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Whose oil-blotched waters flow between Tow'ring hills that drop upon her mirror.

Adorned in His own holiness,

Who first .. fulfilled all righteousness," True disciples of the Great Exemplar,

Came here to show their love to Him,

By burial in the crystal stream:
Resurrected in His life forever.

The trees that emulative rose
From bank to summit's high repose,
Waving in the sunlight's golden glory,

Displayed to their enraptured eyes

A thousand tints of richest dyes, Varied in sweet autumn's gorgeous beauty.

A hymn flowed o'er the water, still,

And echoed on from hill to bill;
Rising upward to the throne of Heaven,
This was the song that sweetly breathed

Their praise to Him their hearts believed, Even Christ, with whom their souls had risen.

Down into the flowing river,

Lo! the Lamb of God we see,
There he speaks in clear example,

Take the cross and follow me.
CHO.- Gently buried with my Savior,

Let me sink beneath the wave;
Crucified to earth forever,

Hence alone to God I live.
Now the sacred waters cover,

O'er the holy Son of God.
Thus he washed me in the fountain

Of his sin-atoning blood.
Crucified with my Redeemer,

Now I sink into the grave,
I am dead to sin forever,

By the life of God I live.
Here I witness a confession,

As I merge from human sight,
In the tomb of yielding water

That the blood has washed me white.
O how sweet to follow Jesus,

In this ordinance to show,
That we're cleansed in life's pure river,

Even whiter than the snow.
To him who said that every where,

He wills that men should offer prayer,
By this emblem of the tomb of Jesus,

His humble saints then meekly bowed, Amid the awe decorumed crowd, Richly favored by His loving presence.

Then one by one were downward led

And numbered with the sainted dead, Pilgrims happy in the Lord's approval.

Anew the spirit of their God

Bore witness to the cleansing blood, Making lofty hills with praises vocal.

But some that stood beside that stream

Recalled to mind another scene.

Thirty years had fed along unceasing,

As flows the water o'er that spot,

Where red intemp'rance left a blot
Time and tide have passed, yet unerasing.

A husband, father, genial friend,

But demonized by liquor fiend, Deeply by this maddening viper bitter,

Unto his home near by this shore,

Then came rum-fired as oft before: Driving thence his own in terror stricken.

Three daughters fled adown the ledge,

And spied the skiff at water's edge. Boarding this they rowed into the river.

To utmost strength they plied the our,

And bastened to the farther shore; Praying God from wrath and waves deliver.

The frenzied came with angry mien,

To drown his children in the stream. Breathing threatening, stagg'ring 'mid the

billows, The madman heedless onward surged

Till in the depth at last submerged: Drowning there, a warning to Alis fellows.

Behold the contrast 'twixt the scenes!

The first in mem'ry sadly gleams,
Over thirty years that flowed unceasing;

As flows the water o'er that spot,

Where dread intemp'rance left a blot, Time and tide have passed yet unerasing.

Baptized in spirits from the still,

Led captive by the devil's will,
Into awful death he plunged a victim.

From thence raised up a lifeless clay

His spirit fled in wild dismay,
Leaving in that stream a doleful requiem.

But these immersed in Heaven's light,

In garments pure and spotless wbite, Follow joyful down into the river,

The steps of him who died on earth,

To give their souls a Heav'nly birth;
Buried deep in Jesus' love forever.

He, dead in sin and lost in woe,
They, dead to sin and white as snow,
Both were buried in this river's bosom.

His name dishonored floats along,

They rise to sing redemption's song, Praising Him who gave their spirits freedom.

He builded there a monument
Of liquors black and fiendish bent;
Casting on that tide a gloomy shadow.

They leave upon that sacred shore

Footprints of Him who went before, And His blessing leaves a brilliant halo.

Behold two ways divide our race,

The road of sin, and path of grace. Choosing this, or that to thee is given.

Both these ways dip in death's cold tide,

And judgment sits on yonder side, Bending that to hell, and this to Heaven.

OBADIAH BAYLY. Born: DEARBORN Co., InD., Aug. 7, 1833. In his youth Mr. Bayly lived on a farm. In 1860 he was married to Miss Cornelia Buck. He then spent a number of years in teaching,

But all through life we find,

Though the mills of life grind slow, Two classes, there are, they always grind;

The lovers of fashion and show,
And the lovers of cupid's fine arts,

As wandering too and fro
They search for his wonderful darts

That conquer and charm as they go.
But luck toils hard with hands raised high,

As higher the gold he piles,
With heavy breath and sweat and sigh

While riches his soul beguiles.
And love is building castles tall,

Just like a spider's net,
She plans to catch him and his all,

And now her trap is slily set.
She has him now, him and his gold,

And joined in hand for life
With both bands filled they hold

Naught else but care and strife; What then can wean the soul away

From such rude çares as these? The proud, the rich, the gay

Can nowhere be at peace and ease. Gold can not give such share,

Nor yet can knowledge buy,
Where then, 0, tell us where

Such precious treasures hie?
For riches knows not, neither seeks

Such high and holy aims,
But wisdom riches speaks,

Though riches wisdom claims. The christian's heart doth yield

Such priceless jewels rare, A fragrant flowering field

Of thoughts both pure and fair, To stir us up to deeds of worth

And garnish our minds like leaven, To wean our souls away from earth

And guide our footsteps up to heaven. Kind reader, do not pass with slight

The thoughts here roughly hewn, For mind and soul with heavenly light

Should have their alleys stored and strewn; Then death though dark and stormy too

You'll welcome with delight, These lights will then be set to show

That heaven is in sight.

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Twelve o'clock, 'tis midnight's ring -

A faithful warning sound.
To teach all men from serf to king,

How fast the years roll round.
The dying year wakes up a thought

That slumbered long and low, That earth's last treasures must be bought

With measured beat and slow.
The echo dies not on our ears

Till busy scenes of life
With joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,

With broils, tumults and strife,
Have caught the thought from mem'ry's

page That leads us to the goal, That gives us strength with age

To vitalize the mind and soul.

Come men of worth through all the earth,

In high and lowly stations,
Come help us fight with all your might,

This enemy of nations.
Now all good song has value strong,

To thrust at his distillery,
Then let us choose the poet's muse,

As part of our artillery.

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BORN: CHESTER, N. J., Nov. 2, 1869. MR.HORTON taught school when only sixteen years of age, and later graduated at the State Model School at Trenton, N. J. In 188 he entered the law department of the university of Pennsylvania, and for a short while was the

Burst forth and tell, to hill and dell,

The resurrected dead.
Let hope arise, let gladsome eyes

With joy be bright and gay;
Let all confess their joy and bless

This happy Easter Day.

THE VIOLET. Sweeter than the lips of Venus,

Fairer than the wood-nymphs are, Is the modest flower that blossoms

In the wild-wood near and far. Kissed by dews and rocked by zephyrs,

Sweetest flower that woos the day, Scarce before we know thy fragrance

Thou hast died and passed away. Hidaen half by leaves, thy perfume

Gentle breezes to us bring, Tenderly we stoop and pluck thee,

First and fairest love of spring.



city editor of the Advance of Middletown. In the spring of 1889 he graduated and received the degree of bachelor of laws. Mr. Horton is now editor of the Insurance News of Philadelphia, but he expects to follow the profession of the law. His poems have appeared in many of the leading publications.

JUST OVER THE STREET. I think it was just before twilight,

As I sat in the parlor alone, I was musing, my thoughts were at random,

Apd all but my fancy bad flown. When a vision appeared at the window,

At the window just over the street,
In the form of a beautiful maiden,

A maiden exquisitely sweet.
She was fair, was this beautiful maiden,

This maiden just over the street,
As she carelessly toyed with the curtains

That enclosed her hull-bidden retreat.
Her tresses, in charming abandon,

Were as black as the blackest of jet, And the dimples played sweetly and softly

By the mouth of this lovely brunette, Her features were those of a Venus,

With a smile more of heaven than earth, Her cheeks were rose-tinted and tender,

Her face was all radiant with mirth. And her eyes had a wondrous lustre

As they coyly glanced over at mine,
And she seemed, as she stood at the window,

A creature almost divine.
And I sat and I thought and I wondered

If ever and how we should meet,
For I longed to be nearer this maiden

Than to see her just over the street.

EASTER DAY. 'Tis Easter Day. Come strew the way

With early springtime flowers; Let peace and joy, without alloy,

Fill up the sunny hours. ur griefs and pains, 'midst rueful strains,

Were buried long ago;
Now love and life and hope are rise,

And hearts with joy o'erflow.
In sweet perfume the lilies bloom,

In token of the day;
The roses, too, with life anew,

Are out in rich array.
And every shoot and tiny root

In Nature's 'wakening bed

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BORN: WARNER, N. H. Nov. 8,1848. WHILE at school this lady was considered quite a poet, but nothing of importance appeared from her pen in the press until the year of her marriage in 1877. At that time she furnished holiday, anniversary and special poems as occasions demanded, and soon

O sweet the air that summer day

And sweet the wild-bird's singing! But sweeter than the roundelay

Which through the woods came ringing, Was the shy voice so sweetly heard

of one who, with me faring, Was timid as the wild-wood bird,

As wary of ensnaring.
We rowed upon the lucent lake -

Our skiff was deftly hollowed -
And flying after in our wake,

The skimming songsters followed.
O fair the water lilies pure

Upon its bosom floating!
But fairer far that face demure

Which went with me aboating.
O bright the sunbeams shining hot,

No shadows o'er us casting!
So bright the day we both forgot

It was not everlasting.


One Tristam pensive, melancholic, grave,

Replete with surfeit of all earthly joy,

Bereft of power once potent to decoy, Deemed life a bubble burst, a shore-spent

wave, Too burdensome to bold, too poor to crave,

Mixed as it was with cankering alloy. Lead, trusty Faith, and when time shall de

stroy And blight the buds which once sweet pro

mise gave, Bear us triumphant from the alien shore Where bounteous Nature bears no grateful

boon, And tropic richness chains the sense no more

And rouse us with a grand, inspiring tune, As onward speeds the bark and dips the oar; The way is short! Be bravel Christ cometh


MRS. ADELAIDE G. BENNETT. achieved quite a reputation as a local poet. The poems of Mrs. Bennett have appeared in the Chicago Advance, Interior, Brattleboro Household, Good Housekeeping, Wide Awake and nearly a hundred other prominent publications, from which they have been extensively copied by the local press from Maine to California. She is now a resident of Pipestone City, Minnesota.

We left the dull and dusty streets,

And with the crowd we wended
The rural highways to retreats

Alone by nature tended.
We left the busy, bustling crowd-

So winsome was the weather-
Beyond the jarring voices loud,

We found ourselves together. We strayed among the leafy trees,

Where constantly were trilling Clear bird-notes wafted on the breeze, Our eager senses filling.

Not where dark bills contract the scene
And shadowed vales lie cool between,
Is thy clear song the sweetest heard,
Thou blithesome, fearless, bonny bird !
A wider field thy wing explores, [soars,
Through broader space thy sweet song
And fills the vast acoustic dome
Where thou, unfettered, lov'st to roam.
Where pasque flowers stud the velvet

A carpet reaching far abroad
Till the wide floor is lost to view
And merges in the airy blue
of arching ceiling overhead ;-
In this vast hall thy wing is spread.
Here ringing notes of music sound
And fill the echoing space around.



With one glad, rapturous rush of song
In soaring billows rolled along
Clear as transparent crystal bright
Or water in the glad sunlight,
Redundant, brimming over, free,
One overflowing melody!
O sweet-voiced bird! in joy we stand,
Thy home is summer's Beulah land.

CARRIE GNAGA. BORN: LINDEN GRANGE, IND., JUNE 16, 1867. AFTER attending high school for two years Carrie began her career as a school teacher at

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THE BATTLE ABOVE THE CLOUDS. A darkening cloud surcharged with mist,

And chill November rain,
Hung low o'er Lookout's rocky crest,

Where erst the foe had lain.
There two contending forces waged

A battle high in air,
And watchers in the vale below

Could see no action there.
Only a long, incessant roar,

Of crashing thunder loud,
Came from the strong held mountain top,

Above the darkened cloud.
When from the west, a sunset shaft

Shot through the purple haze,
All eyes were turned upon the foe,

With, fearful, anxious gaze.
But when the clear white stars shone out.

Upon the frosty night,
The fair-haired, brave Potomac boys

Stood victors on the height.
They placed the star-gemmed banner there

Upon the rocky crest,
The white stars shining overhead,

The white star on their breast.
O battle waged above the clouds,

How typical thou art
Of that o'erwhelming civil strife

Which rent the nation's heart.
We watching in the valley-land,

Saw but the war's dark cloud,
The smoke of lurid strife and woe,

Low hanging like a shroud;
Heard but the surging ebb and flow

Of mighty armies led
To victory or dire defeat,

With steady martial tread.
While on the eternal height above,

Stood Liberty unseen
Assailing Treason's fortress bold,

With set, determined mien.
And when the morning broke at last,

On the dark night of woe,
She stood secure upon the mount,

And vanquished was the foe.
O Goddess, hold thou still the height,

The white-starred flag beneath!
Place thou the white-star on our breast

But leave the sword in sheath.

CARRIE GNAGA. the age of twenty. Her poems have appeared in the local press; and she has also written several short stories, which she hopes soon to publish. Miss Carrie Gnaga is well known for her many accomplishments, and numbers among her acquaintances many ardent admirers.

After awhile will all our bitter pain –

All our remorse, our care, our grief,
Be swept away in life's ceaseless surging

main, And the sorely-tried spirit find a sweet re


After awhile. After awhile the sun will shine,

And the rain cease to fall in a pitiless beat, Life's water's taste less of the salt sea brine, And the thorns grow fewer 'neath the weary


After awhile.
After awhile is a weary, far-off time,

But wait till it comes, as it surely will, There'll be an end of sorrow, sin and crime, Of misery, hatred and human ill,

After awhile.

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