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SARA J. SITTLER This lady is a resident of Jefferson, Iowa. She has written quite extensively very credible

You bless the poor home, Contentment
The poor man's hand you grasp
With the kindest regard.
The rich man's soul without thee will perish,
For thou art a reward.
Pure are the lives that possess thee,
From the unselfishness of the world
They are free.
They take their reward according to rule
And all agree.

She sat by the dim firelight;
And the moon cast her beams on the wall.
He came of course as he promised,
To give her an evening call.
She gently said, .. Good-evening;"
Her voice was sweet and clear;
But to him it was not natural
As it fell upon the ear.
And she, herself was not the same;
She treated him so cold.
He longed to speak the words of love,
But feared that he'd get sold.
His thoughts were off in dreamland
As they sat so far apart;
And the silence of his once talkative love,
Cast darkness over his heart.
At last he arose to kiss her
As parting time drew nigh;
But I hardly think he finished kissing,
For something met his eye.
What was it? It was the servant girl
Dressed in her mistress' gown:
While she, the mistress was in the sleigh
With a gay young chap from town.


SARA J. SITTLER. poems for the press, which have been highly commented upon by her friends and admirers.

Ah mournful, mournful bird,
The music that I've heard
Has driven me almost mad.
Thy .. boo-00-00" uttered so far apart
Lies deep within my heart,
'Tis oh so sad! so sad!
Wilt thou cease thy strain so dreary?
For it makes me feel so weary
When thy mournful voice I hear.
And my heart sinks low,
As I through the wildwood go
To the brook that runneth clear.
If O, bird! thy strain you'd change,
To some song that's sweet and strange,
It would please me more.
But thy b00-00-00 " beyond the tree
Still keeps echoing back to me -
Cursed bird! repeat it o'er

"TIS ONLY A PICTURE. "Tis only a picture - that is all: Yet naught can from my heart erase, The form that's penciled with such grace, The picture of my father's face – My angel father? 'Tis only a picture – that is all: Yet it helps to keep his memory clear; And often helps my heart to cheer, When clouds float low – and life seems

drear, O angel father? 'Tis only a picture - that all:Yet it brings to me another day, When near his knee I loved to play; When I grew older loved to say, .. Dearest father!” 'Tis only a picture – that is all: But as long as the stars shine from above, To light my pathway as I rove, There will remain a daughter's love, O angel father.

CONTENTMENT. Contentment, thou art everything; Without thee this world would be Nothing but woe. Pure are the lives that keep thee, As onward through life they go.




BORN: NEW YORK CITY, ABOUT 1850. As the author of Hazel Kirke, The World, and Saints and Sinners (novelized from plays), and the original novel of His Wife or his Widow, this lady has gained quite a reputation in the world of literature. Commencing her literary career when very young by writing for a Boston Weekly, she has since dramatized a num

And so! And so
Our lassos thus we throw!

Our leather rings we throw!
O'er pampas wild, through tall mesquite,

The plembos rush, like storms along, The herds fly fast, for life is sweet;

Away we go with jest and songs

Relying on our trusty tbongs. The plembo always gains his prey;

His arm is strong, his lasso swift; He rides his mustang all the day,

Then taketh sleep, the great king's gift;
We are the monarchs of the plain -
His lasso never coils in vain.

And so! And so
Our lassos thus we throw!
Ourlassos thus we throw!


A lover of mine comes ev'ry night,

But never once by day,
And yet he loves the candle light;
He always sings this way:

Hum! hum! hum!

Hum! hum! hum!
He clasps my hand all in the dark,

He whispers low to me,
His kisses always leave a mark,
Though him I seldom see!

Hum! hum! hum!

Hum! hum! hum!
And you are like this lover o' mine,

Mosquito, vile and mean! (wine
For you've tried in vain to drink love's
From all the lips you've seen!
Hum! hum! hum!

Hum! hum! hum!
You buff, you fly, you try to sting,-

Mosquito! Nothing more!
You hum and sing, you mean old thing,-
You're such an awful love!

Hum! hum! hum!

Hum! hum! hum!
Though stiff and old, you try to sip,

(Leave that to younger men!) Rich, red blood from each rosy lip, Oh! don't try it again!

Hum! hum! hum!
Hum! hum! hum!

MRS. MARIE WALSH-CAHILL, ber of popular novels and written several original dramas, which have been produced in the leading cities of America. In 1867 the subject of this sketch became the wife of Edward Walsh, a gentleman engaged in mercantile pursuits in New York City. She was left a widow in 1883, and resided in Brooklyn until 1890, when she married M. J. Cahill, the popular Chicago publisher.

O'er pampas wild, through tall mesquite,

Our mustangs swift like lightning flash – Our mustangs fly like north winds fleet,

The buffalo before us dash,

While through the plains we onward flash, For curled upon our pommels high

A trusty lasso bear we all;
The frightened herds before us fly,-

Our lasso's chains are strong, though small; It is the serpent of the plain,

The victims rear and plunge in vain.

EXTRACT. I once had a sister The sunlight oft kissed her For a flower mistook her And never forsook her; As onyx her skin fair, As roses her lips rare, As fair skies her eyes blue.

MARY J. KING. BORN: SOUTH SCITUATE, R. I., MARCH 10, 1852. COMMENCING to write poems at an early age, they have since appeared from time to time in

And give to each one fond embrace,

When evening prayers were said. What was it in the morning

Awoke us from dreams of bliss,
As it sweetly brushed each little cheek?

It was our mother's kiss.
As fond memories recall the past,

With tears our eyes oft fill,
When we think of thee, dear mother,

Now in death forever still.
Oh! What sadness filled our dwelling,

When we knelt around thy bed, When thine eyelids closed forever,

And thy gentle soul had fled; 'Twas our blessed Savior called thee

From this world of sin and care,
And heaven to us seems nearer,

Because our mother's there.
Thou didst suffer long and patiently,

But thy sufferings now are o'er,
And we hope in heaven to meet thee,

Thou art only gone before; Thy gentle form lies sleeping

In St. Mary's hallowed ground, And we hope among God's saints

Thy name has been enrolled. We will ask our Savior's mother

To pray to her dear Son, That He may reunite us

When our task on earth is done; We trust for us she is pleading

Before our Savior's throne; Oh! how sweet will be our union there

Where parting is unknown.


MARY J. KING. the local press. Miss King follows the occupation of a weaver, at Crompton, R. I.

Dear, gentle, loving mother,

Ofttimes we think of thee,
In the midst of life's stern duties

Thy form we seem to see;
And when the shades of evening

Are deepening in the sky,
In some bright star we fancy

We see thy gentle eye.
We seem to hear thy loving voice

In the twilight still and calm,
Murmuring, God protect my children

And keep them from all harm;"
Oh! for thy deep, true fervent love,

How oft our hearts doth yearn,
For thou hast past away from earth,

And never shall return.
Dear mother, by thy gentle side

How oft we have knelt in prayer,
And you bade us look to heaven,

And told us God was there;
And then thy hand so lovingly,

Would press each little head,

JOHN A. VINEY. BORN: BODKINS, OH10, MAY 28, 1853. AFTER receiving his education at the Biddle university of North Carolina, John A. Viney entered the ministry, and is now located at El Paso, Texas. Since 1881 he has written quite a few poems that have been published.

When waked by the alarm of death

That sin had long her portion been;
Then she did fly to Jesus' breast

And humbly begged an entrance in.
Is Jesus the vile sinner's friend,

When hope of life's forever gone?
Would be in mercy thus transcend

And prove his pow'r to utmost bound?
Yes children, hung there on his cross,

A thief close by his Savior's side;
When hope of life to him was lost,

Was saved by faith in Christ, then died.
Take hope then you whose mothers gone,

Who sought her God in dying breath;
She safely was convoyed beyond -

To the sweet saints' immortal rest.


BORN: CANADA, Nov. 26, 1837. At the age of twenty-six Miss Mountcastle entered a private school as teacher, which position she held for two years. She then studied painting in water colors and in 1870 took five prizes. Since that time she has taught drawing in many prominent schools.

ART THOU THINKING OF ME. Art thou thinking of me, my beloved?

Though distance doth sever us wide, The fancy still haunts me, my darling,

That thou art again by my side.
I feel an intangible presence,

About me wherever I move-
A something that whispers, my darling,

Of thee and thy passionate love.
My spirit communes with thy spirit;

My thoughts cannot wander from thee; Thy aerial presence enchains them,

And haunts me wherever I be. There is naught in this world that can give



A tithe of the joy that doth fill My being, when whispers thy spirit

To mine that thou lovest me still.


BORN: MINIER, ILL., JAN. 30, 1867. The poems of this lady have appeared in the Bloomington papers. She was married in 1889 to Mr. J. H. Clark of Fern Hill, where she now resides.

CLARA H. MOUNTCASTLE. In 1882 she published the Mission of Love and Other Poems, and later published a novel. As a mark of appreciation of her literary work, Miss Mountcastle was in 1889 unanimously elected as honorary member of the Trinity Historical Society of Dallas, Texas.

NIGHT. The stars gleam forth their soft and silvery

The sad winds moan and sigh;
And fleecy clouds of grayish white

Sail slowly o'er the sky.
Hushed are the many sounds of day;

Tranquil is the busy street,
Mournfully the dark waves play

O'er the mighty deep.
Clasped in slumber's sweet embrace,

Happy in the land of dreams;
Sorrows from our hearts are chased,

Till morning brightly beams. The wild beasts rest within their hidden lair;

The cattle on the hillside peaceful dream, Forgetful of the day however fair, (stream.

Lulled to blissful slumber by the rippling And little children free from every care,

Now sweetly sleep upon their snowy beds: Hushed are the lips - that lisped their evening prayer,

[heads. To Him who watches o'er their youthful 0! night, how heavenly sweet art thou: O'er rich and poor, thy dewy breath doth

fall, Upon the homeless wanderer's brow;

O'er high and low, o'er great and small. Night, lovely night: thy holy balm doth steal

Into many a breaking heart, Alas! that cannot heal;

God's blessing to impart.

MY SISTERS AND I. The years roll on, youth flies apace: And ageo'ertakes us in the race; While poverty runs . neck and neck," And little doth the oppressor reck, That oft he sets his iron heel Upon the corn we sorest feel. He goads us onward o'er the ground, And lacerates each half-healed wound. More slowly moves the tide of life, As thus we meet the unequal strife; A weight seems clinging to our feet; The tired hearts forget to beat The spirits faint - the strength is gone; Yet weary limbs are toiling on Along the paths that lead to thee; Thou vast, unknown, eternity.

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