JAMES DAVIS.

BORN: GLOUCESTER, MASS., JAN. 29, 1815. FOR about five years Mr. Davis taught school. Afterward he engaged in building schooners for the fishing fleet, and subsequently was employed in clerical business. He has held numerous positions of trust, and was ap

JAMES DAVIS.

pointed judge of the police court of Gloucester in 1862, which position he has ever since held. His poems have appeared quite extensively in the periodieal press, and in 1877 he published a neat volume in verse, entitled Pleasant Water, a song of the sea and shore.

A GOLDEN WEDDING SONG. We sing a golden wedding song, A song that should be sung, When hand to hand and heart to heart For fifty years have clung. We blame no single man cr maid Who ne'er a mate could find, But bless the happier lot of those Whom Hymen's chain doth bind. O Love! that half a hundred years Has bound this worthy pair,

And helped them help each other well Life's burdens all to bear!

An angel thou, sent from above,

On errand blest to run,

Sweet Wedded Love! Dear Household
Forbidding hearts to roam, [Queen!
And rearing as earth's fairest fane
The sanctuary home!

These two that in the bond of bliss
Thy golden chain has bound,
Have in the chosen, sweet constraint
Their truest freedom found.
Indulgent Heaven, with kindly care,
Hath guarded well their ways,
And to a happy, green old age

Hath lengthened out their days.
For that of those He gave so dear
His love has left them one,
For that His love the others took,
They say: Thy will be done."
And if their hearts could have a wish
For so much life below,

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And he who metes might think it good

Such measure to bestow,

We would the Gracious Father pray

Their union to prolong,

Till other friends should meet to sing Their diamond wedding song.

PLEASANT WATER.

EXTRACT.

Upon a gently rising ground,

By grass-grown, winding roadways reach'd That lead from quiet hamlets 'round,

Stands the old fane where Bradstreet preached

The sacred word, and Leonard now,

Weekly, with Heavenly manna feeds

The souls that at its altar bow,

Till hearts grow strong for noble deeds.
"Tis a rude structure, gray with Time,
Nor hath it show of art in aught,
Save that which makes all art sublime,
When outward forms express the thought
To highest sense of duty leal;

Built of the fathers' scanty store,
It shows that Heaven commended zeal,
Which makes the less appear the more.
Above it stands nor spire, nor tower,
Nor belfry with its brazen tongue,

To tell the villagers the hour

When prayer is made and praises sung; No soft upholstery within

Invites the drowsy head to sleep,

When plain, but solemn words would win Their feet the Heavenly way to keep. Yet not without a pleasing grace,

And fitness reverent minds would use,

Is the arrangement of the place;

And bring to souls their best estate By joining two in one.

WALTER ISIDORO DAVIS.

BORN: GORHAM, N. H., AUG. 7, 1848.

MR. DAVIS secured his education at the Colby university, and he now follows the profession of a school teacher. He was married in 1880 to

Miss Leona M. Spencer, who died in 1888. In 1890 he married Ada M. Holbrook, and still resides at Berlin, N. H. The poems of Mr. Davis have appeared in the Waterville Mail, Zion's Advocate, Berlin Independent and the local press generally.

THREE LEGENDS.

The learned Mohammedans relate, That a mallow reared its head, Where the prophet's journey led, Close beside a brazen gate,

Just a common mallow.

His robe but touched it as he neared,
When, instead of mallow base,
Standing in the self-same place,
A geranium appeared,—

At his garment's touch appeared.
Have you read the wondrous tale
Of a passing Nazarene,

When a woman there is seen

To touch his robe?- a woman pale,-
Only just his garment's hem.
But, oh! wondrous healing power!
As the woman in the press,
Touched this lowly peasant's dress,
She was healed the very hour,-
Cured of her infirmity.

But a legend, stranger still,

Is related everywhere, That a form divinely fair Passeth wheresoe'r it will,

Clad in robes of dazzling white. And while earth shall onward roll, Whosoever draweth nigh, When the presence passeth by, Is of Sin's disease made whole,

If he touch the garment's hem.

MY PEARL.

Only a darling

Sweet little girl,

Yet, what a treasure!

Ina, my Pearl.

Like antumn foliage,

All in a whirl,

Skipping and twirling,

Ina, my Pearl.

Hair blown in frizzles,

Ready to curl,

Color of amber,

Ina, my Pearl.

Cheeks like moss-rose buds

Ere they unfurl,

Cunningest dimples,

Ina, my Pearl.

Eyes like a gentian,

Voice like a merl,

Ready to chatter,
Ina, my Pearl.
Happy as sunshine,
Rich as an earl,
That is my baby,
Ina, my Pearl.

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DR. GEORGE W. FUREY. THE poems of this gentleman have appeared in some of the leading publications of America, from which they have been extensively copied by the local press. Dr. Furey practices his profession at Sunbury, Pennsylvania, where he is well known and highly respected both as a scholar and gentleman.

SPARROWS.

You may sing of the glad happy springtime,
Its flowers, its fast budding trees!
Of the joy it brings to our north clime,
And of all its efforts to please;

Of the gambols of lambs on the hillside,
The rippling of brooks through the plain;
But a dirge I'll chant this eventide
For music we'll hear not again.

You may sit at your home in the city,
Or ride through the country's soft breeze,
And you'll notice the absence, with pity,
Of song birds among the old trees.

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Where there once was a medley-enchanting,

From robin, and blue-bird, and thrush,
You will hear nothing now but a canting
From meadow, and woodland, and brush.

Not a sparrow shall fall" saith the good book
Which spares them from carnal comment;
But, I modestly offer this outlook:
Was the English sparrow then meant?
With their numbers and mien-overbearing,
They've crowded our song-birds away;
And they're not even willing of sharing
A nest-right on eves, branch, or spray.
What a type of heredity are they!
What emblems of England, alone!
How they "press-gang our chippy, and blue
jay,

With their harsh rasping rhythm and tone.
I opine, when the great book is shown us,
Of matters domestic and state,

"Twill appear they were sent here to tone us For the Alabama's sad fate.

OLD SHOES.

Up in the garret, sprinkled and gray
With dust of the past and mold of to-day,
Cobwebs in plenty, rubbage supreme
Clinging about and everywhere seem
Straps of old harness, broken-down chairs,
Grandmother's spindle set free from its cares
Seed-corn and onions, flax, thyme and sage
Hang from the rafters beside an old cage.

Coiled round a stringer, up from the mice,
Serpentine sausages dappled and nice,
Bottoms of wash-tubs, hoops of old pails,
Grandfather's clock and quaint thrashing
flails,
Brass-headed "dogs,"

"crane,"

dutch oven and

All tarnished and rusty, long there have lain,
Back in a corner, musty, profuse,
Relict of the past - a pile of old shoes.

Gaiters and brogans, rubbers and kips,
Gumboots and stoggies, and wee copper tips,
Grandfather's sandals long been forgot,
Mother's old slippers - best known of the lot;
Once they were useful, once they were new,
Some were admired before they wore through;
All of them gave us naught to abuse,
Now they're forgotten a pile of old shoes.
How like the friendships back in our past
That fitted the form and length of our last,
Bent with our instep, wrinked at each corn,
Hid our torn stockings, faded and worn,
Kept off the dust and mud of the street,
Cold of the winter, or summer's great heat,
When inconvenient for us to use
Up in the garret we sent the old shoes.

Where are ambitions of school-days gone,
What of the plans and our hopes pro and con?
Most of the precepts urging to strive
Promising riches or wherewith to thrive?
Back in the bygone-ghosts we revere,
Covered with cobwebs and dust, now, we fear
Once they betrayed us once did they loose,
And up the garret we sent the old shoes.
Our good intentions and worthy pains
Must accrue unto us in present gains
Or we'll take them back, lament their fate
As a foregone bid on luck's made-up slate.
Yet, stand for the right, do what we can,
Aim not too high, nor too far to span,
Suffice with enough — wish what we choose
And life's best results will not be old shoes.

HARRIET S. BAKER.

BORN: NORRIDGEWOCK, ME., SEPT. 11, 1829. FOR many years Miss Baker has been an invalid. The thoughts of this poet have generally been given on religious themes. Miss Harriet Baker received representation in Woman Workers and also in Poets of Maine. She has also had great success in writing prose. Miss Baker is still a resident of her native town, where she is well known and surrounded by a host of friends.

WALKING BY FAITH.

The sunshine kisseth the tall tree tops,
In the early morning light,

While the dew on the lofty mountain's peak,
Sparkles like diamonds bright.

But over the lowly valleys,

Or down the mountains steep; Dark and gloamy shadows, Continually creep.

As the king of day ariseth,

He sheds o'er all the earth
A sea of wondrous glory,
As at creation's birth!

The rivulets right cheerily,
Go laughingly along;
While glad birds fill the perfumed air,
With sweetest praise and song.
Tho' clouds within us hide God's face,
He ever loves us still;
And sweet the peace when we can bow,
Submissive to his will!

His love shall turn to golden day
The spirit's darkest night:-
Triumphant then we rise to walk,
By faith and not by sight.

ELIAS WERDEN.

BORN: NEW MARLBRO, MASS., APRIL 26, 1816. A LITTLE volume entitled Sketches in Prose and Verse from the pen of Mr. Elias Werden has received high commendation from the

BEAUTIFUL GRASS.

I love the tiny bits of grass,
Bedecked with pearls of dew,
What a charm it would inspire
If 'twas only something new.
How can it be we fail to see

The precious gift from Nature's handThe lovely grass in colors bright,

And how it grows at God's command?

The Lord he knows how many spires,

But we of this have little thought,

Behold the field in bright array

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And don't forget what God hath wrought.

The grass at first is short and fine,

But later on it goes to seed,

The sons of toil secure the gift,

The useful grass we so much need.
The lawn, the lawn, oh what a charm!
The sight of which we never tire,
Nature's carpet, soft and bright,
Of all things else we most admire.
One lone spire would not be much,
Tho' far beyond the skill of man;
How great, how small, the ways of him,
Reflect and ponder all you can.

ELIAS WERDEN.

press and many literary people of prominence. The poems of Mr. Werden occasionally appear in the periodical press. He still resides in his native state at Pittsfield, where he passes the time in reading and literary work.

SILVER LAKE.

On the borders of Pittsfield, Mass.,
There is a treasure called Silver Lake;
It should be more admired,

And devoutly loved for conscience sake.

The precious gift, from Nature's hand,
At your door is freely laid:
The charm in patience waiting still,
A place of beauty it should be made.

The gem itself is bright and fair,

All it needs is proper care;

The time is not so far away

When you'll wonder at such delay.

When on my bosom you swiftly glide, You'll sing my praise with joy and pride,

Then on my shore can walk or ride;

You'll have these things when you decide.

THE BICYCLE.

What on earth is that I see?

Something sailing near the ground,
It shines and glistens on the way,
In silence whirling round and round.
My motion is pleasant to the sight,
My tread is soft and light,

I have no wings, I cannot fly,
But like a phantom pass you by.
My main support is made of wire,
Then the rim and rubber tire;
I make no fuss, but some display,
I sail, and roll, and whirl away.
Was long in coming, as you see,

The world has waited long for me,
The boys rejoice that I am here,
All hail the day I did appear.
My way is straight or on the curve,
My riders have a steady nerve,

I never tire or stop to eat,
But whirl away a friend to meet.

I might be called a rolling horse,
But take no pride in such a name,
I only ask an even chance,
Can plainly see I'm sure of fame.

Can neither canter, trot, or pace,
But whirl away with speed and grace;

I never balk nor run away.

But where you leave me I will stay.