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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.
And ere the suns of this sum'r have set,
I'll meet you, my darling, my dove.
When adown by the mill you stood,
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 Westbaven. In 1889 he published a small volume of verse, and hopes at an early date to issue a large volume of his selected poems.
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 spiderLips that seldom speak
Wavy little tider. Of all birds, the Jay
Is hard'st for the gunner To shoot on the wingPuzzling little stunner,
Jodie's a daisy;
Jodie's run me crazy.
Jodie's heart is broken;
Rena thus hath spoken.
I will be your charmer;
You can be a farmer.
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 bear
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;
FABIUS M. RAY.
The solid earth is seamed with scars,
Deep-graven records of her wars; BORN: WINDHAM, ME., MARCH 30, 1837.
And tells in fissured rock and chasm
Then wert thou of remorse ne'er free;
EVENING IN THE PAYS DE VAUD.
The gorgeous sunlight lingers;
It dips its rosy fingers.
Along Lake Leman's vine-girt shore
Is mild and balmy weather,
Eternal icebergs gather.
From off the cloud-touch'd mountains,
Comes dashing from its fountains.
And night enshrouds the valley,
In wall or trellised alley.
The murmur of the billows;
From out the sighing willows.
Anon sweet music fills the air
From many a garden bower,
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 bas accomplished much bistorical work, and he is connected with the Maine Genealogical Society, of which he is president and one of its founders.
How like a vision all things seem
Beyond this vale of shadows;
Lights up my native meadows.
"Tis distant and uncertain
Twixt us and it the curtain.
The friend that death has taken,
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
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;
Sure was red 'most as the clover
this maid of Bellvidere.
With the maiden's voice commingled, Making strains of music grander than the
birds in brake or brere;
She a gipsy hat was swinging
Like some tinkling silvery fountain Come the low melodious winding of the hunts
man's horn so clear.
Shy and coylike was our meeting,
lips at Bellvidere.
Of the past of my existence
Dimmed, as 'twere, by dust of ages,
CUMBERLAND GAP. 0 I will tell you a curious story,
A curious story I'll tell to you,
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.
Yielded them only a scanty store,
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 returning They'd stood entranced, for they loved it well.
MRS. ELIZA J. W. TIRRILL. And happy mothers, when their tasks were
made, BORN: HUNTINGTON, MASS., OCT. 6, 1836.
Rested at eve, and held the smiling babe. Prior to her marriage this lady taught school. In 1860 she was married to Rodney W. Tirrill,
The open door, admitting friend and foe,
Swings on its creaking hinges, to and fro; who is now engaged in the real estate business
The empty rooms, so desolate, and drear,
And benedictions sanctified the place. in Manchester, Iowa. The poems of Mrs.Tirrill
Memory will picture this a pleasant spot, have been widely published in the Manchester Where stood the weather-stained old-fashioned
cot press and other prominent papers of her adopted state.
The parsonage, that we so long have known,
Now tenantless, deserted, silent, grown.
W.P.ARNOLD. wall, And evening shadows from the church tower Mr. Arnold is a well-educated man, a minister fall,
of the gospel, and also principal of Grayson There midst a grassy lawn, marking the spot, Seminary, Litchfield, Ky. Is seen weather-stained, old-fashioned cot; The shingles brown, and moss-grown here
A WITHERED ROSE. and there,
The pleasures of our friendship past The shrunken windows, free admit the air; Were all too rose-bud-like to last: The blinds, that helped subdue the wintry They ope'd as soon, and full as well, blast,
Too brightly for me now to tell.
My life is like the flower-stem
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. Bran nock is a teacher of music, painting and elocution, in which she has always
Then of holy blessed martyrs,
Who fell bleeding by the way;
With the light of glory's ray.
'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 way — Seems our scourging past enduring
Do deep shadows cloud our way? Are we weary in well-doing,
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:
Soon forever fall away:
Brave endure, nor weakly yield,
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.
To bear the tide along,
And swell the victor's song.
How like a clarion sbrill
O'er every vale and hill.
From mountains to the sea,
Bound millions to free.
Borne on the wind's low sigh,
And pealing through the sky.
The pleading sweet refrain,
Down to the earth again.
For humble daily bread,
Are treacherous pit-falls spread.
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.
Christ the holy we adore.
'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' isie, Yet what wondrous visions thronging Came his darkness to beguile.