE ADIEU.

Lady mine, I need not tell you
What the tears of anguish spoke,
When my fainting eyes beheld you,
As they gave the parting look.
In my bosom then were swelling
Feelings such as none can tell,
As, with tongue and heart unwilling,
Falt'ring sighed I, Fare thee well."
Not my native land forsaking,
Where my infant lot was cast,
Where a thousand scenes awaken
Thoughts of friends and pleasures past;
Not to green and sunny bowers,

Where my childish moments flew;
Not to pleasure, scenes, or flowers,
Weeping, sighed I that adieu.

HOPE.

Mary, the night may look black
With clouds, with tempest and storm;
But hope cheers the traveler's track,
With the speedy approaches of morn.
Mary, the shadows of woe

May threaten to burst on our head;
But sweeter the transports shall flow,
When the anguish of sorrow is fled.
Mary, misfortune may spread,

O'er the prospects of youth, its dark shroud; But hope in its brightness will shed

Its sweet beams of joy o'er the cloud.

Mary, th' affections of youth,

And the soft smile of friendship may die;

But hope, like the fountains of truth,
Flow down from regions on high.

Mary, though life, like a flower,

May wither and fade in its bloom; Hope points to a bright sunny bower, Through shadows that hang o'er the tomb.

IF I WERE A CHILD.

If I were a child I'd sport and play;
I'd rove through woods and fields;
I'd pluck the earliest flowers of May,
And drink the sweets they yield.
I'd sit by the side of the babbling brook,
As the zephyrs passed along;
I'd hide in the alders' shady nook,

And mock the red-breast's song.
I'd find where the painted rainbows rise,
And chase them from morn till noon:
By night I'd watch at the foot of the skies,
And catch the rising moon.

I'd seek where the sweetest wild flowers blow; I'd find where the streamlets run: [grow, In the meadows I'd find where the fox-gloves The tall wild grass among.

I'd make me wings to fly in the air;

I'd rise at the break of day,

And catch the larks that were singing there;
And drive the hawks away.

I'd build me a boat, a jolly boat,
As light as the lightest feather;
And on the dancing waves I'd float
In the bright and sunny weather.
If I were a child how sweet 'twould be
To prattle and laugh and play;
Then at eve to be rocked on my mother's
And sleep my cares away.

[knee,

REV. JAMES H. EDWARDS.

BORN: COLUMBUS, IND., MARCH 16, 1839. REARED on a farm, James continued on it until 1862, when he entered the Union army, serving in the Army of the Tennessee about three years. He then went to school and taught in the schools for about ten years. Afterward Mr. Edwards entered the ministry, and ever since has been actively engaged in it, serving

REV. JAMES H. EDWARDS. some of the prominent churches of the Disciples in Indiana and elsewhere. In 1885 he received a call to a congregation in the city of Melbourne, Australia, which he accepted and served for thirteen months. Returning home via Adelaide S. A., Aden in Arabia, Egypt, Italy, England, Ireland and New York, Mr. Edwards thus circumnavigated the globe.

Who can hear the heaving sigh,
Wrung from hearts forsaken;
Watch the dimmy, tear-set eye,
When the soul's o'ertaken
First with sorrow's bitter tide;
See the sets of jewel,
That upon the tear-paths ride
From a cause so cruel;

Hear the moans that cursed shame
Wrings when hearts are broken;
Witness rising up the flame

Which conscious guilt betoken;

And feel not to him 'tis wrong,

Shameful wrong, who, turning Quick away with soulless song From the anguish burning, Careless heeds the ruin made, Feeling naught of pity? Cold the heart that never paid Debts of sun-lit Sympathy!

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

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Do you hear those silver chimes, Ringing out so loud and clear! Yes; 'tis merry Christmas times, Gayest times of all the year: CHO.-For, Happy hearts and happy voices Sing the songs that Christmas brings; And every little one rejoices

Over Santa Claus' things.

Let the children now alone,
Cheery words to them be said,
Blessed joys their spirits own,

As they dance in happy tread:
Once a year these gladsome scenes
Bring to them their welcome cheer.
Drive away what intervenes,

If it mar their pleasures dear: Be one day in every year Consecrated to their glee. Christmas be the children's cheer, Cheery as glad cheer can be:

BETTER THAN A ROSE. A little rose came forth one day, And blush'd in hues of early morn; Its odors sweet were borne away, Where lay one feeble and forlorn. Its beauty made the spirit glad, And help'd to cheer a lonely hour: Its fragrance sooth'd away the sad And dreary gloom with silent pow'r. A fretful wind broke off its stem, (Its hues impal'd, its odors ceas'd,) And, dropping down, it soon became, Of things that were, the very least.

So, too, a little child was born,
And smil'd its innocent delight
Through all the day, from rosy morn
Till deepen'd shadows made the night.
The mother-heart soon learn'd to pride
Each token of its wak'ning pow'r;
But, like the rose, it drooped and died,
And cast its fragrance in an hour.
And yet, not like the rose which fell
And perish'd on the humid land,
This little one can rise and tell
The sweeter joys of a heav'nly band.

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ELWOOD ELDENNE SMALL. BORN: MARSHALL, MICH., JULY 22, 1869. ATTENDING the high schools of Marshall and Valparaiso, Elwood later took a literary course in the University of Chicago, which institution conferred upon him the degree of Bachelor of Literature. A printer by trade, Mr. Small drifted into journalism and has pub

And a woman fair,

With golden hair,

My wife, who is watching, half-beck'ning me. And I do not mourn that I leave her there, Away from the dust and heat

Of the path I trod, with my burdensome load Of trouble and pain,

While my throbbing brain Aches, as I plod on with faltering feet. No. It is far better as it is.

My life may be lonely and drear;

But my wife," the sweetest, most precious

66

I find,-Oh, pity me,

A token pale of a love long dead,

I ne'er thought more to see.

"Tis a lover's fond gift, a faded rose,

Pinned to a parchment white,

On which he wrote, "I'm coming, Maude,

Expect me by to-night,

To greet your waiting lips again.

Your Harry." That is all.

But how my heart enraptured leapt

At Love's impassioned call!

And so he came! And my memory paints Again that summer day,

With its wealth of joy and happiness,

Which I thought would last alway.
The words of love he spoke, I'd hoped
Forgotten long ago,

When first I learned their treachery,
Oh, God! The pain and woe.

For he counted glittering wealth and pow'r
Worth more than love, true and pure,
And in the pride of vanity, bowed
To the tempter's golden lure.

But I would not that his pretty wife
Should know the heart and vow

He broke, or guess at the cruel wrong,
For she may be happy now.

So, I'll keep thee now, thou faded rose,
Lest, some day, in my ear,
Another may whisper his tale of love,
And I be tempted to hear.

But I'll look on thee, and my heart will turn
From his passionate words away,

For the lesson learned in that hour of pain Cannot be forgot in a day.

GEORGE F. NUTTING.

BORN: MASON, N. H., DEC. 18, 1821. THE poems of Mr. Nutting have appeared for the past quarter of a century in the Fitchburg Sentinel, Watchman, and various other

Gift most supernal, may your rays
From muses shine, to guide my lays,
E'en through the remnant of my days,
Like autumn leaves, o'er hill and plain,
Linked with the spring, the sun, the rain.
Oh! let me die; (and yet I may)
When autumn leaves are painted gay.

Silent emblems, yet how they fade-
Emblems of life, in light and shade,
Vainly I strive, and all in vain,
Endeavoring to be young again.
Nature's voices, and reason, too,
Teach me that all things die, below,
Yet mortal man, in sin and strife,
From earth, puts on immortal life-
In our Redeemer's work sublime,
Vain man may share, in every clime:
E'en here I rest - here ends my rhyme.

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GEORGE FRANKLIN NUTTING.

publications. He has followed the occupation of train inspector and car painter for over thirty-five years. The poems of Mr. Nutting have been well received.

LONG FELLOW.

ACROSTIC.

Here now I wait, with staff in hand,
Encamped quite near the beulah land,
Near life's evening twilight, which seems
Reflected from some land of dreams.
Yellow and sere- I now appear
Worn and weary. Seventy-fifth year

At length comes round. These rolling years
Re-echo back their joys and tears.
Deep in my heart, a deeper joy
Sits there enthroned, than when a boy.
Within my heart, e'en then, I found,
Oft cropping out a rhyme, most drowned,
Revive afresh, when manhood came,
Till rhymes and poems led to fame.
Her honors yet I never sought,
Led thus along, dame nature taught,
Or muses fair, to wield my pen,

Not sword or sabre, killing men -

A SERENADE.

Not a sound was heard, nor a bugle-horn

note,

As on a fair cot a fair couple were sleeping, Save, now and then, a snore from the throat Of the bridegroom, and bride in his keep

ing.

"Twas a hot summer night, and their screening was thin,

And the gauze window curtains much thin

er,

The window was up, and here they came in,
This serenade band, now led by a sinner.
He now bids them halt, and then sails around,
Takes notes, sings a song, and then up and
kisses

The bride-singing anon- she hears not the sound,

Nor the band in its chorus of blisses.

By a toot of his horn, the singers advanceThe ramparts unguarded, the sleepers are snoring:

They strike up a march, as this couple in trance

All the while this sweet music ignoring.

Like the zephyrs, they sing the best on the wing,

(I venture, their wings do the singing) On their arms, on their face, in their ears they

will sing,

And kiss with their bills, while chorus is

ringing.

Oh! sweeter than nectar that Jupiter sips, These honey-moon sleepers-oh! goodness,

Saint Peters!

John! look at my arms, my face and my lipsWe're covered completely with bites of mer skeeters."

We dart through the void:

We have cries, we have laughter: The phantom that haunts us

Comes silently after. This Ghost-lady follows,

Though none hear her tread; On, on, we are flying,

Still tracked by our Dead; By this white, awful Mystery, Haggard and dead.

DESIRE.

Come, dear Desire, and walk with me;
We'll gather sweets, and rob the bee;
Come, leave the dimness of your room,
We'll watch, how since the morning rain
The spider sitteth at her loom,

To weave her silken nets again.

I know a field where bluets blow
Like frost from fingers of the night,
And in a sheltered coppice grow
Arbutus trailers, blush and white.

THE RAINBOW.

We are akin, dear soul:

Akin as are the rainbow in the sky,
The runnel on the knoll;

We are akin in spirit, you and I.
Ah! how serene and bright!
You stand with shining feet,
And lustrous arch complete

Of rounded life upon the cloudy height:
You catch the light of heaven and repeat
All its transcendent splendor in your face,
And beautify a place

With radiance of a glory and a grace.
Thus is your life, O soul!

But I am like the stream

That hurries down the knoll,

As changeful as a dream;

As restless and as wild

As an impatient child:

Yet thankful, dear, if in some tranquil space, I may reflect the radiance of your face.

MAURICE THOMPSON.

ALTHOUGH Mr. Thompson is chiefly known through his prose, perhaps his best work is poetry. Songs of Fair Weather are fresh and breezy as a May morning; Between the Poppy and the Rose is a gem; and Ceres is also a very fine piece of versification. He has been a member of the Indiana legislature, and has lately resigned the office of State Geologist of Indiana.

POETRY.

He is a Poet strong and true

Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew;
And like a brown bee works and sings,
With morning freshness on his wings,
And a gold burden on his thighs,-
The pollen-dust of centuries!

A FLIGHT SHOT.

We were twin Brothers, tall and hale,
Glad wanderers over hill and dale.
We stood within the twilight shade
Of pines that rimmed a Southern glade,
He said: Let's settle, if we can,
Which of us is the stronger man.
We'll try a flight shot, high and good,
Across the green glade toward the wood."
And so we bent in sheer delight

Our old yew bows with all our might.
Our long keen shafts, drawn to the head,
Were poised a moment ere they sped,
As we leaned back a breath of air
Mingled the brown locks of our hair.
We loosed. As one our bow-cords rang,
As one away our arrows sprang.
Away they sprang; the wind of June
Thrilled to their softly whistled tune.

We watched their flight, and saw them strike
Deep in the ground slantwise alike,
So far away that they might pass

For two thin straws of broom-sedge grass!
Then arm in arm we doubting went
To find whose shaft was farthest sent,
Each fearing in his loving heart
That brother's shaft had fallen short.
But who could tell by such a plan
Which of us was the stronger man?
There at the margin of the wood,
Side by side our arrows stood,

Their red cock-feathers wing and wing,
Their amber nocks still quivering,

Their points deep-planted where they fell
An inch apart and parallel!

We clasped each other's hands; said he,
"Twin champions of the world are we!"

N