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From the dead oak just below, Like a mentor weird, or seer,

Thus the wild voice echoes shrill, Till the judgment seemeth near, Ever one word, whipporwill,

Whipporwill! 'Mong the ruins will ring still, Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill!

I was 'fraid 'twas the Bad Man come for me,

And my heart 'u'd go thumpity-thump. But I ain't 'fraid of the Bad Man, now

Leastwise till I get dead;
'Cause I never did see no Boogers at all,

Ceppun on Jim Smith's head.
Now -- honest Injun - please tell me true,

Jiss true as ever you can:
Did ever a Booger appear to you?

Jever see the Bad Man?
I guess the folks tell a heap o' stuff

To scare us to bein' good;
But I want some fun; un' I ain't afraid

No more of the dark er the wood.
If a Booger 'u'd come, I'd jiss set Jack

On him, un I guess he'd run;
He'd leave before you could jiss say, 'Scat!

Er I'd shoot him with my gun.
I am big enough to whip 'em, I guess,

For the Boogers leave big folks be.
If my pa can stay out till eleven o'clock,

They jiss won't bother me.

A VOICE OF THE NIGHT. When the family sit outside

On the sultry summer night, And the frogs croak far and wide

And a dark wood bars the sight;
When the bat drops, bouncing on,

And the owl is by the mill,
And the moth in flame has flown,
Then we hear the whipporwill –

From the copse and from the hill,
Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill!
When around the beetles boom,

And mosquetos hum in smoke, And the fireside light the gloom,

And the lightning wrinkles up; When the evening air is full,

And the heart is calm and still, 'Mid the zephyrs sweet and cool Comes the sound of Whipporwill,

Whipporwill!" Ceaselessly it rings, and shrill, Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill! Was some maid like Philome,

Lost in new Arcadian wild, Seized by some rough deity,

Near o'erpowered and defiled,
Till, though stified with her hair,

Kindly by Minerva heard,
She was rescued from despair,
Flying from his clutch, a bird

Through her hair gag wailing still
On her lover, - Whip - poor Will!"
In the old field overgrown,

By the brook that murmurs low,
In the graveyard, on a stone,

ANGELS. I was passing along through the woodland,

And down through the meadows where The grass and leaves were rustling

In the cool October air —
Where the wood was lone with echoes,

And all was somber and gray -
Where the hoary old alchemist, Autumn,

Blew smoke aloft like spray,
And with his incantations,

By his horoscope and art,
Changed the leaves to gold and purple,

Transforming every part -,
And I saw, all alone by the roadside

Where the grass was crisp and dead. 'Mid the broken lances of frost-sprites,

Where the grand onslaught had led Flowers wounded and dying,

The sweet ones and the bright;
And I marveled at the mystery

Wrought in the silent night.
I thought of a dear one, wounded

As the flower, and since forgot,
Who at evening had bloomed in manhood,

And by morning he was not. Stricken and weary and troubled,

He had toiled through the summer long, And his hopes, like leaves, bad withered,

Clogging the channel of song.
He would rest, and so he departed,

At the close of a weary night,
Into the mystic morning

Dawning beyond the height; And I wondered if an angel

Had not taken his soul in its flight: For he passed as if music was falling

And fading away with the night. I wonder if God does not pity

The soul that is burdened with grief, And at death send an angel from Heaven

To the weary one with relief. The angels are ever around us -

They speak in the passing breeze, They look with the eyes of flowers,

They rush through the swaying trees. There is nothing mean or common;

Each life has its romance fair; And the souls of the dead are around us

And with us everywhere.


BORN: ENGLAND. This lady came to America in 1856 and settled in Salt Lake City, Utah, where she has ever since resided. Mrs. Woodmansee is counted among the first of our local poets, and many of her poetical productions have been copied

On the evil, on the good,
Nature's generous gifts are strew'd;
Shall we mar her happiest mood,

And turn from joy away?
What tho' petty griefs and care –
"Tis the lot of all to bear -
Is it meet to woo despair

Upon a summer's day?
Pity all, whose grief's too great-
All, so bowed by sorrow's weight -
All, too sadly desolate

To join in nature's glee; Who cannot swell creation's shout, Who cannot trust as well as doubt, That He, who calls such beauty out

To cheer us, hears our plea.
'Tis as well we cannot read
All the quivering hearts that bleed,
Tenderest souls would sink indeed,

O'erwhelmed by others' woe;
'Tis as well we cannot see
All existing misery,
Otherwise, nor you, nor we,

Would rest or comfort know.
Not to mortals is it given
To assume the tasks of heaven,
Only One! the Savior even

All human sorrow bore;
Yet, God's own begotten Son -
Tho' He scorned the cross to shun
While He cried, .. Thy will be done"

Sweat bitterest drops of gore.


EMILY HILL WOODMANSEE. in the eastern publications. She is a vivacious little woman of rather less than average height: and although she has experienced sorrow and suffering her countenance always wears a cheerful and hopeful expression. She deals quite extensively in real estate, and is possessed of quite a little business ability.

Gone, the chilly wintry blast;
Gone, the hours so overcast;
Sunnier days have dawn'd at last-

Long'd for, look'd for boon.
Loveliest skies! by mortal's seen -
Flowers, and fruits and grasses green -
Greet thy coming, beauteous queen

Of summer, joyful June!
Rip'ling streams and murmuring trees,
Weird and mystic harmonies,
Sights and sounds that well might ease,

Or cure much fancied woe.
Like an inspirational voice -
Nature! bids us all rejoice,
Free to all, her blessings choice,

As is the sunshine's glow.

Still, within the narrowest sphere,
Some there are, both true and dear,
Some, with whom a heartfelt tear

May indeed be shed;
Some, whose direful need demands
Loving words and helpful hands;
Happy he who understands

To lift the drooping head. Sympathy! thy heaven-born might, Lines the gloomiest clouds with light, Turning oft to paths of right

Souls by sorrow bent;
Fate doth hold us so in thrall –
Is it strange some faint and fall?
Well it is, the Judge of all
Looks at the heart's intent.
Wherefore sing so sad a strain?
Hardest lessons learnt is gain;
Life is short, and brief its pain;

Rest will come full soon;
Fairest chances fly away,
Why not use them while we may?
Tho' we cannot bid thee stay –
Thrice welcome, joyful June!



Prophets have for Faith been murder'd, men

have sorely been opprest; For their Faith – through much privation –

.. sought they out a habitation," Even in a distant desert, in the wild, uncul

tured west.

FAITH AND WORKS. See! the wilds, so long forsaken, into life and

bloom awaken 'Tis the meed of Faith unshaken, the reward

of labor too. Faith hath wrought this exultation, for the

"outcasts" of the nation; Yea, through Faith God favors Zion”

Faith and Works can wonders do. Ah, this Faith! Can words express it? Can

the jeers of foes suppress it? 'Tis superior to language, far above reproach

and scorn; 'Tis indeed the blest assurance,

that for patient, brief endurance, We shall reap the full fruition of the hopes

within us born. 'Tis in vain men cry .. delusion," souls are

thrilled with Faith's infusion, Faith reanimates the spirit as the life-blood

cheers the heart; Needful 'tis that we obtain it, needful 'tis that

we retain itThough we never can explain it, Faith doth

power and peace impart. Faith's the fruit of revelation, Faith's the an

chor of salvation; Faith obtains from God a knowledge of the

truth that cheers the soul; Faith's the true appreciation of Christ's love

and mediation; Faith's the force of Truth within us, Faith's

the power that makes us whole. For this Faith it is no wonder, men have e'en

been torn asunder, Men have. cru'lly been tormented,” scorn

ing to accept reprieve, Knowing, though by fiends surrounded, that

in truth their faith was founded Scorn'd they to deny for freedom what they

could not but believe; By the ladder of affliction - sword, and fire

and crucifixionFor their Faith, by death's most tortuous, no

blest souls bave upward soard Passed these martyrs up to glory, leaving us

their deathless story, While the cry, ". How long, Thou just One, ere

thy vengeance is outpoured?" Of eternal condemnation there's a fearful res

ervation For the murderers of these just ones, of these

brave, illustrious dead! Read we from the sacred pages, how that

from remotest ages, From the death of righteous Abel," many

for their Faitlı hare bled. So, within this generation, by a free and

favor'd nation,

Oh, this life would be a burden

Were it lived for self alone;
Did not loving hearts and faithful

Beat responsive to ourown:
Did not pure affection's fingers,

With a constancy divine,
Ever 'round our inmost feelings

Bright celestial garlands twine.
All Love's social sweet surroundings

Give to life a healthful zest, And when these are most expansive,

Then most truly, we are blest; Shall we circumscribe the feelings

Emanating from above,
Which the gods delight to practice -

Even universal love?
God so loved the whole creation

That he sacrified his Son,
And the world's entire salvation

Shall by love alone be won;
Shall we, in our selfish weakness,

Strive against so broad a plan? Or, in charity and meekness,

Love the family of man? If we recognize as kindred

All the children of our Sire, Shall we limit our affections

And within ourselves retire? No! the truly good and noble

Do rejoice in giving joy, Not alone for self they labor,

Holy Ones their aid employ. For the mission of the angels

Is to cheer and bless the soul; They have joy in this surpassing

Mortal's uttermost control; Surely goodness is immortal,

Charity is all divine, Universal love extendeth

From the God-head's sacred shrine. Whoso these celestial graces

Ever cherish in the heart,
In most trying times and places

Light and comfort shall impart;
Love extendeth and reboundeth,

It hath joy's elastic spring It shall ever cheer the giver,

Back to him a blessing bring. Love shall gather love around us,

Onward through the stream of time, Love shall make our old age youthful,

And our destinies sublime.




BORN IN SCOTLAND, FEB. 7, 1850. IN 1867 Mr. Taylor lost the sight of his left eye through a piece of the gun cap penetrating the pupil. The same year he sailed for America. In 1873 he was married; one year later a sliver of steel from the head of a tool he was using pierced the ball of his right eye, usbering him into lifelong darkness. It was a hard trial, but to one of his disposition he soon be

All things are changed in bed and gears,
And still it seem as though it ought
To be the one from Scotland brought;
But when I think the matter o'er,
It ne'er was on a foreign shore,
And all that came across the sea,
Is only its identity.
I came a Scotchman, understand,
To live, by choice in this free land,
Wherein I've dwelt from day to day,
Till sixteen years have passed away.
If physiology be true.
My body has been changing too;
And though at first it did seem strange,
Yet science doth confirm the change;
And since I have the truth been taught
I wonder if I'm now a Scot?
Since all that came across the sea
Is only my identity.

What is there in the garb of man,

That we should honor or despise? To judge of grain, are we to scan,

The husks wherein the kernel lies? A coat, by honest labor torn,

May wrap a heart as true as steel, And so may husks, all weather worn,

A perfect grain of wheat conceal. A crown may rest upon a head

Where seldom dwells a worthy thought, While countless noble thoughts are bred, Neath bats of straw that's roughly

wrought. What signifies our place of birth,

The length of purse, or place we fill? The only real test of worth,

Is passing through the fanning mill.
The hand of time, the fail doth ply,

Alike upon the rich and poor.
The great, the small, the low, the high,

Are equal on the threshing floor.
And he who oversees the fan,

That chaff and wheat doth separate,
Will favor not the garb of man,
The grain must be of standard weight.

Be not by vanity mis-led

To slight the artisan,
For though he toils to earn his bread,

He's nature's nobleman:
Yea, quite as worthy as a king
Is he who makes the anvil ring, (sweat,
And from whose brow flow streams of
To pay the law of nature's debt.
The monuments of Art go view,

By men of genius wrought,
Nor grudge the workman honor due

Though humble be his lot.


WILLIAM TAYLOR. came reconciled to his loss. This blind poet is called the Milton of the West, and he gives recitations of his own original poems to churches, Sunday schools, and other organizations, which have met with universal approval. Mr. Taylor has a wide circle of admirers, and we predict that his journey through life will be comparatively a smooth one.

AM I A SCOT, OR AM I NOT? If I should bring a wagon o'er From Scotland to Columbia's shore, And by successive wear and tear, The wagon soon should need repair; Thus, when the tires are worn through, Columbia's iron doth renew; Likewise the fellies, hubs and spokes Should be replaced by western oaks; In course of time down goes the bed, But here's one like it in its stea:), So bit by bit, in seven years,



All my caresses

Availeth not, now.


BORN: ROME, O., DEC. 16, 1838. AMONG the many publications to which this lady has contributed might be mentioned Peterson's Magazine, Cincinnati Weekly, La

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And so the spring is here, with memories

That cling to ev'ry thing with loving touch. The fields afresh with kindling green---the

skies Blue and empyreal. I wonder much If in the land where my young days were

spent These things in old-time loveliness, have

lent Hue to the streams, and on the dewy air Apple-bloom diffusion. The dell, whose

soil In spring, was rank with yellow cowslips,

where We mired at every step, and hours of toil Rewarded us with prize--the very bestA pail of .greens"-do little children test With cheeks abloom, through labyrinthine

ways Its grape-vine swings, the roots and spicy

bark If sassafras, these lovely April days? Has modern culture stolen ev'ry spark Of interest in woodland haunts, from those Whose life's expanding, like the morning

rose, Promise of vigor in the bud, should hold, Do blooms, perfumes, and healthful airs

bespeak To young hearts now, the same delights that

told In days agone, on childhood's lip and cheek? Of what avail the knowledge of to-day,

If youth has lost her happy, care-free way? Do books impart, one-half the wisdom caught From running brooks and feathered song

sters' lays? Have lessons learned (the Harmonies have

taught That Nature blends sublimely in her days, With unison of chords in sweetness wrought Not molded characters, where books were


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Framed in my window? what a bit of sky

Of azure blue-a snowy cloud afloat

With tiny sails, so like a fairy boat, Suspended in mid-air, as by the eye Reflected in the mirage we can see Objects transcribed with perfect symmetry. Waves upon waves of greenness just below, (Of that peculiar shade that June full

crowned And flush with all her rarities has found To beautify the earth, which ebb and flow As with the tide. The country roads' de

cline O'er distant hills the eye can scarce define.

MY BABY Fold her hands tightly

Over her breast, Close her lids lightly,

Lay her to rest. Smooth the dark tresses

Over her brow,

GOING FOR THE COWS. Adown the lane a tangle

Of rankest weeds and grasses, Starred here and there with spangle

Of dogwood bloom in masses That overhanging dangle

Upon the head that passes. His way toward the dingle,

The barefoot boy is wending, Where comes the faint commingle

Of cow-bell rhythm, blending With melodrama, single

The mocking-bird is rend'ring.

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