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EMERSON C. HOUSTON, M. D. Will she in the ball, when my footsteps she

hears, BORN: FRIENDSHIP, ME., FEB. 17, 1831. Be waiting and watching for me? AFTER attending the Oxford Academy, Mr.

My venerable father who loved me before Houston studied medicine at Cleveland, O.

My tongue learned a sentence to frame! Dr. Houston has written about two hundred

Gave his last blessing to me at the door, poems, many of which have appeared under

And tenderly uttered my name -
Tho' burden'd with years will be cordially

With welcome familiar and free,
And say, he has long at the dear happy home
Been waiting and watching for me.
How sweet 'twere to greet the glad group at

the hearth,
In childhcod so trusting and true!
My sisters, whose hearts are as pure as the

In the days of its infancy knew;
My brothers who led me about by the hand,
And shared in my innocent glee,
And know that each one of our family band
Were waiting and watching for me.
How sweet is the thought, 1 am coming once

The friends of my childhood to greet.
O say, will they meet me as erst at the door,
With welcomes as cordially sweet.
How wild my heart throbs with delicious

What objects farciliar I see!

Will every dear friend who expect me to-night EMERSON COLEMAN HOUSTON, M. D.

Be waiting and watching for me? a nom de plume. The title of his longest poem is Fountain Dell, a romance in twelve A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. cantos. Dr. Houston follows his profession

EXTRACT. of physician and surgeon at Fullerton, Neb.,

'Twas a wild, dark night, and the dreary blast where he resides with his wife and family.

Came howling over the prairies vast;

For the storm king came in his icy car,

O'er the Arctic sea, from the polar star, Sweet home of my childhood I greet thee with Like a demon sent from the shades of death

To congeal the heart with his frozen breath. tears, How blest were the hours at the hearth! 'Twas a sudden change, when we bade adieu Restrospective views of those innocent years To the garden city, and glad withdrew Show my happiest moments on earth.

From the busy street, pav'd white with snow, My heart glows at sight of the old house at Every heart was light, as the bounding roe. home

Then the engine shriek'd out a shrill'farewell, And throbs like the waves of the sea; Our laugh rang clear as a golden bell. Will anyone thinking, “I wish he would

We had come from where the Atlantic waves come,"

Have a land that never was curs'd by slaves; Be waiting and watching for me?

And one from the State of the evergreen My fond heart received its first lesson of love pine, From a kind mother's eloquent kiss;

Where the hundred lakes" in her lap Nor do I believe even angels above

recline, Could have tasted more exquisite bliss. Who had bathed in Mansfield's o'erhanging The crystalline tears of my infantile years

cloud, Were tenderly soothed on her knee,

Climb’d Alleghany and the Alpines proud.



BORN: PARKE CO., IND., MAY 15, 1830. IN 1852 Mr. Coleman removed to Glendon, Iowa, wbere he has resided ever since. For nine years he was a member of the county


Real treasures last ever, will give us real joy, That nothing can sever, that nothing can

Thy never take wings (cloy, And leave us alone-they give sweeter relief, Are much better than gold, for never a thief

Can rob us or bring
Sorrow and grief;

They give us no sting. A good deed or kind word, a generous thought,

(sought Is worth more than money, had better be

Than silver or gold.
The one who treasures these up is richer far
Than the millionaire riding in mammon's
bright car,

He sorbid and old,
So soon stript bare,

Is poor with his gold.
And yet the scramble for some bauble goes

(throne. With the beggar as well as th' king on his

The real is unsought. And those jewels that shine as stars in the

skies, By most are considered too unworthy to prize

Not giving one thought,
To the flimsy disguise,

In which evil is sought.
But give me the real gems that never will

fade, So that when gold and fame and wealth have decayed,

I shall have treasures in Heaven. For though you should have all the baubles of earth

[birth. With these only you are poorer at death than

Your happiness riven
And nothing of worth,

For all you have given.
Strive for riches that last, consider that best
Which strengthens the good and gives con-
science sweet rest,

Then blessings will come. And light to your pathway though earth be

dreary, With Jesus for a guide, loving and cheery.

Though trials do come,
You may be weary,

But will safely reach home. There safely housed beyond mortality's shore,

[more Where sickness and sorrow can reach us no

And death none can sever; [bliss, There with our loved ones in perfection of In a beautiful world brighter than this.

To leave it never,
Where God our Savior is,
We'll live forever and ever.

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REAL TREASURES. How often men fret over losses they feel, And think they are heavy and stagger and reel,

And many times fall: When nothing worth having or keeping is

lost. Like a ship in a storm they're driven and tossed,

For nothing at all,
But bits of dross,

Exceedingly small. 'Tis not the real loss that worry us most, Many times out of our casket jewels are lost,

And we notice it not.
The heart's best affections so oft'n are soured
Impulses generous for good are devoured,

While anger is hot;
Humanity lowered -
Real treasures forgot.


BORN: NEW YORK CITY, SEPT. 8, 1840. AFTER receiving his education at Columbia College, Mr. Griffin studied engineering. After working at that profession for several years he returned to his native state, studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1860. For a time he was employed as a historical writer

That fuly wreathe thy brow's swart tint,
The bridal blossoms ever glipt!
For thee the balmy western breeze,
To perfume of the orange trees
Upon the verdant hills that stand, (strand
Grouped 'round thy throne, of Ind's far
The odor weds. All through the night,
With music like the laughter light
Of merry girls, is frequent heard
The song of some half-dreaming bird.
Ah, who would dwell 'mid Gul's perfumes,
Or where the feeble lotus blooms
Upon the wearied senses pall,
And through an air as lanquid fall!
Or who that's free to work his will
Would brave the winter's biting chill
In lands that gird the farthest pole,
Where icy terrors freeze the soul!
Give me to dwell with thee, my queen;
And, when to all th' endearing scene
I needs must close these loving eyes,
To me the life of paradise,
Lacking thy smile, will seem but tame-
And Eden only in the name.

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in the Bancroft Library. He has held several prominent positions as civil engineer, and was chief of staff to James B. Eads while getting a concession for a ship railway across the isthmus iu Mexico. Mr. Griffin has traveled extensively in Europe as well as in North and South America, and is a profound classic, English, Spanish and French scholar, and a thorough historian. He is first vice-president of the Historical Society of Southern California, of which he was a founder. Mr. Griffin has a pleasant home in Los Angeles, with a botanical garden filled with exotics and plants rare and curious. He has collected a choice and excellently selected library of more than three thousand volumes. His eldest daughter, Eva, is developing a remarkable talent for sculpture, and has inodeled some very fine busts from life, and the portrait of Mr. Griffin, here given, was taken from a bust modeled by her.

A CRADLE SONG. Far out in the glowing west

The laughing waves of the sea, As the sun sinks to his rest,

For a kiss leap merrily: And the mocking-bird's low strain From the tree-tops come again –

So sleep, my baby, sleep. The flowers in the garden beds,

Like the children, are at prayer, And their vesper odor spreade

As a benediction there; While the night-wind's tender sigh Is my darling's lullaby –

So sleep, my baby, sleep. Now the gentle harvest moon

Climbs in the brightening east, And the stars come one by one,

Afloat 'mid the silvery mist – Angel wards, a watch to keep O'er all little ones asleep

So sleep, my baby, sleep.


'Twas then her witching eyes
With hues of tropic skies

Seemed to glow:
Now wrinkles hide them quite,
'neath eyebrows that are white

As the snow.

LOS ANGELES. O queen of all the summer lands, White-gleaming 'mid the ebon bands


BORN: FRANKLIN, ME., MARCH 17, 1830. At the age of twenty-three Mr. Crabtree commenced teaching school. He is now en

THOMAS ALDIN CRABTREE. gaged in evangelistic work and lecturing on temperance, and resides in Bangor, Maine.

Just then, the sun, low in the west,
His mantle drew, and sunk to rest,
And then like light a rolling tide
Of darkness wrapped the mountain's side!
The wild winds roared, and darkness deep,
Soon wrapped each vale, and craggy steep,
While down the rugged mountain's side
Was heard the rolling rusbing tide!
Amazed he stood, this vaunting chief,
He knew not wliy; but darkest grief
Poured in his soul a torrent deep-
He trembling, lost himself in sleep!
In dreams he wandered sad, alone,
His food was herbs, his rest a stone,
His kindred ard his warrior band
Had wandered to the spirio land!
The green plot where his children played,
The mountains green and flowery glade,-
His bark that floated in the bay, -
And all things else had passed away.
In dreams he saw a waving hand,
And kindred in tbe spirit land
Were calling, calling, come away,-
Come to this land of brightest day!"
.. I come," he cried, behold your chief,
Long have I wandered here in grief."-
He leaped away in slumbers deep
And headlong plunged the mountain steep!
The sun rose smiling from the sea,
The sea-bird sung with wonted glee,
The red deer leaped upon the luill,
But Chief Conaught in death was still!

My old, old home - I love thee still
Each rock, each nook, each bounding rill,
The wide old field, and flowery lea,
Bring back my youthful days to me.
Though other hands, thy bounties reap,
And other eyes their vigils keep,-
A sigh, I wipe the falling tears,
Remembrance of receding years.
The little laughing, sparkling brook,-
Where oft I've dropped my line and hook,
Is laughing still — no older grown,
Though many, many years have flown!
The old oak tree I used to climb,
Is standing yet; though scathed by time,
The road, that leads down to the mead,
Is overgrown with grass and weed.
My mother's voice no more I hear
In tuneful songs, both loud and clear,
And kneeling at the old arm-chair,
No more I hear her evening prayer.
But sometimes, in a fancy dream,
Bright vistas ope to the unseen,-
Angelic songs float on the air,
And mother's voice is mingled there.

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The chief stood on the mountain's height,
As shadows long betoken night;
His red right hand was raised high,
As if he beckon to the sky.
His robe be wrapped around his breast,
His dark eye scanned the glowing west,
Then in a voice of thunder bold,
The glory of his nation told!

I'm Chief Conaught; there's none so great,
My trusty braves my mandate wait,
And mountains high and rolling sea,
Shall ever own my sovereignty!
.. The sable's coat my robe shall be,
And shining pearls from out the sea
Shall gem the plume upon my head,
And sparkle on my downy bed!

My trusty arrow, and my bow,
Shall send destruction to the foe, -
With thongs I'll bind his puny hands,
And scar his flesh with burning brands.

His writhing form I'll laugh to see,
His dying song shall music be, -
His ashes with my red right hand,
I'll scatter on the ocean's sand."

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BORN: NEOSHO, Wis., APRIL 9, 1856. JULIA and her youngest sister, Medora Clarke published a volume of poems called Driftwood; these ladies are well known in western literary circles as the Sister Poets of Wisconsin. At the age of twenty-iwo Miss Julia was married to Lieut. Geo. N. Chase of

DESPOILED Down in the dust and the grime and the heat, Cruelly flung there to die in the street, Lies a wood-violet tender and sweet. Who in his selfishness bore thee away, Frightened and silent one ominous day, Only to leave thee droop and decay? No one will cherish thee now, broken flow'r, Recklessly torn from thine æstival bow'r Only to pleasure some eye for an hour. Up at her window a maiden I see Looking regretfully down upon thee, Feeling thy fate and her own to agree. Innocent blossom and innocent maid, Torn from the woodland, the fragrance and

shade, Thrust in the filth of the city to fade.


NIL ANXIETAS. I've lived a life of summer hours Amid the butterflies and flowers; Alike the sunshine and the rain Seem tuned to pleasure's sweet refrain, My heart is always light and free, The days so glad and bright to me. Why should I brood o'er future ill The while for me the gods distill The sweets of life, in flowing draught, As pure as mortal ever quaffed? No, let my fate be what it may, I'll drink the nectar of to-day, No echo of a minor key Shall haunt me with a melody To hush the music of my soul; The seasons, in their onward roll, Sball grant the only boon I ask, Within the rays of love to bask, A life sincere to live and die Without one bitter tear or sigh.

MRS. JULIA CLARKE CHASE. the U. S. A., who for the last four years has been aide de camp on Gen. Howard's staff. Mrs. Chase has lived in Milwaukee, Chicago, New York City and San Francisco, and has constantly contributed to the press of those cities. She has bad but one child, Thorington Clarke, born in 1879, who won the West Point class cup of '87, and who promises to be a fine violinist. Mrs. Julia Clarke Chase has written about one thousand poems, besides a great deal of prose, stories and sketches for children. Several of her longer poems have won the bighest praise from J. G. Holland, P. D. Aldrich and literary critics, and have received extensive publication in the press. She numbers among her ancestors Samuel Huntington, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and Theodore Grace Greenwood, Richard Henry Stoddard, James G. Clarke, and other literary stars of the present day. Mrs. Clarke's residence in future will be Los Angeles, Cal.

LITTLE JACK. A winter day hung o'er the earth And filled our childish hearts with mirth,

For on the newly fallen snow,

The sunbeams lay like gems aglow. Along the lake shore by the mill, We children coasted on the hill,

Aud with our voices full of glee,

We woke the echoes glad and free. My heart was full of selfish pride, As down the long bill's sunny side,

With merry shout I gayly sped,

Upon my brightly painted sled.
And toiling up the hill once more,
I heard a plaintive voice implore:

Oh, Harry! let me have a ride?”
I rudely pushed the boy aside.

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