686

M. I. STEWART.

BORN: JULY 14, 1858.

MR. STEWART is a printer by trade,-a journalist and lawyer by profession. He is now one of the proprietors of the largest printing house in western North Carolina, at Winston.

M. I. STEWART. Mr. Stewart has written extensively under the nom de plume of Jesse Fry, and has become well known as the laureate of Westhaven. In 1889 he published a small volume of verse, and hopes at an early date to issue a large volume of his selected poems.

CEDAR HILLS MINNIE. Dear to my heart, old rickety mill, With screaking, wet, overshot wheel, As of yore, adown the rough hill,

At home with loved Minnie I feel. In my dreams I frequently hear

The song of thy clear, limpid brook; And awake to find that a tear

Has stolen what fancy had took! No house, with a latch, like the one Where my brown-eyed Kinder resides: And no sport to me like the fun

Indulged in our mill-pond rides! The days seem so lonely and drear, Away from the scenes of my youth: When shall I be with you, my dear,

And drink from thy fountains of truth?

I know you will never forget

The heart that now throbs for your love;

And ere the suns of this sum'r have set,
I'll meet you, my darling, my dove.
You'll greet me, I know, as of old,
When adown by the mill you stood,
All ready my arms to enfold

Thy beauty's wild ravishing flood.

WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?
Where did you come from,

Little mountain skipper?

With your straight-cut robe
And black leather slipper.

How did you get here,

You fleeting little clipper?
With your bright, keen eye,
Sweet sparrow tripper.
Your neat little foot,

Swift as any topper;
Witching little elf,

Light as any hopper.
Why are you so straight,
Little arrow cutter?
Leaving all our hearts
Whirling in a flutter.

Why don't you stay here,
You little heart trapper?
For a home in our halls

Would suit such a snapper.

When will you come back,
You proud little raider?
With independent look --
Snappish thought invader.
For tilting pleasure,

You trim little lancer,
With movement so easy,
The best of any dancer.
What graceful tipping!
Light as any spider-
Lips that seldom speak-
Wavy little tider.
Of all birds, the Jay

Is hard'st for the gunner
To shoot on the wing-
Puzzling little stunner.

..JODIE."

Jodie's a sunflower,
Jodie's a daisy;
Jodie's a dear, good boy,
Jodie's run me crazy.
Jodie seems to be sad-
Jodie's heart is broken;
Jodie, my dearest lad,

Rena thus hath spoken.

I will love you, Jodie;

I will be your charmer; And with me, dear Jodie, You can be a farmer.

FABIUS M. RAY.

BORN: WINDHAM, ME., MARCH 30, 1837. AFTER graduating at Bowdoin college in 1861, Mr. Ray then spent a year abroad, studying German and French languages at Heidelberg and Geneva, under private instructors. Returning home he read law in Portland, was soon admitted to the bar, and at once began to practice his profession at Saccarappa, where he has since resided; he has also main

The solid earth is seamed with scars, Deep-graven records of her wars; And tells in fissured rock and chasm How many a fearful shock and spasm The ancient sphere has shaken!

But thou, oh sea,

When awful memories waken,
In solemn stillness of the night,
Canst slumber child-like in the light
Of the desolate moon and silent stars!
Hadst thou a brooding soul, oh sea,
Then wert thou of remorse ne'er free;
Were souls remorseless half, as thou art,
How many a pang were saved and bleeding
heart!

FABIUS M. RAY. tained a law office in Portland since 1871. In 1874 a volume of poems appeared from his pen. Mr. Ray has represented the town of Westbrook two terms in the state legislature, and has served one term in the state senatedeclining a re-election. As a lawyer Mr. Ray has been unusually successful, and his literary work has been a matter of diversion. Besides his poetical writings this gentleman has accomplished much historical work, and he is connected with the Maine Genealogical Society, of which he is president and one of its founders.

THE SEA.

O, ceaseless, surging sea,

Pathless, impressionless, type of eternity!
Nor time, nor change has left a trace,
A single furrow on thy face.

EVENING IN THE PAYS DE VAUD.

O'er Jura's craggy peaks aglow,

The gorgeous sunlight lingers;

In deep crevasse 'mid Alpine snow

It dips its rosy fingers.

Along Lake Leman's vine-girt shore

Is mild and balmy weather, While overhead on ledges hoar Eternal icebergs gather.

And where the avalanches creep

From off the cloud-touch'd mountains,

The azure Rhone, o'er rock and steep,

Comes dashing from its fountains.

But now the ebon veil descends,

And night enshrouds the valley,

Save where its light the glow worm lends

In wall or trellised alley.

I hear the plover's plaintive note, The murmur of the billows; And Philomel's sweet ditties float From out the sighing willows.

Anon sweet music fills the air

From many a garden bower, Where rustic swains and maids repair To spend this charmed hour.

How like a vision all things seem

Beyond this vale of shadows; E'en as I muse, the young day's beam Lights up my native meadows.

And thus, alas, it is with all,

"Tis distant and uncertain If once or time, or space let fall Twixt us and it the curtain.

The home that's left, the life that's o'er,
The friend that death has taken,
In dreamy hours return once more,
But never if we waken.

FRANCIS ANSON EVANS.

BORN: GRANDVIEW, IND., AUG. 4, 1853. IN 1884-5 Mr. Evans was southern editor of the St. Louis Medical Journal; and he has been a regular contributor to several other medical journals. He was offered the German consulate to Cologne by President Garfield, but de

FRANCIS ANSON EVANS.

clined it. Mr. Evans has contributed to the Waverly Magazine, Indianapolis Sun and the periodical press generally, and has written numerous humorous articles; he is also the author of several musical pieces. By profession this gentleman is a physician, and was a hospital physician during the yellow fever epidemic of 1878, having gone there voluntarily to aid suffering humanity. Dr. Evans was married in 1876 and is now a resident of his native state at Tell City.

THE MAID OF BELLVIDERE. O'er the distant peaks of splendor Fell the twilight soft and tender, And the gloaming hung in purple shadows on

the hazy mere,

While above the dim blue arches
Stars took up their silent marches,

Lightly shedding rays of amber on the walls of Bellvidere.

Down the valleys half surrounded By wild hazels gayly bounded, Myriad streams all moss embroider'd singing

soft their mystic cheer,

While up the path where dangled over Heads of pink and purple clover, Homeward driving lowing cattle tript the maid of Bellvidere.

Eyes-ah me, how bright their beaming!
Dew on grass not half so gleaming!

Chloe's not darker, hare's not shyer than to me did they appear;

And her cheeks all dimpled over

Sure was red 'most as the clover That toyed and kissed the pretty ankles of this maid of Bellvidere.

O, so sweet the cowbells jingled,
With the maiden's voice commingled,
Making strains of music grander than the
birds in brake or brere;

Keeping time to her sweet singing,
She a gipsy hat was swinging

From a hand not none so dimpled in the town of Bellvidere.

From across the distant mountain
Like some tinkling silvery fountain
Come the low melodious winding of the hunts-
man's horn so clear.

Scarcely stopt we for a greeting,
Shy and coylike was our meeting,

But I left my heart close clinging to those lips at Bellvidere.

That was in the dim, gray distance

Of the past of my existence

Ere the chilling frosts of Time had left my leaflets sear;

Yet among my memory's pages

Dimmed, as 'twere, by dust of ages,

I find a deep, fond love recorded for the maid of Bellvidere.

CUMBERLAND GAP.

OI will tell you a curious story,
A curious story I'll tell to you,
If you'll agree to keep perfectly quiet,

And hold your tongue till I get through.
'Twas on Easter-tide, of years gone many-
A score and five, or nearly so,
And red war smote the sloping mountains,
The rugged steeps and valleys low.
Down where lingers the southern breezes,
Where I first learned the sad mishap,
A brown-eyed mother and two little children
Lived and loved at Cumberland Gap.
Their little field, tho' cheerfully tended,
Yielded them only a scanty store,
And yet they lived contented and happy,
And the birds sang gayly about their door.
How often at the day's declining

They'd heard the lowing herds' low bell, As down the mountain home returningThey'd stood entranced, for they loved it well.

MRS. ELIZA J. W. TIRRILL.

BORN: HUNTINGTON, MASS., OCT. 6, 1836. PRIOR to her marriage this lady taught school. In 1860 she was married to Rodney W. Tirrill, who is now engaged in the real estate business

MRS. ELIZA J. W. TIRRILL. in Manchester, Iowa. The poems of Mrs. Tirrill have been widely published in the Manchester press and other prominent papers of her adopted state.

THE OLD PARSONAGE.

Where sunbeams seem to gild the roof and wall,

And evening shadows from the church tower fall,

There midst a grassy lawn, marking the spot, Is seen weather-stained, old-fashioned cot; The shingles brown, and moss-grown here and there,

The shrunken windows, free admit the air; The blinds, that helped subdue the wintry blast,

Are very nearly counted with the past.
The tall trees, bordering the yard, appear
Like sentinels, forever watching near;
And in their shade we see the violet's face,
And lilac bush, in keeping with the place.
The broken walk, the steps so worn away,
Lead to the porch, where children used to
play,

And happy mothers, when their tasks were made,

Rested at eve, and held the smiling babe.
The open door, admitting friend and foe,
Swings on its creaking hinges, to and fro;
The empty rooms, so desolate, and drear,
Re-echo now no greetings of good cheer.
Yet here all came, of yore, with full belief
Here could they tell their sorrows and their
grief;

Here brought their disappointments, wrong and right,

And homeward went with heart and step more light.

And in the past, when twilight lingered near,
Came bashful lover and the maiden dear;
The pastor spake, and lo! the knot was tied
Another bridegroom and his happy bride.
And where the children passed the gate, slow
paced,

To get a glimpse of the kind pastor's face,
Or his dear wife, who knew each one by

name

And cordially made welcome, all who came.
Now silence reigns; no step upon the floor,
Or willing hand to open wide the door;
From window looks no face of old or young,
No lullaby - no evening song is sung.

Yet here, oh Lord, was read the book of thine,
At early morning and day's decline;
Prayers offered while all bowed before Thy

face,

And benedictions sanctified the place. Memory will picture this a pleasant spot, Where stood the weather-stained old-fashioned

cot

The parsonage, that we so long have known, Now tenantless, deserted, silent, grown.

W. P.ARNOLD.

Mr. Arnold is a well-educated man, a minister of the gospel, and also principal of Grayson Seminary, Litchfield, Ky.

A WITHERED ROSE. The pleasures of our friendship past Were all too rose-bud-like to last: They ope'd as soon, and full as well, Too brightly for me now to tell. Like roses in the sweet of May, They blessed a better, better day; But like a rose in winter's strife, They closed their little, little life. My life is like the flower-stem Divested of its rosy gem; And, like the petals on the ground, My hopes lie with'ring all around.

MRS. L. E. BRANNOCK.

BORN: ENGLAND, MARCH 23, 1833. THIS lady was married in 1858 to J. P. Brannock, college president at Marionsville, Mo. Mrs. Brannock is a teacher of music, painting and elocution, in which she has always

MRS. L. E. BRANNOCK. met with great success. Her poems have appeared in the Ladies' Repository, Waverly Magazine, and the periodical press generally. Mrs. Brannock is the mother of six children, five of whom have grown to manhood and womanhood.

64

BE NOT WEARY.

Be not weary in well-doing," Words of toil and sorrow born In the sacred pulpit standing, Spake the pastor Sabbath morn. And he gave for our example, Christ the holy we adore. Weary, toiling, burdened, fainting 'Neath the heavy cross he bore. Then he spake of Paul, enduring Scourge and prison, want and scorn, Still not wearied in well-doing,

Though his flesh concealed a thorn. John, the patient, well beloved; 'Prisoned on lone Patmos' isle,

Yet what wondrous visions thronging Came his darkness to beguile.

Then of holy blessed martyrs,

Who fell bleeding by the way; Yet their path illumined, brightened With the light of glory's ray. What are we that we should tremble 'Neath the crush of fortune's wheel? What are we that we should murmur At the crosses all must feel? Are we faint and heavy laden, Are we burdened by the waySeems our scourging past enduring Do deep shadows cloud our way? Are we weary in well-doing,

1

Is our Patmos dark with storm? Has hope left our gloomy prison Do our hearts conceal a thorn? Glorious visions beaming 'round us, Light the path in which we stray: Weary wanderers, all life's burdens Soon forever fall away:

Courage Christian toiler, courage!

Brave endure, nor weakly yield,

Faithful, hopeful-trusting ever,

God your strength and Christ your shield.

GOD HELP US.

EXTRACT.

We bring you scentless, 'broidered flowers
With hues more grave than gay,
Wrought in the fancies of the brain,
For these, your flowers of May.
God helping us the while we try.
To darn this well-worn theme,
With threads if not of finest gold,
Or poet's loftiest dream.

At least with words whose strength may aid
To bear the tide along,

Till all shall join this army true

And swell the victor's song.

.. God help us" is our battle prayer; How like a clarion shrill

Its pleading tones seem echoing far

O'er every vale and hill.

The words resound now low, now loud,

From mountains to the sea,

In east and west, in north and south,
Bound millions to free.

And hark! the strain with soft refrain,
Borne on the wind's low sigh,
Is rising from our grassy plain
And pealing through the sky.
Till angel tongues take up, renew
The pleading sweet refrain,

And send it through the vaults of heaven
Down to the earth again.