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BORN: CANADA, MARCH 29, 1842. DURING the civil war Mr. Lester served in the 110th N.Y. volunteers for over three years. When quite young Mr. Lester wrote verse, and his poems have since appeared quite ex

And he must put them out to air;
(Let him remonstrate if he dare,)
And see that they are whipp'd.
The bureaus, brackets, stands and cases,
Must occupy some new-found places
For the ensuing year;
The parlor stove removed must be,
The pipes from soot be shaken free:
The pictures from the walls be taken;
The blankets, rugs and bed-quilts shaken;
And every nook with suds be drenched,
The kitchen fire remaining quench'd,
For dinner he in vain may look,
And should he grumble at the cook,

A fea gets in his ear.


We bid you to night to a soldiers' collation,
The hardtack and coffee before you are

spread, -
The days when the rooster, aloft from his

station, Sent down his shrill challenge for swift con

fiscation Are gone, or we'd offer you pot-pie instead. Time was when the voice of the chanticleer

crowing, Was sweet to the soldier whose ears now are

dull; The turkey's loud gobble would set his heart

glowing; The bleat of the lampkin to him was a show

ing That mutton was free -- tho' they tariff'd


The squawk of the goose and the quack of the tensively in the local press of the state of

duckling New York. He follows the occupation of a Were melody sweeter than timbrel or lute; painter, and is now a resident of Fulton. He The motherly porker's low grunt to her suckis well known and highly respected in his

ling, native state. Mr. Lester was married in 1870 Whose squeak reach'd his when his knapsack to Miss Ellen Fleming.


Has caused every gland of his mouth to diFIRST OF MAY.

lute. The winter's breath of snow and sleet

But gone are the days of our grub confiscaNo longer on our faces beat,

tions; And loungers bave resumed the street;

No longer to forage we turn from the track; To work the house-wife quick will go

Our marches have brought us to one of the House cleaning, that the world may know

stations She is to dirt a deadly foe.

Where we must content us with government The house she'll rummage through and

rations, through,

And swallow our coffee and nibble our tack. The bed-rooms and the closets too;

Alas for those days – they are ever reminding Mid-floor their contents she will pile,

The soldier how swift from the mess-fire he And greet her lord with winning smile

fled, While she demands a carpet new.

When the cook in a rage from the smoke that Each table, bedstead, stand and chair,

was blinding, Of scrubbing gets an ample share,

Stopp'd stirring his beans or his bacon unAnd soon the spouse becomes aware

winding, The carpets from the floors are ripped,

To fling both an oath and a club at his head.

Our army experience has thoroughly taught


That no opportunity we should neglect To dine on such fodder as circumstance

brought us Not wait 'till some feast epicurean sought

USLest to go to bed hungry should be the

effect. Yet we miss from the board many delicate

dishes, The epicure soldier was wont to invent When his thoughts wander'd back to the

loaves and the fishes, Prepared by his ma, who consulted his wish

es, In all that to tickle the palate was meant. For hoe cake in vain we have rummaged the

grub-sack; No mush nor molasses we find in the house; We find but the every-day coffee and hard

tack, And 0 how we long for the grease dripping

flap-jack, And dainty of dainties - we miss the lob

We miss too the cubical pieces of liver

In half a canteen on the end of a stick,
Well wash'd by the water from ditch or from

river, And held to the fire with persistent endea

vor, 'Til cook'd to the semblance of miniature

bricks. Ah! oft in the light of the camp-fire's gleam

ing, Enwrapped in his blanket, a log for his

head, While gray-backs were friskily over him

streaming, In blissful oblivion the soldier lay dreaming Of cookies and doughnuts and mother-made

bread. But his dreamings of home and its knick

nacks are ended, Realities now are his staple in life; No longer he sleeps in the fire-light extend

ed, His slumbers, instead of by bad dreams at

tended Are seasoned by lectures or snores from his


Now dimn'd for aye? Is that warm hand which erst 'twas mine to

clasp Now seized by death's inexorable grasp? Have those loved lips been open'd in thy gasp, Thou grim restorer of earth-borrow'd clay? Comrade, when thoughtless boys!

And is thy heart now cold? Are death's dark waves, submerging all

earth's joys Now o'er thee rollid? Is thy great soul from earthly thralls un

bound? Has thy freed spirit gone where joys are

found Of holier source - -of depths still more pro

found Than those which have thy mortal life con

And is it ours to weep?

To mourn thee gone from here?
To murmur, while unrestfully we sleep,

Of memories dear?
To bathe with tears the ballow'd shrine
Where we our cherish'd hopes resign;
To clasp in love the hand divine
That deals the blow severe?
Yes, noble soul, thou'rt gone;

Thine earthly joys are past;
The dreaded bound, which mortals one by

Step o'er while earth shall last,
Has been by thee in confidence o'er stepped-
Well may thy parents weep-

Their hearts with anguish torn,
As word of thee, in thine unwaking sleep,

To them is borne,
When I, a simple friend of thine,
Am prompted, on receipt of mine,
To pour my grief upon the shrine

[mourn. Where all, who knowing loved thee, come to Author of life -- of love!

In justice thou dost deal;Direct our hopes to thy bright realms above

For all our weal! Give us we pray, the strength to bear our

woes; Mingle with love the terror of thy blows! Teach smitten mortals, while in anguish

throes, Thy spirit's calm to feel! Each burst of contrite grief,

Beneath the chastening rod,
Gives to the soul a blest relief,

And brings it nearer God!
Each tearful hour that here we spend;
Each pang that doth the heart-strings rend;
Each anguish cry to Heaven we send,
Prepares for us the road!


A SOLDIER FRIEND. Friend of my youthful days!

And art thou passed away. Is that bright smile that cheer'd me with its



BORN: HARMONY, ME, As a teacher Miss Hurd has been very successful. When a mere child she composed stanzas, and from an early age her beautiful poems readily found their way into the peri

Till thy waters underneath

Silent meet the river.
Little brooklet, clear and strong,

Laughing, tumbling, shaking
Hushed to silence be thy song
While my heart is breaking!

Low, sweet sounds are stealing, stealing,

Through the air,
While the Christmas bells are pealing,

Something rare;
Is it echo from the hillside

Or the fen?
Is it murmurs from the brookside

In the glen?
Something lovely, something bright,

Something rare
Fills my vision in the moonlight;

Something fair
Hangs rich drapery on the willows

Over me,
Spreads the lawn with sheeny billows

Like the sea;
Spread with delicate white netting

Hedge and tree –
Sparkling drops in silvery setting,

Hangs o'er me.
Underneath the lamps of even

Lit anew
And hung upon the arch of heaven,

Silver dew
Seems to fill the space between me

And the sky;
And rare faces which have seen me,

Seem to hie
Forth and back behind the curtain,

Looking through
Oft; until my heart is certain

That the blue
Far beyond these silver tissues,

And above,
Is the heaven, and its issues
All are love.

Within the bollow tree to-night

In silence grave the great owl sits, Which yesterday boded a storm

With its . tu-whoos" and its . tu-hits!" Adown the mountain's sloping side

The brooklet dashes! frowns the sky! Darkness is dense! clouds crowd the west!

Among the lichens dead shapes lie! The great frame of the giant oak

Rocks madly 'neath the hurricane! And by forked tongues of lurid fire

Huge rocks are swift smitten in twain! The angry billows, mountain high,

Sullen, and dark, and capped with foam, Roll upward, until sea and cloud

Seem to be surging sea alone!


HELEN MARR HURD. odical press. In 1887 appeared a large volume of the poems of this lady containing over four hundred pages, which has had a large circulation. Miss Hurd is at present engaged in preparing for the press a second volume of poems and a prose story entitled The Three Orators; and she is also employed in the compilation of the history of Hallowell, Maine.

Little brooklet, in thy song

All of joy partaking,
Hush thy babbling all day long,

For my heart is breaking!
Every sound in earth and air,

All thy shouted surges,
All the voices everywhere

Seem like lonesome dirges!
Sad as wailings o'er the grave,

Is thy joyous sweeping;
Let the north wind still thy wave

To a silent weeping.
Let the west wind from his sheath

Fling an icy quiver,




BORN: WAYNE, Mich., JULY 18, 1866. THE poems of Miss Grace Holmes have appeared in Arthur's Home Magazine, St. Louis Magazine, and the local press generally. She

O brilliant are the flowers soon to feel the

touch of frost, And glorious the sunset sky that the full

noon-day lost: And beautiful each countenance of the aged

man and wife, Who sit within the doorway near the tranquil

close of life.

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Summer, crowned with skies of azure,

Summer, gracious with thy music,
Summer, fresh in ripened beauty

Why so call thee, Queen of Season? For thy glorious sky at sunset,

For the nights fair, starlit heavens, For the fresh and dewy mornings,

So we term thee Queen of Seasons. Summer, robed in all thy glory,

Summer, wrapped in all thy splendor, Summer, bathed in all thy brightness,

Why so call thee Queen of Season? For the meadows green with clover,

For the bill tops touched with sunshine For the woodlands decked with blossoms,

So we term thee Queen of Seasons.


is studying shorthand and typewriting at St. Louis. Miss Holmes is very fond of literature, and her poems have already received favorable mention.

A SUNSET. The fair day closes, calm and still, The red sun sinks behind the hill; Above the hill, in varied hue, The red cloud quivers through the blue. Through fields of corn, through crowds of

trees, One breeze doth chase another breeze; They twirl the leaves and stir the grass, And bend the flowers as they pass; They shake the vines that clamber o'er And round about a farm house door, And fan the cheeks and brush the hair, Of an old couple sitting there. O, ripened are the cornfields, and flaming are

the leaves, And the breeze that stirs the mellow land is

not a languid breeze;

NATURE'S SECRETS. There's a secret with these rugged hills, whose

slender tops are gray; There's a secret with the wild flowers that

bloom along the way; There's a secret with the roaming clouds that

change the changeful sky: A secret have the busy winds, that chant and

moan and sigh. A secret bas the moonlight, that touches land

and sea, A secret is between the stars that blink at

you and me. Ah the secrets! can you count them? so num

erous are they! Ah the secrets! can you find them out? can

you find them out, I say? I knew that some sweet secret 'twixt my gar

den flowers grew, But I said, .. I know, I feel, it is not for me, or

you." I felt there was a secret with the wond'rous,

charming sea, But again I shook my head and said, .. That

secret's not for me." Yea, every where I turn my eyes on nature's

living show, I feel there is a secret that 'tis not for me to


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BORN: PERRY, ME., MARCH 28, 1835. This gentleman graduated at Harvard in 1863-4, receiving his diploma as a physician. During the civil war he served as assistant surgeon in one of the Massachusetts regiments. At the close of the war he commenced

Death, the tyrant, reigns supreme:

Time, the avenger, spurs his steed To reach earth's bounds, the most extreme;

And harvests life with miser's greed. Hope and life afar have fled,

Dismal cries from wrecking pain Come tumultuous from the dead,

That by time and death are slain. Fear with horror's crouching form,

Shrinks in awe with bated breath; Whilst the elements of storm

Rush in madness o'er the earth. Sheets of lurid lightnings glow,

Blast the shrinking, cowering form! Thunders peal; whilst fierce winds blow,

And onward sweeps the maddening storm. All is darkness, deep, profound,

Silence reigns through every sphere;Life is dead; no mortal sound

Shall wake in death the startled ear, Lo! a light from out the gloom

Bursts in glory on my sight; Thunders in the distance boom,

Morning breaks in love and light. On a bright ethereal throne

Borne through Heaven on angels' wings, Stands the Prince of Light, alone

Save the choir that round Him sings. Death appalled before Him flies,

Darkness shrinks in utter night;And the dead in myriads rise,

Quickened by the effulgent light. Clothed in an eternal spring,

Earth all radiant now appear; Through the groves the angels sing,

Music soothes the raptured ear. Sorrow, care, disease and pain,

Wan despair and sin have fled; They o'er earth no longer reign

They have perished, death is dead! God, the Omnipotent, shall reign,"

Floats upon the ambient air; . Here His kingdom shall remain,

Eternal as the ages are." Honor, adoration, praise,

Sound triumpbant through the skies; Cherubim sweet anthems raise,

The song of glory never dies.

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EXTRACT. I still enjoy the sounding lyre, Although my youth has lost its fire; And sometimes tempt a simple lay To while the lonely hours away. And though my harp has not the skill Or art to soar away at will, I can compose a rhyme with ease, If not sublime, at least will please.

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