LOU VALERIA WILLSON.

BORN: PULASKI, MICH., SEPT, 23, 1866. MANY of the poems of Miss Willson have appeared in Peterson's, Saturday Night, Cottage Hearth, Detroit Free Press and other

LOU VALERIA WILLSON.

publications. Besides writing poems she is the author of several stories and sketches which have found their way into print. This artist and writer resides with her parents in Jackson, Mich.

IT NIPS US A'.

At yester morn it was nae cauld,
At e'en it seemed nae caulder;
But as the mirky nicht cam' on,
The frost it then grew bolder,
An' nipped the bonny posies a',
Poor, chittering posies! nipped them a'.

Ah weel, ah weel! 'Tis ever sae

With flowers an' men. Sae surely
As days are bricht an' suns are warm,
An' we dwell maist securely,

The frost comes on an' nips us a'!
Baith blooms an' men it nips us a'!

MOTHS, BEWARE.

"Her eyes are blue, of gold her hair; She has a face divinely fair,"Oh yes, I know.

"Her form displays a witching grace, That matches well her flower-like face," Oh yes, I know.

"Her smile is like a sunbeam bright," She is, you say, "your life and light." Ho, ho! Just so!

You think to win this maiden fair,
Beware!

Girls often are such fickle things

You foolish moth, you'll singe your wings. Take care!

She smiles, you say, and smiles on you, And love beams from her eyes so true, Ho, ho! I know!

To all, the candle gives its light,
All bask within her smile so bright.
Oh, yes, 'tis so!

And though she is divinely fair,
Beware!

Full many a victim has she slain,
Think of your wings, oh moth, so vain.
Take care!

And as to smiles, you silly elf,

She's laughing at your foolish selfHo, ho! 'tis so!

The merriment she scarcely tries To keep from out her laughing eyes, My friends, I know.

Avoid those curls of golden hair

Beware!

Avoid those merry eyes of blue,

Or with scorched wings your fate you'll

rue.

Take care!

What now! What means that look of woe?
And was I right? And is it so?
Pray let me know!

We have not met these many days.
The moth has felt the candle's blaze?
Ho, ho! just so!

Well, limp away, for lights more fair
Are there,

The harm is slight, 'tis very clear,
Your wings will grow again, no fear.
And then, beware!

JENNIE H. RASMUSSEN.

BORN: DENMARK, OCT. 2, 1867. JENNIE was brought to this country when a babe, and now follows the occupation of bookkeeper at Albert Lea, Minn. Her poems

JENNIE HELENA RASMUSSEN.

have appeared in the Interior of Minneapolis, Enterprise and Standard of Albert Lea, and other publications.

YOUTH.

Youth is pleasing, youth is charming,
There is something, O, so free,
In its movements, in expression,
Bubbling out from inward glee.
Age can charm us for a moment,
When it does itself forget,
But it lacks the gentle lightness,
Of a heart for joy just set.
Youth is richness, youth is glory,

Wrapped within, celestial bliss,
Spanned by heaven's and earth's affection,
Circled by the Maker's kiss.
Love and kindness, all spontaneous
Bursting out from inward store,
Has no bound, no form, no measure,
Empties out yet still there's more.
Youth where virtue reigns exclusive

Knows no self-created sin,

Has not reached to the painful knowledge Of a rebel host within;

Freely acts from inward motives,

Does not stop to calculate,

Often utt'ring truths so precious,
Truths that chide and animate.
Youth's a blessing, heavenly blessing
For reflection, dark and deep,
When the youth matures to manhood
And the sins seem grim and steep.
Then O childhood! blessed childhood!
Wafts a peace naught else can bring,
Breathes a rest almost unearthly,
Borne as on angelic wing.

IF 'TIS ONLY THEE.
I will not mind, dear Father,
What grievings I may meet,
The many thorns and briars,
That hurt my tender feet,

If 'tis only Thy hand that leads.
I will not mind the suff'ring,
What weights that o'er me roil,

The racking pains of body,

Or wrestlings of the soul,
If only Thy will be done.

I will not mind the darkness,
The cloud that hides Thy face;
That veils those loving smiles,
And sends me gloom in place,
If only Thou art smiling above.
E'en though the rod be lifted,
And falls with crushing blows,
I'll rise and call it blessed,
To feel these earthly woes,

If 'twas only Thy hand that smote.

The world may try to turn me,

Lay snares for many a fall,

But I will gain my object,

And conquer over all,

If only Thy arm uphold me.

ARTHUR E. SMITH.

BORN: GRANVILLE, N. Y., JUNE 15, 1866. THE poems of Mr. Smith have appeared in Peterson's Magazine, New England Homestead, American Rural Home, Chicago Ledger, Albany Journal, Arkansas Traveler,

ARTHUR E. SMITH.

Christian Nation and numerous other publications. He has written over six hundred poems, many of which have received very high praise from the press and public generally. Mr. Smith is engaged in mercantile pursuits in the state of New York at Belcher.

THE BONNY MAIDEN.

Sweet summer send your softest gale
To greet a lover's ear,

For there is coming up the vale
A bonny little dear;

The daisies blossom 'neath her feet,
Wild roses by her path,

While thrushes answer - oh, so sweet-
Her merry, merry laugh.

Ye sunbeams play across the lea;
Ye willows fondly sigh;

For there's no fairer maid than she
Who now is drawing nigh.
Her sparkling eyes are like the dew
Upon a wild-wood's flow'r,
And o'er her cheeks of crimson hue
Aye smiles like sunbeams pour.

Sweet sing ye brooks within yon glade,

A melody divine,

For there's no fairer rural maid
Than bonny Nellie mine;
Ye zephyrs kiss her lips rose-red
And fan her lily brow;

Ye gentle violets hang your heads,
And low before her bow.

Sweet summer send your softest gale

To greet a lover's ear,

For there is coming up the vale

A bonny little dear;

She's coming now to meet her love

Beneath the trysting-tree,

While voices from the maple grove
Make joyful melody.

BENEATH THE FOREST'S SHADE. Beneath the forest's shade I rest, Wearied by the noon's sultry heat, And hear the breezes from the west Amid the tall pines singing sweet.

Above me in the heated sky

Like a huge ball hangs the bright sun: While over all the mountains nigh The haze of noon-tide settles down!

Oh, glorious is the realm outspread,

The realm o'er which fair summer reigns, The wooded hills, the skies o'erhead, The meads and broad extended plains!

There o'er its channel deep and wide

The streamlet seeks the distant west;
And o'er it softly the warm winds glide,
Tossing in ripples its silvered breast.

I would that life would be as sweet,
Always at this noon-tide hour;
But joy must die as at my feet
Must die sometime yon lovely flow'r!
I would that life would glide as smooth
Betwixt its channels as yon stream,
And that life's sunset hour would prove
To all more fair than poet's dream!

THE OLD TRYSTING TREE. When the dewdrops are falling O'er the green, grassy plains, And the night-birds are chanting Their gladsome refrains,Then I think of the maiden So dear, dear to me,And I go forth to meet her 'Neath the old trysting tree! CHO.- Oh, the maiden I love,

So loving is she! There's joy when I meet her 'Neath the old trysting tree!

M. VICTOR STALEY.

BORN: OMRO, WIS., DEC. 19, 1866.

IN 1880 the subject of this sketch removed to Oshkosh, where he received the rudiments of his education. He has since studied at Lawrence University of Appleton, Wis., earn

M. VICTOR STALEY.

ing the necessary means to do so during vacation time. The poems of Mr. Staley have appeared in the Chicago Ledger, Home Journal, the Oshkosh and Appleton papers.

THE AGE OF REASON.
When this world awakes to reason,
Shall the worth of man be told;
Not by jewels and silken garments,
Nor the glitter of his gold;
But by noble deeds of kindness,
Actions pure, and free from sin,
Then shall every wrong be righted-
Right shall conquer, truth shall win.
Then no more shall kings and princes,
Men of wealth and titled names,
Claim the homage of the people,
While they live a life of shame;
Then no more shall they be honored
As the foremost of their time,

While their hearts are black as midnight,
And their souls are steeped in crime.
When this world shall wake to reason,
He who struggles for the right,
Down whose pathway deeds of kindness
Cast their rays of golden light;

He who speaketh words of comfort, Hearts to cheer when dark the days, Shall receive the people's blessings, And the world's unstinted praise.

DELORA.

Oft have I stood by the purling stream,
'Neath the leafy shade of the forest tree,
Where warbled the birds in their merry glee,
And watched with pleasure the golden gleam
Of the waning sun as it sank to rest
Behind yon hill that towers in the west-
That rises just west of Azora.

Azora, whose waves of peaceful blue

Ripple gaily along the pebble shore;

While they whisper low of the days of yore,
Recalling to mind one whom I knew -
One whom I have watched as she gamboled

free,

As she laughed aloud in her childish glee;
She, my fair-haired darling, Delora.

But ten short summers of added bloom,
Had deftly imprinted its beauty there,
On the face and form of that elfin fair,
When cruelly dark yawned the silent tomb;
And I missed the form I was wont to see,
And the merry laughter of childish glee,
The innocent glee of Delora.

My heart is sad for 'neath yonder mound, Now, almost kissed by the murmuring stream,

Tinged fair with the glow of the sunset gleam, Where the wildwood

abound,

flowers in beauty

Lies the slender form of that fair young

maid,

Yet, never shall out from my mem'ry fade, The remembrance of sweet Delora.

THE SPIRIT QUEEN. EXTRACT.

66

And she did as he had bade her,
Ruled for years the tribes around,
Till the Manitou, her spirit
Called to happy hunting-grounds.
On the shores of the Capole,"
Smiling in its verdure green,
There her tribe laid her in splendor,
As became their Spirit Queen.
On the night of her interment
O'er her grave a storm arose,
And the spirits from the waters
Placed a rock o'er her repose;
While, for many years her people,
O'er her mound of tender green,
Said peace-offerings to their idol,
Wau-we-tee, the Spirit Queen."

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