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Without a word she led the herd,

And kept it at her home securely; But Adam stood in angry mood,

And scowled and knit his brows demurely. Though whipped, he tried with manly pride,

To get and cook his daily victuals; — Made soup of cheese, - made pies of peas,

And burnt his hands on pots and kettles. But life like this, was not the bliss,

That Adam, at the first expected; So off he went to Eve's nice tent,

And reconcilement was effected. And to this day, the wife has sway,

And husbands know 'tis best to let her; I've known no strife,-'twixt man and wife,

But what the woman got the better.

And merrily sings as it troops through the

lea; But when its a river, it seems to be sleeping, And silently wends its deep course to the

sea; So love, at the first, was a shallow emotion, And made a great noise, like the brook as it

goes; But now it's a river, profound in devotion, And deeper the stream the more softly it


Come, tell me you love me,- I never grow

weary: As well might the songs of my mother grow

old, -Or even the home of my childhood grow

dreary, As words of affection seem lifeless and cold. Come tell me, again, the delightful old story,

You told me before your betrothal to me: The love that you show is my lifeguard and

glory,And death be my portion, if parted from


THE LOVER'S SOLILOQU'Y. A brilliant rose, in blushing grace, Too modest to expose its face, May make the bower its hiding place,

And bloom in covert there;
And though we do not see the rose,
Yet every one its presence knows,
For far and wide, its fragrance flows,

And dwells upon the air.
'Tis thus her spirit, every hour,
Where'er I am, with mystic power,
Regales me as the hidden flower,

And makes my heart rejoice.
And something whispers in my ear,
That her pervading spirit's near;
And I inagine that I hear,

The music of her voice. I meet her in my raptured dreams; We rove by sylvan vales and streams, And talk of love and kindred themes,

And promise not to sever. Can she, though absent, cheer me so? Has perfect bliss been found below? Can dreams of her, such joy bestow? Then let me dream forever!

Mary, darling - Mary, dear,
Let me whisper in your ear
Words of love no friend should hear,-

Lest he think me raving.
Mary, I am all your own;
In my heart I've set your throne,
Where, as queen, you rule alone,--

All my soul enslaving.

Soon, the holy marriage rite
Shall our souls as one unite,
And I'll bask in genial light

Beaming from thy beauty. And when I, in joy and pride. Clasp thee as my charming bride Thou Shalt be the star to guide,

And incite to duty.

A WIFE'S UNDYING LOVE. The moonlight is soft, and the fields are invit

ing; Come, husband, let's walk in the meadow

apart; For I am enraptured, when you are reciting, The story of love, in sweet words from the

heart; That story, they tell us, is old and fictitious,And soon we'll grow weary and careless,

they think; But love is like wine, that, from age is delici

Ous, And time gives it body,and flavors the drink. The brook, from the mountain, comes dancing

and leaping

Trees, since I became thy choice, Clap their hands, and hills rejoice, And I seem to hear thy voice,

Even when I'm sleeping. On life's journey we will start, Bidding every care depart, And we'll give both hand and heart

To each other's keeping.

A mother true and pure as dew,

And as an infant tender,-
With blushing cheek and manners meek,-

Our hearts could but surrender.


BORN: PEKIN, N. Y. BORN within sound of Niagara Falls and educated in Adrian, Mich., Mrs. Bailey removed to Kansas in 1871. Her first poem appeared in 1879, since which time she has written both prose and verse for the leading periodicals of America, including the Kansas City Journal, New York Tribune, Chicago Inter-Ocean and

So varied were the woes I felt,

So dark the future looked to be,
I marvelled why the Lord had dealt,

So bitterly with me.
And as I sadly mused, came then

These words, so sweet yet strangely clear, As music o'er the waters when

All is still — Be of good cheer."-
He chastens whom he loves" - am I

For this distinction fit? Oh Lord,
I proudly claim the honor high

Thus granted in thy word.
O glorious truth to hearts sore tried

By sorrows here! Who suffers most,
Wbate'er of bitter grief betide,

May of God's favor boast.
And closer kinship feel with One

Who knelt in dark Gethsemane;
Who agonized till all was done –

A sin-bound world set free. 0, Love divine! O, thorn-crowned head,

0, radiant cross upraised for me; 0, precious blood on Calvary shed,

Up from the depths, I fly to thee.


MRS. MATTIE L. BAILEY. the local press of Michigan, Indiana and Kansas. A woman of decidedly quiet domestic tastes and habits, Mrs. Bailey has written mainly for relief and pleasure of expression. She has had three children, one of whom is now living - Robert Victor, a bright child, of nine years of age, who is gifted with remarkable oratorical powers.

BIRDIE. Are there no children there? No dear child

faces. Blooming with fadeless beauty in that bliss

ful air; Nor prattle sweet with winsome baby-graces,

Making our home more fair? Will she my spotless one, who has this life

outgrown, Be changed to womanhood, ere I again can

know, The loving, gentle, soul that grew unto my

own? 0, poet, say not so! Our Savior when on earth the little children

blest, And said: - Of such the kingdom is;" cannot

it be, That he may take my baby to his loving

breast, And keep her thus for me? For one bright year she led me with her tiny

hand, Dull care was banished, while joy crowned

each hou As I watched the leaflets of my bud expand,

To form the perfect flower. A radiant vision of these hours, I see A fair and smiling face, with soul-lit eyes of

blue; Sweet lips, whose kisses deeper rapture gave

to me,
Than lover ever knew.

[again, The golden head is nestled on my breast;

Out from the depths I cry to Thee,

Wild are the winds that 'round me blow, High roll the waves that buffet me,

Why, Lord, why is it so ?
My dearest earthly wish denied,

My days devoid of all delight,
My life barque stranded where the tide

Goes out in darkest night.
The phantoms of my dead hopes rise,

I stretch my longing arms in vain;
They, mocking, echo back the cries

Which ill relieve my pain.

With love's mute eloquence, those wistful

eyes fill mine, With happy tears. O, sacred joy akin to pain,

An ecstacy divine! Too soon the vision fades; how would it still

this wild, Impassioned longing for what I held most

dear, To know that some glad morning I may clasp

my child, Just as I had her here. To know that in the glorified hereafter, E'en as when here - her arms outstretched in

glee, Her lovely face all dimpled o'er with laughter

Thus may she welcome me.

Beautiful laurel, stately and tall,
Bending adown o'er mossy wall,
Tiny lobelia fragile and low,
O sweet June days, move slow, move slow!
Fair fleur-de-lis, queen of the flowers,
Lifting her face to sunshine and showers,
And even the voice of the brooklet's flow,
O sweet June days, move slow, move slow!
Gentle breezes and beautious skies
Where white the fleeting clouds arise,
Nature her great heart lending so,
O sweet June days, move slow, move slow!

Peace, eager heart! Faith doth no questions

ask; but when My ransomed soul finds home, then shall be

gratified. Its hungry yearnings all, in sweet content;

For then,
. I shall be satisfied."


BORN: ASHBY, MASS., DEC. 27, 1844. MRS. FLETCHER is an invalid, and has really never known a well day in her life. Yet beauty in every form appeals to her and she finds much sweetness and joy from couch and pillows in writing, painting and reading. During the past few years she has written many beautiful poems, of which a few are here given.

The hope to which we fondly cling,

And call our own,
Is oft the swiftest to take wing,

And soonest flown!
The wish for which we long and sigh,

And pray and yearn,
May be but a bitter draught to drink,

Which we should spurn.
The evil which we fear and dread,

And dare not face,
God may give the strength to bear,

And needed grace.
The good for which we scarce have hoped,

Nor all perceive,
May be sweetest in its fulfillment,

When we receive.
The joys for which we seek and strive,

And follow fast,
When we call them ours, may be

With dark o'ercast.
The trials which we fain would shun,

And cast away,
Like precious pearls may show to us

Some hidden ray.

AT SUNSET. Beyond the sunset gleaming bright, Beyond the day's last lingering light, What would be of heavenly sight, If through the gates we looked to-night? Beyond the sum of life's brief day, Beyond earth's skies so cold and gray, What would be if when we pray Heaven opened out its shining way? If aided by angel staff and rod, Beyond that silvery path we trod, Ah! what would meet our vision broad, Far o'er those billowy seas of God?

SLEEP. Weird, shadowy sleep, By which we leap

From night to morn;-
Sweet, silent dreams,

Glad, golden gleams,
Where hope is born:
Tired, fitful sleep
When slowly creep

The hours away:
Sad making thought
With pain inwrought

Till breaks the day: Sweet, painless sleep Peaceful and deep

For hearts oppressed, Quick, fleeting hours 'Midst dreamland bowers, By angels blessed!

SWEET JUNE. Buttercups and daisies, golden and white, Springing to meet and gladden our sight, Tall waving grasses bending low, O sweet June days, move slow, move slow! Wild roses blooming by wayside and hedge, Columbines nodding o'er rocky ledge, Little birds singing, or high or a -- low, O sweet June days, move slow, move slow!

IRVING J. A. MILLER. · BORN: WORCESTER, O., OCT. 14, 1866. In 1876 Irving's parents removed to Marshalltown, Iowa, where he enjoyed a thorough course in the grammar school, and in which town he now resides. About 1884 he commenced to court the muse, and ever since that time has contributed quite freely to some of the most worthy and widely quoted periodicals of America. He is at present assistant editor of the Marshalltown Electric

Rode a hero, unknown, with his warning to

all, But the number who harkened and listened

was small. Came the rushing of waters – their thunder

ing roar, As they hastened, with fury, to pillage and

gore, And the trees and the houses gave way, like a

straw, In the hurricane tide of the wild Conemaugh. On! On! with that courage a patriot thrills, Shouting: Run for your lives! Run for the

hills!!He dashed like a war-maddened Chippewa

brave, For his was a duty to rescue and save; Nor looked be about for the demon behind, Pursuing his trail like a hurricane wind, But loudly and clear (for he knew no despair His summons rang out on the evening air As the terrible waves grasped their forms

like s straw, In the hurricane tide of the wild Conemaugh. 0, God, it was fearful, for so it is said; When the waters receded and gave up their

dead, 'Mid the thousands of bodies that lay on the

ground Not a trace of the steed or his rider was

found; For a stranger he was, but his heroic deed Finds a place in the minds of the sufferers

freed. In the years to come, and the time to be, Like a phantom 'twill pass through our mem

ory, And we'll see, like a ghost of the buried past, On his steed this courier riding fast, And we'll hear, like an echo, his warning cry Where the Conemaugh dashed in its fury by.


IRVING J. A. MILLER. Light. During the fall of 1887 he issued a book entitled Fireside Poems, which met with a ready sale. In 1888 he took editorial charge of the Star, in Union, Iowa, which position he filled for about one year. Mr. Miller was married in 1888. He is a practical printer by trade, and in person is a little above tie average height, with brown hair and eyes. Mr. Miller has also issued a book of campaign songs, which was heartily received by all.

AXIOMS. A noble deed; an action wrought; A nation mov'd to solemn thought. A skillful hand; a drop of ink; The mass is mov'd to weep or think. A pensive mind; a noble strain; A pow'r is held o'er this domain. A chaste desire; a purer cause; A nation hails with wide applause. A modest girl; a manly boy; A father's pet; a mother's joy. A cheerful home; a household kind; Will breed no grief, leave none behind. A loyal wife; a husband true; As one will pass life's journey through. When friendship dies, and love has fled, Forevermore the heart is dead.

THE HERO OF CONEMAUGH. Down through a valley of love and repose, Where the roses once bloomed and the Cone

maugh flows O'er hillock and crevice, o'er dyke, bridge and

stone, Inspired by his duty and trav'ling alone,



NELLIE E. ADAMS. Born: EXETER, N. H., JULY 12, 1864. Miss ADAMS graduated with honors from the Robinson Seminary at Exeter, and later from the normal department of the same school. She has written both poetry and prose, but is

Darker grew,
Would we not their lives make brighter?

If we knew.
If we knew,
Knew the moments swiftly gliding

Of to-day,
That its morning, and its evening,

Gold or gray
Were the last that e'er would vanish

From our view,
Would we not improve them better?

If we knew.
If we knew,
How our words and deeds were telling

Day by day,
On the lives of all who meet us

On the way,
If our influence was clearer

To our view, Oh, we all, would aim higher,

If we knew.


NELLIE E, ADAMS. most noted for her verse. In 1885 she published a little volume entitled Blossoms, a collection which met with a ready sale and received very favorable comment from the press generally. Miss Adams was the class poet at her graduation. She is still a resident of the place of her nativity, where she is very popular.

THE TWO WRECKS. The sea moaned, surging heavily

Under a gloomy sky, While the seething, wbite-capped breakers

Tossed their briny foam on high. And the ship, that sailed at daybreak

Out from the harbor bar, Beneath the sunny heaven,

Floating proudly stripe and star, Was being widely driven,

Like a bird before the gale. Her anchor lost in the sea flood,

And torn each snowy sail, Before the arching rainbow,

Told that the storm was o'er,
She sank beneath the billows,

To rise, to rise no more.
Out in the gathering darkness,

Out in the wind and the sleet,
With face upturned to a pitiless sky,

Lay a body in the street.
The wreck of a once proud manhood,

Of a life that promised fair,
Of loves, and hopes, and ambitions,

The end of all lay there.
Somebody kissed that bloated face,

When it was young and fair,
Some one curled 'round a baby head

Those ringlets of sunny hair.
Somebody thought of the comfort and pride

He would be in the after years, Somebody sank into the grave

In bitter woe and tears.

If we knew,
Knew at all times and all places,

What was right,
Knew and did what was accepted

In His sight, Held the good of others only

Up to view, Comfort-bearers each one might be,

If we knew. If we knew, Knew the dear ones we love better

Far than life, For us bearing heavy burdens

In the strife, Often wearied when the pathways

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