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BORN: Nova SCOTIA, OCT. 30, 1847.

The claim I make is strong and bold,
This gentleman is possessed of fine literary And yet disprove the same who can,
talent; wrote a column weekly for the Dan- Whether of big or little mold
bury News in its palmiest days, and is a con- The will is more than half the man.
tributor of both prose and verse to the Judge,

The men who scale the heights of fame, Boston Journal, Yankee Blade, the Waverly

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 wbich 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.

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.
Magazine and the periodical press generally, who is thy neighbor? they whose eyes
besides doing considerable reportorial work
for the local press. Mr. Porter is prominent These claim thy sympathy; arise,

Are dimmed by sorrow, pain and grief; in Odd Fellowship, and is a Mason, and has

And carry to such souls relief. held numerous positions of trust. He is now principally engaged in real estate and insur- Thy neighbor he whose bleeding feet

Need shelter from the winter's cold ance at Lynn, Mass., where he is well known.

Who gives such shoes or bread to eat

Have a reward worth more than gold.
What's your mission little bird,

Who is thy neighbor? she whose way
To this world so cold and drear?

With thorns and brambles sharp are fraught. I with joy your songs have heard

Go! smooth that hard rough road to-day
From my window many a year.

And both to heaven were nearer brought.
Oft with thee my lunch was shared, Thy neighbor he who thirsts for drink
And you gave me good return;

And soon must fall to depths belowWhy have you so long been spared? Haste! snatch him from that awful brink Please reply; I wish to learn.

And angel bands thy deed shall know.
Others I have seen like you,

Thy neighbor he whose honest name
But so soon they flew away,

The thrusts of scandal deep have slain While your song is ever new,

Fly to him, and in love proclaim
And it cheers me day by day.

That this world's hate is heavenly gain. Thus I did the birdling chide,

Who is thy neighbor? all who need
Thus the bird replied to me:

The care and comfort you can give;
Tho' the world be great and wide,

Despite their country or their creed,
I but live to sing for thee.

Despite the land in which they live.





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

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.


Here is my house! Far below me lying,

The city spreads its streams of busy life

Unto my watching, dreaming eyes replying, at one time. Mrs. Crocheron has been an oc- Banishes loneliness and hushes strife, casional contributor to the Woman's Expon- Sense of companionship without its sighing, ent, Juvenile Instructor and other periodicals. Hearts rest from scenes with vexing quesIn 1881 she published a volume of poems en

tions rife. titled Wiid Flowers of Deseret, and in 1884 Re- Just within sense of life's sincere endeavor, presentativeWomen of Deseret,a biographical

Just within sight of art's creations rare, work. Mrs. Crocheron has taken three gold So comes the life draught welling up forever, medals and cash prizes for Christmas stories.

As breezes wand'ring through the sunlight In addition to her poetical writings, she has

air, two volumes of prose which she hopes to pub- Gather the freshness from the flowing river, lish at an early date. Mrs. Crocheron is still And scatter perfumes culled from everya resident of Utah in Bountiful.


Mountains that yet are white with winter's ESTRANGED.

snowing, And hast thou shut and locked thy heart Shut out the fair world from my blest reAgainst me? Nay, not so.

treat, Whom once I loved, I ever love;

Out through their riven side a stream is flowI cannot let thee go.

ing. Thou, who hast dwelt within my love,

Chanting a psalm the rocky walls repeat, Winning thy place so well;

'Till in the valley with warm sunlight glowAh! must we say good-by to bearts?

ing I cannot say farewell.

Breaketh its voice to ripples low and sweet.




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 Floridy. Mr. Carroll was married in 1889 to Miss Georgia McDonald, of Atlanta, Ga.

Sheltered from winds adown a dimpled hol

low, Earliest suns have waked the leaves of

spring; Here come the robin and the glancing swal

low, 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 sleep

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

ing. Flowers are nodding 'gainst my window

pane. Here are my trees, each has its separate mean

ing, 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 screen

ing 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

Hope is the guiding star of life

Which leads the luckless wand'rer on,
Nor disappointinent, 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 hearts We 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

Misfortune made me weep or wail. Success will come to me some day

With Hope there's no such word as fail.


To thread the pathway up the mountain wind

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

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

parted, Softly their arms my drooping form en

twine; Here come the sacred, great and noble heart

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

started. Ah! would that this ideal home were mine!

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!

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?



Fame built upon by it, MRS. ELLA H.STRATTON.

This sturdy, bull dog grit! BORN: CARIBOU, ME., MARCH 26, 1849.

Your ancestors may have been noble and In 1867 this lady was married to Albion w.

great, Stratton, who served with honor throughout And their virtues may fall unto you. the civil war. Although Mrs. Stratton is chief. These cannot avail if but idly you prate, ly known as a writer of short stories, she has And leave the work which you have to do.

Genius is tame to it,
Ancestry lame to it,
This sturdy, bull dog grit!



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.

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.

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 wiil 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.

There's a kingdom the fairest on earth, I

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.

It is not so much genius that wins the race

In the contest for glory o: fame,
As it is the possession of an inborn grace
By a homely, significant name.

Success is won by it,

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

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,


MOSES H. GREENE. 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.

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;

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.

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