THOMAS F. PORTER.

BORN: NOVA SCOTIA, OCT. 30, 1847. THIS gentleman is possessed of fine literary talent; wrote a column weekly for the Danbury News in its palmiest days, and is a contributor of both prose and verse to the Judge, Boston Journal, Yankee Blade, the Waverly

THOMAS FREEMAN PORTER.

Magazine and the periodical press generally, besides doing considerable reportorial work for the local press. Mr. Porter is prominent in Odd Fellowship, and is a Mason, and has held numerous positions of trust. He is now principally engaged in real estate and insurance at Lynn, Mass., where he is well known.

P

THE BIRD'S REPLY. What's your mission little bird, To this world so cold and drear?

I with joy your songs have heard From my window many a year. Oft with thee my lunch was shared, And you gave me good return; Why have you so long been spared? Please reply; I wish to learn. Others I have seen like you,

But so soon they flew away, While your song is ever new,

And it cheers me day by day. Thus I did the birdling chide, Thus the bird replied to me: Tho' the world be great and wide, I but live to sing for thee.

THE WILL IS MORE THAN HALF THE
MAN.

The claim I make is strong and bold,
And yet disprove the same who can,
Whether of big or little mold

The will is more than half the man.
The men who scale the heights of fame,
Leaving the aimless throng below,
And chisel there a deathless name,
Are those alone who will it so.
Whoever turns the written page
To see by what mysterious skill
Men stamp themselves upon their age
Will find that it is force of will.

Why idly prate that fortune, luck,
Aids men some great work to fulfill.
Away with this; blind guides! "Tis pluck,
Determination, courage, will.

Luck does not guide the artist's hand

To paint those forms which live for aye, Nor cause the sculptor's work to stand Deathless in marble, bronze or clay. Luck never made a martyr strong To suffer for the true and right; Luck never wrote a deathless song, Or armed a chieftain for the fight. The claim I make is strong and bold, And yet disprove the same who can, Whether of big or little mold

The will is more than half the man.

THY NEIGHBOR.
Who is thy neighbor? all who need

The care and comfort you can give,
Despite their country or their creed,
Despite the land in which they live.
Who is thy neighbor? they whose eyes
These claim thy sympathy; arise,
Are dimmed by sorrow, pain and grief;

And carry to such souls relief.
Thy neighbor he whose bleeding feet
Need shelter from the winter's cold-
Who gives such shoes or bread to eat

Have a reward worth more than gold.
Who is thy neighbor? she whose way
With thorns and brambles sharp are fraught.
Go! smooth that hard rough road to-day

And both to heaven were nearer brought. Thy neighbor he who thirsts for drink

And soon must fall to depths belowHaste! snatch him from that awful brink And angel bands thy deed shall know. Thy neighbor he whose honest name

The thrusts of scandal deep have slain-
Fly to him, and in love proclaim

That this world's hate is heavenly gain.
Who is thy neighbor? all who need
The care and comfort you can give;
Despite their country or their creed,
Despite the land in which they live.

AUGUSTA J. CROCHERON.

BORN: BOSTON, MASS., OCT. 9, 1844. WHEN grown to womanhood, Augusta went to Utah with her mother and sister, and was married in Salt Lake City and now has a family of three sons and two daughters. She has been very prominent in young ladies mutual improvement associations, and has been recording secretary of twenty-four associations

AUGUSTA J. CROCHERON. at one time. Mrs. Crocheron has been an occasional contributor to the Woman's Exponent, Juvenile Instructor and other periodicals. In 1881 she published a volume of poems entitled Wiid Flowers of Deseret, and in 1884 Representative Women of Deseret,a biographical work. Mrs. Crocheron has taken three gold medals and cash prizes for Christmas stories. In addition to her poetical writings, she has two volumes of prose which she hopes to publish at an early date. Mrs. Crocheron is still a resident of Utah in Bountiful.

ESTRANGED.

And hast thou shut and locked thy heart
Against me? Nay, not so.
Whom once I loved, I ever love;

I cannot let thee go.

Thou, who hast dwelt within my love,
Winning thy place so well;

Ah! must we say good-by to hearts?
I cannot say farewell.

Thou, who alone didst watch my bed
Of sorrow, pain and fear:
While wintry night raged dark and wild,
And death seemed all too near.
Can I forget those dream-like days,
When, resting in thy care,

I traced the wanderings of thy song
Upon the charmed air?

E'en if some idle word let fall,

(As leaves float on the wind)

Long wandering, to thy gentle heart

Its way at last did find.

Ah! who would weigh it 'gainst the past,

With all its memories dear?

Not thou, or I, who know so well

Life's holy mission here.

Ah! who would take the perfect rose,
Love on its heart had worn,

And counting not it's loveliness,
Treasure alone the thorn?

I could not sing in heaven, if there
A loved face turned away,

Unreconciled; 'twould chill my joy,
E'en in that perfect day.

Though life be long and earth be wide,

All vain to turn away;

We oft shall meet amid that throng,

Who walk the narrow way.

When we shall meet beside that gate,

Thou wilt not answer no;

Thou'lt know with joy my patient faith

For I have loved thee so.

AN IDEAL.

Here is my house! Far below me lying,
The city spreads its streams of busy life
Unto my watching, dreaming eyes replying,
Banishes loneliness and hushes strife,
Sense of companionship without its sighing,
Hearts rest from scenes with vexing ques-

tions rife.

Just within sense of life's sincere endeavor,
Just within sight of art's creations rare,
So comes the life draught welling up forever,
As breezes wand'ring through the sunlight

air,

Gather the freshness from the flowing river, And scatter perfumes culled from every

where.

Mountains that yet are white with winter's snowing,

Shut out the fair world from my blest retreat,

Out through their riven side a stream is flow

ing.

Chanting a psalm the rocky walls repeat, "Till in the valley with warm sunlight glow

ing

Breaketh its voice to ripples low and sweet.

508

Sheltered from winds adown a dimpled hol

low,

Earliest suns have waked the leaves of spring;

Here come the robin and the glancing swallow,

Here comes the lark to build her nest and sing,

And here as soon as bud and perfume follow, Loiters the butterfly on idle wing.

Here is my home, low roofed against the sweeping

Of winter winds that spend their strength in vain;

Here may I listen, wakened from my sleeping,

Close overhead the music of the rain; And with the morning light a welcome keeping,

Flowers are nodding 'gainst my window pane.

Here are my trees, each has its separate meaning,

These were for shelter, these for beauty bought;

From far and near my search was long in

gleaning

These most befitting the eyrie I had sought, Drawing from out my fancy's farthest screening

The real, living, picture here is wrought. Here come the few, one is not long in finding Those who will deem it worth their while and care

To thread the pathway up the mountain winding,

Catching the rapture of the upper air, Worship and joy with sacred friendship binding

In a sweet charm the soul may inly wear. Here come the loved, the dear ones who've departed,

Softly their arms my drooping form entwine;

Here come the sacred, great and noble hearted,

Softly their spirits cheer and beckon mine; Have I been dreaming? Hide the tears that started.

Ah! would that this ideal home were mine!

EXTRACT.

Say, where hast thou wandered, sweet spirit?
I've missed thee for ever so long;
Thine absence and frown did I merit

That I've waited in vain for thy song?
Did I wrong thee when, leaning beside me,
I slighted thy voice in mine ear?
Did I grieve thee in that I denied thee
My homage when last thou wert near?

JOHN DOBSON CARROLL.

BORN: MAGNOLIA, N.C., SEPT. 3, 1870. MR. CARROLL is now the editor of the Florida Hawkeye, published at Branford. His poems have appeared in local papers of North Carolina, Georgia, Virginia and Florida. Mr. Carroll was married in 1889 to Miss Georgia McDonald, of Atlanta, Ga.

HOPE.

Hope is the guiding star of life

Which leads the luckless wand'rer on, Nor disappointment, pain nor strife Can conquer till all Hope is gone; And, with the sanguine, Hope will last Till human hearts are still'd in death — The hopes of life are never past

Till drawn is our last fleeting breath. We hope for greatness, wealth or love, With all the strength of earnest heartsWe hope for life and joy above

And ne'er till death this Hope departs. We never stop to count the cost

Of disappointment, or the pain, But strive to regain what was lost, And fight our battles o'er again. Thus may it ever be with me May hope frustrated give me strength My weakest fighting points to see, That I may conquer fate at length! I'll live in Hope and bless the day

THE REASON WHY. Dark-eyed beauty, proud and peerless, Why should you my heart beguile?— Why should I, so cold and careless, Seek so anxiously your smile? Why should I be always thinking Of your sweet and pretty face?Why am I forever sinking

Into dreams of your rich grace?
Why should sleep be fill'd with visions
Sweet and dear, because of you -
Dreams of happiness elysian,

Such as mortal never knew?
Why should I, with such persistence,
Watch you, even when afar?-
Why should you, of my existence,

Be the bright and morning star?
Why should I, when 'wake or dreaming,
Think of nothing else but you -
As my loadstar, brightly gleaming
In the darkness, pure and true.
Let me not your feelings harrow,
For the reason I can prove —
Cupid, with his bow and arrow,

Has pierced my poor heart with Love!

MRS. ELLA HINES STRATTON.

written numerous poems of merit, which have appeared in the Woman's Magazine, Portland Transcript, Youth's Companion and other publications. She still resides in her native state on a farm at Washburn.

THE KINGDOM OF HOME.

There's a kingdom the fairest on earth, I

ween,

Though it finds no place upon history's page,

It's titles are grander than noble or dean,
It's influence greater than poet or sage.
This Kingdom of Home is a beautiful land,
Its subjects the truest that ever were seen,
If the sceptre is in a wise father's hand,
And a loving mother is the faithful queen.

GRIT.

It is not so much genius that wins the race
In the contest for glory or fame,
As it is the possession of an inborn grace
By a homely, significant name.

Success is won by it,

ALTHINE F. SHOLES.

BORN: GOSHEN, N. H., FEB. 10, 1857. THIS lady is a young writer who has already achieved success with her pen, and gained a creditable place among the poets of the Granite State. Miss Sholes is still a resident of her native place.

THE MOUNTAINS.

Above the lowly village

And the plains that 'round them lie, Forever grand the mountains stand,

Outlined against the sky.

I never tire of watching,

As the seasons come and go, [and ward, How they keep their guard with watch

Above the world below.

Whether in dreary winter,

The Frost-king there abides,

With somber lines on the grove of pines

That clothe their rugged sides;

Or through the mists of azure

In golden summer time,

I see as now each noble brow
In majesty sublime.

The storms may break around them,
Or the pleasant sunlight fall,
But naught shall harm that mighty calm
That resteth over all.

For God has blessed the mountains
With everlasting youth;

And gives each face a rugged grace,
Unchangeable as Truth.

Oh, are they not true emblems
Of noble human souls,

That will not quail, though foes assail,
And dark the storm-cloud rolls?
But far above earth's tempests

Of care, and wrong and strife,
They lift their eyes to the waiting skies,
And live their patient life.
Unchanging, firm and fearless,
Oh, may our natures be!

Then our souls shall stand forever grand, Through all eternity.

MOSES H. GREENE.

BORN: CHESTER, N. H., MARCH 10, 1843. THE poems of Mr. Greene have appeared quite frequently in the eastern periodicals. He has been principally engaged in mercantile pur

suits, and also has been correspondent for various publications. Mr. Greene is now a resident of Haverhill, Mass., where he is well known and highly respected.

IS LOVE IMMORTAL?
Cold gleams the moon,
The twink'ling stars

Shine sadly on her grave:
The screeching wind
In sorrow mourns

For her, so early saved.

Aged twenty years,
She passed from life,
The gayest of life's fair
High-favored ones,
Who live their day

Blest with the tenderest care.

For two decades

This cherished form

Has crumbled back to dust,

The turf-bound grave
Hath level grown
Above its sacred trust.

They excavate

This earthly home,

To place another there;

While yet one more

Stands ready by

To join this husband fair.

A signet ring

Around a bone

Of her right hand appears:

A token dear

Of one true friend,

Way back these twenty year.

Alas, for man,

Inconstant man,

How sad is thy career!

Remember her

Who married thee

Way back these twenty years.

Dear kindred dust,

Peace to thy shades,

Man's love is not immortal,

UNDER THE LINDENS.

We wandered there together
In joyous years ago;

The linden trees above us

Were waving to and fro;

We watched the changeful shadows

Sweep over hill and plain,

But never more together

Shall we wander there again.

We gazed into the mirror
The waters kindly gave;
And saw the milk-white lilies
Rise with the heaving wave:
The forest birds in gladness
Poured forth a tuneful strain,
But never more together
Shall we hear that song again.
The other day I sought the path
Down by the river side,

And sad at heart and weary,

I gazed upon the tide;

The flowers still were lending
Sweet perfume to the air,
But I remember only

Thou wert not with me there.
Around me dark and sombre
The cypress shadows fell;
And bars of golden sunshine
With their sweet magic spell,
But the voice that in the old time
Made sweetest music there;
It was hushed away in silence
On the still soft summer air.

I breathed thy name in reverence,
As the words of an olden prayer;
With its sweet soothing memory
Came to my spirit there.

And now with feet aweary

I tread the way alone;

And wonder if this darkness
Will ever know a morn.