496

CHARLES L. CLEAVELAND.

BORN: CANADA, FEB. 25, 1855. THE poems of Mr. Cleaveland have appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, Chicago Daily InterOcean, News, Current and other papers of

SHE SPEAKS.

How fair the moonbeams mild that shine
Within the apple boughs, and twine
With peaceful light the loving leaves!
Hark, love, the whip-poor-will that grieves,
Amid the bluff's secluded wood,
For some lost thing not understood.
Our little friend within the grass,
The cricket, as we slowly pass,

Gives us a cheerful roundelay

That chases every doubt away.

A WILD FLOWER.

Thou milk-white creature of May-
White petals, and golden hearted -
What dreams of a vanished day

Hast thou in memory started!

Thy sisters of long ago

Were sweet to their human brothers;

And thou recallest the glow

Of a spring above all others.

Ah, haply some careless wight
Shall look upon thee to-morrow,
From a May day full of delight
That hideth no old-time sorrow;

And thy kin of a future year

Shall meet him in sadder places; Then thou to his heart shalt appear With earth's most heavenly graces!

BYRON T. KING.

BORN: PORTLAND, ME,, APRIL 15, 1856. COMMENCING life as a bundle boy in a dry goods store, young King soon became one of the brightest and most popular dry-goods clerk in his native city. In 1871 he went to Boston, where he became one of the highest salaried men in the trade. But he would see the world, and in 1875 he started on a trip around the world; in four years he had traveled in Africa, China, India, Japan and the continent

of Europe. In 1879 Mr. King returned to this country and settled down to business as a successful dry-goods merchant in Springfield, Mo. He retired from that business in 1889, as the Scott Investment Company, one of the largest corporations in the southwest, of which he is vice-president and general manager, requires the greater part of his time. Since 1868 various poems from the pen of Mr. King have appeared in the periodical press, and he has also contributed letters of travel in Spain and Portugal and other countries.

LIFE'S TRUE SIGNIFICANCE. Deeper than all sense of seeing, Lies the secret source of being,

And the soul, with truth agreeing,

Learns to live in thoughts and deeds;

For the life is more than raiment,

And the earth is pledged for payment Unto man for all his needs. Nature is our common mother,

Every living man our brother:
Therefore let us serve each other,
Not to meet the law's behests,
But because through cheerful giving
We shall learn the art of living;
And to live and serve is best.

Life is more than what man fancies!
Not a game of idle chances;
But it steadily advances

Up the rugged heights of time,
Till each complex web of trouble,
Every sad heart's broken bubble,
Hath a meaning most sublime.
More religion, less profession!

More firmness, less concession;
More of freedom, less oppression,
In the church and in the state:
More of life and less of fashion,

More of love and less of passion-
That will make us good and great.
When true hearts, divinely gifted,
From the chaff of error sifted,
On their crosses are uplifted,

Shall the world most clearly see
That earth's greatest time of trial

Calls for holy self-denial, Calls on men to do and be.

But forever and forever,

Let it be the soul's endeavor Love from hatred to discover; And in whatso'er we do, Won by love's eternal beauty

To our highest sense of duty, Evermore be firm and true.

MRS. LAURA A. RANDALL.

BORN: INGHAM CO., MICH., MAY 7, 1847. THIS lady was married in 1865 to Dr. C. L. Randall, and still resides in her native state at Dansville. Her poems have appeared quite extensively in the local press.

FLOWERS.

Another season is coming,

Swift passes the fleeting hours;
Coming with golden sunshine,
And its wealth of beautiful flowers.
As stars light the glorious heavens,
Flowers gem and beautify earth;
We thank the bountiful Giver,

For their fragrance, beauty and worth.

O flowers, sweet flowers in your brightness, Ye comfort and gladden our heart,

And help us along in our life work

To act nobler and better our part.

498

JOHN SAMUEL LAFORTUNE.

BORN: ELK CREEK, NEB., AUG. 22, 1862. EMIGRATING to California in 1875, Mr. LaFortune now resides at Tulare. At the age of twenty he became the associate-editor of a local paper, and from that time he has contri

The moon looks o'er the valleys, fair and wide;

And paints the verdure here in darker hue, And gilds the snowy mounts against the blue. 'Tis then the hour when loving eyes shine out, And Cupid smiles, and rosebud-lips do pout.

Oh, California's hills and spangled bowers, Her singing birds and cool refreshing show

ers,

Her orange groves and her swift blushing streams,

Are fairer than the poet's idle dreams.

JOHN SAMUEL L'FORTUNE.

buted poems more or less to the public press. In 1887 Mr. LaFortune became the editor and proprietor of the Tulare Democratic Free Press. For nearly three years this journalist has been connected with staff of telegraphic correspondence of the leading papers of the Pacific coast.

CALIFORNIA SPRING.

Our California hills are green, 'tis Spring,
The Vales are rife with Song and blossoming.
The flowers of many lands we here behold,
In dress of amber, purple, red and gold.

The birds in chambers green and streams along,

The forests wake with bursts of matin song. Aurora gilds the stream, the field and plain, And Ceres smiling walks the fields of grain. At Eve when in the glorious golden west, The Sun has sunk behind the hills to rest; O'er the mountains like a blushing bride,

ELDORADO.

Peace smiles upon the verdant hills

And o'er the flowery dells,

And from ten thousand flashing rills

Fair Nature's pean swells.

Here side by side this Spring-tide day,
Earth's fairest flowers gleam;

The royal purple and the gray
Contrast their glowing sheen.

There's cattle on a thousand hills,"

The flocks roam by the lea;

While fields of grain the wide plains fill From mountains to the sea.

The feathered songster blithely sings

Among the fruited trees.

From bloom to flower on busy wings

Speed on the busy bees.

The river's sing their songs of praise,
The wooded banks prolong;
The echo of their roundelays
Their simple, grateful song.
Afar the mountain's fleecy crown
And robe of dazzling white,
On fields of waving grain look down
With brilliant sparkling light.
There miners break the stubborn earth
Beneath the mountain pine,

Or toil where sunlight ne'er had birth
Within the gloomy mine.

Acity stands beside the sea,

KATHARINE J. MOORE.

BORN: BALTO, MD.

ONE of the well-known local poets of southern Pennsylvania is Miss Kathie Moore. Although born in Maryland she claims Pennsylvania as her native state, her family locating there when Kathie was but a few months old. With the exception of two years and a half spent in

THE TANGLE OF GRASSES. A tangle of dripping grasses With daisies abloom and sweet, A shining of placid waters

Where land and the river meet. Beyond, fair slopes of the grasses, Fair clumps of the daisy sheen, A sky stooping tenderly over, A soft wind blowing between. Beyond on the fair, wide river, A glinting of sunlight afar,

A gleaming of wide, white lilies,
A sail shining out like a star.
A vision outlying in sunshine;
A land and a river serene-
Life blooming and death like a river,
A tangle of grasses between.
Life blooming and death like a river;
Forever it touches life's strand,
With naught but a tangle of grasses
Dividing the water and land.

I CAN'T HELP IT.

If, in between my page and me,
This languid, dreamy weather,
There comes a face I used to see
When we two were together;

If mem'ries of those sweet old days
Bloom out from time's embalming haze,
And thoughts more dear than I can tell
Awake and bind me with their spell,-

Well I can't help it!

And if between my page and me,

This fragrant, sunny weather,

There comes a time I used to know

When we two were together:

And if I think her tender eyes

499

More pure than are these clear June skies,

And if I think her sunny smile

Might all earth's weary cares beguile,

Well I can't help it!

A picture grows upon my page,

We two are there together;

We drive through mists of drenching rain;

But who minds cloudy weather?

And if I call that time most fair,

And wish that we again were there,
And if I fancy that she, too,

Deems that the gladdest day she knew,
Well I can't help it!

Ah, well! those days are past and gone-
Those days of perfect weather;
Our paths lie so remote,-could they
Have once been near together?
But if I long, just once, to go

To where the cool north breezes blow,
And if I long, just once, to see

That face grow bright with smiles for me,
Well I can't help it!

EXTRACT.

There's a patter and a tapping on the pane,
And the music of a steady falling rain,
As it falleth,

Falleth,

Falleth,

On the earth so brown and bare,

Where in summer time the grasses grew So green and high and fair.

500

JOHN LETCHER PATTERSON.

BORN: LEXINGTON, KY., JUNE 10, 1862. GRADUATING at Harvard in 1883, Mr. Patterson later entered the profession of teaching, and is now principal of the high school at Ver

JOHN LETCHER PATTERSON. sailles. Prof. Patterson has contributed quite extensively some very fine poems to the leading magazines, and hopes soon to issue a volume of his productions.

TWO SIGHS.

One sigh for a song,
For a song that is sung;

It was sung me erst long
Was the song.

And one for a rose,

For a rose whilom white,
It is faded to-night
Is the rose.

Love sang me the song,

And love gave me the flower
In a long vanished hour-
Rose and song.

And so will I sigh

Since 'tis all love has left; When in thought I'm adrift, Will I sigh.

UNDER THE ASPENS.

The minstrel wind's love-touch has made

The gleaming bosom of the lake

To palpitate in sweet alarm.

The aspen trees resent the kiss
The saucy reveller gave, trembling
Musically to eye and ear,

While silver leaves beam like faint stars
And twinkle in the tender blue.

A careless dreamer lies beneath
The milky way of leaves, and loves
To hear the tales the aspens tell
How such a lover said.. I love,"
And carved within their snowy peel

Two names he would were one.

OVER A PICTURE.

Sweet girl, I love thee for thy face
Where soul and beauty find a place
To dwell with purity. A mien

Of poesy's conceit hast thou

In Grecian mind thou must have been
A Goddess meant for Parian snow.
God took the thought and chiseled thee
From his divine and throbbing clay.
Above the pictured face I dream
And look until my eyes grow dim;
Her features blend into a blot,
My heart's cold altar of desire,
Her eye, a flame forget-me-not
Shall light forever with pure fire,
And by those heaven-tender eyes
Shall burn a holy sacrifice.