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HARRIS COLMAN RIGGS.
BORN IN CANADA, SEPT. 2, 1848. FOR the last decade the poems of Mr. Riggs
Oh! how few on life's ocean wide,
HARRIS COLMAN RIGGS. bave appeared in the local press. He resides on his farm in Wetmore, Kansas.
THE GOLDEN WEDDING. We're home once again, Father, 'Neath the paternal roof, To receive your choicest blessing Not one doth stand aloof; All home, without exception, There's not a missing linkThough some of us have halted At eternity's very brink. We come pot with childish rabble As in days of yore-when. With song, and shout, and laughter And toys strewn o'er the floor, We turned to give attention To tales of ancient lore, Or lisped our prayer at e'en And kissed good night o'er and o'er. We come to greet you, Father, Mother, For its fifty years to-day Since you launched your barque together To breast life's stormy way; Fierce tempests surged about you Threatening to overwhelm - yet O'er the foaming tide you softly glide, Guided by faith, and a steady helm.
THE POET'S VISION.
The vision stirred my plastic mold;
That like cattle, they are bought and sold, -
MRS. SALLIE B. HARRIS.
BORN: TODD CO., KY., 1840. The poems of this lady have appeared for the past quarter of a century in the papers of her native state. She has been an invalid for a
They came with greeting to the morning air,
Not to tell why summer roses fade,
That on the blushing rose cheeks lay,
And woo the sunshine to their feet.
light, To wave o'er the graves of loved ones gone, And wreathe fresh garlands for their tombs.
The soft breathing zephyrs I now can hear;
array Her beauteous tribute of blessings each day.
'Tis morn, all nature seems lovely and fair;
The leaves sip sweet nectar from the air, The rose, kissed by the sunbeams at play, Mingles its fragrance with fresh blooming
bay. How lovely at eventide! doth nature seem,
The trees all decked in foliage so green Reaching out their shadowy arms for light,
And to catch the soft-falling dews of night.
FOR THE ECHO.
Vanished the gilded dreams of youth may be,
And buried my many fond hopes, untold. number of years, and whenever she wishes to
The pleasures of other days I ne'er may see: admire the works of nature she is obliged to
But my heart shall never grow old. be moved in a rolling chair. Mrs. Harris is now a resident of Greenville, Kentucky.
Tho the summer of life's now upon me,
And the bliss of youth I'll feel no more: COMMUNION WITH THE ROSES.
Tho the shade of life's winter is near me, I sat 'neath a loved vine-clad bower,
My heart shall never, never, grow old. Inhaling the soft and balmy breath of May, Tho the wings of time may onward sweep, Listening for a voice from the opening flowers And bend this form and its strength with To tell of pain of sorrow and decay,
hold, Of autumn winds, and wintry snows,
And leave a heart all torn, to bleed in grief: That scatters the roses far, far, away.
Yet my heart shall never grow old. But alas! not a whispering voice e'er came, The snow of age may fall upon me now,
To tell of blighted breath, or faded leaves, And silver my hair with its icy hold; Of summer's fleeting hours, that went away, And lines of sorrow enstamp my brow,
Of November's winds that shook the leaves, But my heart shall never grow old. And bore them from their parent stem,
Friends may be scattered, and I left alone To wither, to molder, and cease to bloom. I To drink from the chalice that's full of woe; No, in their whispering the roses ne'er spake, With a heart all chilled from fate's stern Of bitter despair, of fading or dying;
frown, Their murmurings were of beauty and hope, I But it shall never, never, grow old.
Of cheerful greeting, and not of sighing; Tho' I'm tossed on misfortune's billowy bark, They came, their beauty and fragrance to And am called through deep waters of woe; bring,
Or ruthlessly forced from loved ones to part, To linger for a short season, then leave. 1 Yet my heart shall never, never, grow old.
FRANK E. VAUGHN. BORN: KANKAKEE, ILL., FEB. 14, 1839. By profession Mr. Vaughn is a printer, now employed in Leadville, Colorado. His poems have appeared in the Chicago Times, New York Clipper, and other well known newspapers. He generally writes on current topics.
DAVID SHAW. Honor to him, whoever he be, Whatever his calling, country or creed, Who risks his life at duty's demand, Or dies in pursuit of a noble deed. David Shaw was an engineer, With an honest heart and an open hand; He pulled the Leadville day express On the Baby Road," the Rio Grande; Salida to Pueblo was his run, Through the choicest work from Nature's
forge. Where the rushing Arkansas river rends The granite - forming the Royal Gorge. He was much like other engineers; A plain man with a common name; He loved his family truly and well And next in his heart his engine came. His wife, his home, his children twain, Who prattled and played around his knee, Were all the world to David Shaw, And he was happy as man could be. September the second, eighty-seven, From Salida Dave pulled out his train, Freighted with men, and children and wo
men; He never traveled that road again -He whistled and sang as they sped along, His heart was merry and free from care; The mile-posts melted away behind And his bronzed face cut through the pleas
ant air Through the Grand Canon, along the river, The prison city was reached and passed, With the right of line and the road dead level The time he was making was very fast. He opened the throttle a little wider, He smiled as he watched the wheels go round;
[ered, The engine trembled, her steam heart quivThough they traveled swift, he was home
ward bound. A sudden curve, Oh God! what's that?" For there in the narrow, winding way, Barring the path of the iron steed, A mighty mass of granite lay. Loosed by the flood of summer rain, From its barren bed in the lowering hill, It had fallen athwart the narrow gauge, A huge death barrier, sullen and still. Too late to stop at the speed they were run
Dave clenched his teeth with bated breath --
said, - Save yourself, partner, I'll stay by the
train!" He had counted the cost in an instant's time; His life or a hundred?-'twas desperate
stakes He remembered the women and babies be
hind, And reversed his engine and whistled down
brakes!” Did he think of wife, of children and home? Was his stout heart touched by the hand of
fear? Whatever his thoughts, he stayed at his post, His duty was there as an engineer. Only a second he had to wait -A thunderous crash - an awful shock, As with a bound like a living thing, The train plunged into the mass of rock. Crushed, bleeding and dying - David Shaw Lay 'neath the wreck by the side of the
stream; His hand on throttle and lever -- his shroud A cloud of scalding, sickening steam! He gave his life that others might live; 'Twas the deed of a martyr from heroes
THE KNIGHTS OF LABOR. True friends of right, Hail men of might! Exponents of the coming light. Kings of two hands, No prouder bands In days of old Gave strife for gold. Honor thy toil, Tyranny foil, Sons of the soil. On Freedom's breast Find life and rest. Loyal and true As brothers be: Banded together each friend and neigh
borOn Honor's roll the world shall see, Right, justice, might ---The Knights of
To those who go forward to conquer-
NOTHING TO YOU.
Sadly -- not scornfully ---
No one should weep for her,
Now there is sleep for her
Talk if you will of her,
But speak not ill of her-
Remember her charity,
Forget all disparity;
In dark obscurity,
She to the dregs has quaffed
All of life's bitter draught --Who knows what crown her kindness has won?
Though she has been defiled
The tears of a little child May wash from the record much of her sin;
While others weep and wait
Outside of Heaven's gate,
When at the judgment throne
The Master claims His own, Dividing the bad from the good and the true.
There, pure and spotless,
Her rank shall be not less
Then do not sneer at her
Or scornfully jeer at her -
Will there be scoffing or weeping,
When, like her, you are sleeping Under the evergreens, daisies and dew.
LON HARTIGAN. BORN: SUSSEX CO.,VT., APRIL 11, 1863. GRADUATING at the age of fifteen, Lon then learned the printers' trade. Later he was employed on the Chicago Times, and then on the Cincinnati Enquirer as correspondent. Mr. Hartigan enlisted in the U. S. army in 1883, and served for five years. In 1888 he started in New Mexico the Gallop Gleaner, of which he is still editor and part proprietor. His poems have appeared in many of the leading publications.
MRS. JANE C. CLEMENT.
BORN: Rush, N. Y., JULY 28, 1840. This lady has written poems more or less for the press during the last quarter of a century, wbich have appeared from time to time in the local press. She now follows the occupation of nurse in Fox Lake, Wisconsin.
A LYRIC TO HER PHOTOGRAPH. Bonnie and fair, yet cruel, Lizette, Sweet memory's casket holds you yet; The heart's wild beats when your dainty face, Is viewed again, with each loving trace, Proclaim to my soul beyond a doubt That life is naught since you stepped out. That golden hair, a glittering sheen, And those lovely eyes - still bright, I ween; That cherry mouth, those teeth of pearl; That smile that set my brain a-whirl, Are still remembered. How my fond love
grew! Whenever your charming face I view. Still you were heartless, tho' fair, Lizette, You were naught but a pretty, vain coquette; And I was a mad, impetuous youth, Whose blood ran hot; yet a fool, forsooth! For I fancied that all your love was mine, When we pledged each heart in sparkling
wine. I was careless, happy and gay, Lizette, The Past and the Future I could forget, And only the Present, in rosiest hue Was lived while I wandered through life with
you. Ah, the gilded hours, how swift their flight, When one's heart is bound by Cupid tight! The tropic's charms were enhanced, Lizette, By those glorious orbs that charm me yet; Tho' you are not mine as in days of old, Your image my heart must ever hold. May we meet again, 'mid the asphodels, In that land where Discord never dwells.
HEART SEARCHINGS. What am I doing for Jesus? What am I doing to-day? Have I my lamp trimmed and burning? Or have I grown faint by the way? Are my feet swift to run at his bidding? Am I prepared to receive The promise He made to His children? Do I now truly believe? A crown and a kingdom are promised When this life of labor is done,
BORN: COFFEY CO., Kan., MARCH 3, 1859. REV. J. W. D. ANDERSON is a minister of the Methodist Episcopal church, and is now enraged in his professional calling at Elk City, Kansas. His writings have appeared in the
And this is saddest: If the Priests say true,
BY THE RIVER. We walked on the banks of beautiful river,
And slowly and idly we loitered along; Its musical murmurs made melody ever,
Harmoniously blending in low,rippling song. We whispered of love as we walked by the
river, Of love that found joy just in loving, alone, And our hearts, as we spoke, throbbed with
tremulous quiver, In unison throbbed with each gladdening
tone. We sat on the banks and tossed flowers in the
river, And said, as we watched them float lightly
away: “So our lives will flow on, full of praise to
the Giver, And crowned with bright flowers as we crown
REV. JAMES W. D. ANDERSON. leading period icals of America. Mr. Anderson is a lover of poetry, and has delivered extensively a popular lecture on Kansas Poets and Poetry. He also has in preparation a religious work which will be published in 1890.
MORTUA. They told me yesterday that she was dead, And, at the word, the scalding, blinding tears Gushed from their fount. Stricken I bowed
my head While Memory brought again the by-gone
years. When, at a distance, I had walked and loved, But never dared to make my loving known, So coldly looked she on me. Unreproved Because unnoticed, worshiped I alone. Gods, how I loved! As Eastern Devotee Finds in Nirvana all his soul's desire, So found I in her. Life she was to me, And beavenly manna and celestial choir. Soul, body, mind and spirit owned the thrall, Found satisfaction where her presenee shed Its radiant glory. Yet, throughout it all, I knew she loved me not; and she is dead.
MY IDEAL. " A being bright from Paradise,
So seems she to my vision, Whose presence gladdens earth-dimmed
Yet often lowly bending,
Since passing years are lending Charms ever new. Bright eyes that hold
A score of nymphs contending. A mind that holds by conqueror's right
The wisdom of the ages,