^r ^p^Q^^l- 
 
 INDIANA WRITERS 
 
 OF 
 
 POEMS AND PROSE. 
 
 THE WESTERN PRESS ASSOCIATION, PUBLISHERS. 
 CHICAGO, 1902. 
 

 Copyright, 1902, by The Western Press Association. 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 It is with pride the publishers present this volume 
 to the literary world. It has been compiled from 
 selections graciously tendered by the best writers of 
 verse and prose native-born of the Hoosier State. 
 The likeness of each contributor graces the page 
 opposite the manuscript. It is the most interesting, 
 complete and worthy work of the kind ever pub 
 lished and can never be equalled by any other sin 
 gle State or country in the entire world. 
 
 Edward Joseph Hamilton, 
 
 Compiler. 
 
 THE WESTERN PRESS ASSOCIATION, 
 CHICAGO. 
 
Their people are righteously proud of them, and they 
 of their people- 
 
DEDICATORY. 
 
 Sons and Daughters of our Statehood, 
 
 Gathered in a fair bouquet ; 
 Dropping sweet thoughts from your pen-points 
 
 Like the bursting buds of May. 
 
 May the fragrance of these heart-thoughts 
 Round your names its sweetness bind, 
 
 Until each a beauteous setting 
 In the hearts of men shall find. 
 
 Or like gems of richest lustre, 
 In our statehood s royal crown ; 
 
 May each name in golden letters, 
 Be through ages handed down. 
 
 Laura Galbraith Burke. 
 Anderson. 
 
MY MOTHER S LOVE. 
 
 The turbulent tide of the mutable years 
 
 May bring to me pleasure, may bung to me tears ; 
 
 May give to me donor, may bring to me shame , 
 
 May lead me to iniamy, lilt me to lame. 
 
 it matters but little tnis truth comes to me, 
 
 That whatever i am, or wherever i be, 
 
 Though erowds may applaud me, though mobs 
 
 may deride, 
 
 One love still is constant, whatever betide. 
 That constancy nothing of earth may disprove ; 
 It beams like a star in the heavens above ; 
 Tis my mother s unchanging, unchangeable love. 
 
 I ve seen love s refulgence beam forth on the face 
 With a glory and beauty no limner could trace. 
 I ve seen its bright halo encircle the head 
 And its aureole flame in the glory it shed ; 
 And all this has faded as fadeth the light 
 Of the day at the silent approaches of night ; 
 For builded on passion, and selfish in trust, 
 The morning found promise, the evening founit 
 dust. 
 
 My mother s love beams like a tremulous star. 
 Its radiance guides me by pathways afar. 
 How errant I wander, how erring I be, 
 It beams as unchanging as ever on me. 
 A rainbow of promise it makes of her tears 
 Which arches the void of my prodigal years. 
 There is hope and compassion and peace in its sky ; 
 There is gold at its foot which no money can buy ; 
 And, spanning the course which the angels have 
 
 trod, 
 It borrows its hues from the glory of God. 
 
 A love so unselfish, so pure through the years, 
 I never shall meet down tnis valley of tears. 
 I may seek the w r orld over, but seek it in vain, 
 For a love like the love of my mother again. 
 It lives though the bounds of the world may 
 
 remove ; 
 
 It beams like a star in the heavens above 
 My mother s unchanging, unchangeable love. 
 
 Cadmus Crabill. 
 South "Rend. 
 
BEULAH 
 
 When the autumn winds are roaring, 
 And the autumn rains are pouring 
 Unceasingly against the pane, 
 Beating there a sad refrain ; 
 When the fire is burning dimly, 
 And the shadows waver grimly 
 Along the chamber wall; 
 Then on my heart dark shadows fall. 
 
 All my joy to sorrow turning, 
 All my life within me burning, 
 While my throbbing heart and brain 
 Throb unto the sad refrain 
 Of the shower against the pane, 
 For my darling, sainted Beulah 
 W r hom I lov d, and lov d me truly 
 Hath cross d the Stygian river, 
 And is gone from me forever. 
 
 Ere the last fond word was spoken, 
 The thread of life was broken, 
 And in the misty haunted twilight, 
 Between the sunlight and the starlight, 
 Her spirit took its flight, 
 To the regions which are light, 
 To be seen no more by mortals. 
 Yet she stands within the portals 
 Of that far off Silent Land, 
 Beckoning with her slender hand. 
 
 Alfred Bryant Miller. 
 South Bend. 
 
FROM "ENOCH WILLOUGHBY." 
 
 (Copyright 1900 by Charles Scribner s Sons.) 
 
 Out of his recollection of this childhood, however, nothing was 
 stronger than his love for that strange and mysterious father 
 What was it about him that so fascinated the boy and gave him that 
 deep love and profound respect which for years hid his faults and 
 made him his ideal man? 
 
 He could, years afterward, hear the old horses drive up before 
 the jouse in Hesper, where he boarded and went to school in 
 winter; he could hear his father s voice as he called to them and 
 stopped them; he could see himself rushing out to meet his 
 father; he could recall a little shame as he noticed something 
 about V.ie horse or sleigh or his father s dress that was more 
 rustic perhaps than even that rustic village of Hesper, and then 
 the rush of shame at such a thought; did not his father come for 
 him every Friday night and take him back every Monday morn 
 ing, and was there not an account always open at William Price s 
 store where lie could get during the week anything he wanted? No 
 boy ever had a better father. 
 
 Then he remembered how, one evening, in that good Quaker 
 family where he was boarding Elijah Tabor s it was I think 
 he heard them talking about spiritualism. They had forgotten 
 that he was around; nice, good boy, they thought; always reading 
 or playing on an old melodeon; never any trouble. 
 
 Elijah remarked, "It is strange that people can be led aside 
 by so singular a superstition; I doubt if any really are deceived 
 by it; it is easier to believe that they are all frauds and deceiving 
 than that any human being, man or woman, could be so led astray." 
 
 If they had noticed they might have seen the little fellow over 
 in the corner look off his book. He was evidently paying atten 
 tion. 
 
 Elijah went on: "It is only these long haired people, wild-eyed, 
 and unbalanced in mind, that take up such a belief; no respectable 
 people would have anything to do with it." 
 
 But this was too much for the boy; his chivalry was aroused: 
 the love of father and mother was boiling in his heart; the Hannah 
 O Mara nature, of ready words and quick emotion, was astir within 
 him. 
 
 He sprang to his feet. 
 
 "It s a lie, it s a lie!" he cried, and burst out sobbing. 
 
 Then he threw down his book, got his hat and coat, and was 
 putting them on when good Sarah Tabor, who had been like a 
 mother or a kind aunt to her little boarder, went to him and said 
 in her mildest and gentlest voice: "James, thee mustn t take things 
 so to heart; nobody meant thy father or mother; nobody knew of 
 them." 
 
 The boy was sobbing and hysterical. 
 
 "Elijah will tell thee himself he did not mean thy father," she 
 continued soothingly. Then seeing he was about to go out, she 
 asked: "Where is thee going, James?" 
 
 "I m going home," the boy replied; "I won t stay here." 
 
 "But thee cannot go home this cold night all that distance," 
 the good woman said; "1 cannot allow thee to; thee is placed in 
 m charge and might get lost and perish in the snow." So with 
 hex mild voice and her calm reasoning she pacified him; took his 
 coat from him, and got him to go off to his room. 
 
 They they talked about the incident, those dear good Friends; 
 they said how careful one must be of what enters into the ear of 
 childhood; they spoke of how easily the little emotions are stirred, 
 and how hard it is to calm them; and of how filial love is and per 
 naps should be stronger than all belief. 
 
 James Alexander Wickersham. 
 Terre Haute. 
 
PROGRESS. 
 
 I have described to you the wondrous progress of the 
 countries bordering on the Pacific. We owe it to our 
 country, and to our flag, that with these benefactions 
 of trade and commerce spiritual, mental and moral 
 improvement should go. 
 
 By rapid and effective progress the ground, which 
 for many a year lay fallow, has been prepared for the 
 sowing of the seed, and the Christian societies in our 
 midst are to do this work. 
 
 All science, all art, all diplomacy, have prepared for 
 them the arena of a conquest which will be greater 
 than that of arms, or of commerce. 
 
 The telegraph which belts the world, the wireless 
 pulsations which beat the air, the cable which under 
 lies every sea, the railroads which circumvent the 
 earth, the printing presses which multiply their issues 
 day by day, and hour by hour, the throbbing steam 
 ships whose keels vex every ocean, the stately banks, 
 the schools and colleges, the warehouses, the manufac 
 tories are all only the precursors of the final result 
 the conversion of the world to Christianity ! 
 
 Charles Denby. 
 Evansville. 
 
DE WITCHIN 1IOUAHS. 
 
 When de dusky gawd ob da kness fol s his mantle o er 
 
 de Ian/ 
 An de mystic voices whispah froo de silence deep an 
 
 gran , 
 Dar am choristers nocturnal chantin requiem to de 
 
 day, 
 An de birds ob ebil-omen hovah low alon de way. 
 
 LiT katydids am sputin mongst de fol age ovahhead. 
 An de rivah am a-moanin kin ob skeery-like an sad ; 
 De moon, a-sinkin slowly down 1)ehin de sicjhin trees, 
 Sen s a kin ob glow unearthly froo de leafy canopies. 
 
 In de fragran , dew-drenched medders matchless, nod- 
 din 1 blossoms fa r 
 
 \ ent de sweet intoxication ob dar fragrance on de a r : 
 
 Way off yondah on de watah dar s a steamboat puffin 
 pas 
 
 Wif heh lights a-blinkin kin ly an heh paddles beatin 
 fas . 
 
 Frum his den up in de hillside sly ol Reyna cTs slippin 
 
 out, 
 Maybe ovah in de marshes Jack-o -lanthn s bobbin 
 
 bout ; 
 Frum a treetop in de hollah hoots an owl up at de 
 
 moon, 
 Till de heralds ob de mawnin come a-peerin froo de 
 
 gloom. 
 
 In de peaceful, witchin houahs twixt de midnight an 
 
 de dawn, 
 Free frum worldly strife an worry yo s a-restin till 
 
 de mawn, 
 
 Fo dey am de witchin houahs edgin on anothah Ian , 
 When de voices frum de da kness mek a chorus deep 
 
 an gran . 
 
 David Abbott Piatt. 
 Lawrenceburg. 
 
A PSALM OF THE RESURRECTION. 
 
 The springtide speaks of Christ 
 
 And His dear love, 
 
 And tenderly commemorates 
 
 His resurrection hour, 
 
 When with the Law of Life, 
 
 He rent in twain the veil of death, 
 
 And through the rift there opened to the gaze 
 
 Of fainting, faltering man, 
 
 The morning beams of immortality. 
 
 On every hand the bursting buds 
 
 Fortell earth s resurrection hour, 
 
 When all the world shall blossom as the rose, 
 
 Reflect the Law of Love, 
 
 And once again enact the miracle of life. 
 
 E en thus 
 
 The endless springtide in the heart of Christ 
 
 Shall e er unfold itself to man, 
 
 And he shall know himself 
 
 God s deathless, pure and perfect child; 
 
 His joyful heart 
 
 Shall vjbrate with the universe of Love, 
 
 And all the sons of God 
 
 Shall join the morning stars in song. 
 
 William Bradford Dickson. 
 Ft Wayne. 
 
MEMORY S BANQUET. 
 
 i am banqueting to-night 
 
 Not with wassail and with wine, 
 Not with eating and with drinking, 
 
 At a bacchanalian shrine ; 
 Eor in my lonely chamber 
 
 Where the shadows and the light 
 Are quaintly crossed and checkered- 
 There I m banqueting to-night. 
 
 In the hush and in the stillness 
 
 Of the quiet midnight hour, 
 I said to memory, "Bring me 
 
 The best you have in store ;" 
 And the feast was spread before me 
 
 And the present took her flight, 
 While the past and I made merry 
 
 With our banqueting to-night. 
 
 All sorrows were forbidden, 
 
 No grief allowed to share ; 
 Ingratitude and broken faith 
 
 Were not permitted there ; 
 And hate and haters were shut out 
 
 And driven from my sight, 
 For memory had her orders 
 
 For the banqueting to-night. 
 
 All sunshine hope had promised 
 
 And the joys that lasted long 
 All the love that filled my soul 
 
 With happiness and song, 
 Sat at the board and cheered me, 
 
 Making life a great delight, 
 As I drank the cup of memory 
 
 In my banqueting to-night. 
 
 And the comfort and the kindness 
 
 That loving hearts have given, 
 Making life to me the prelude 
 
 Of the higher joys of heaven ; 
 The rich old wine, the vintage 
 
 Of the years that took their flight, 
 But left behind their sweetness 
 
 On which I banquet here to-night. 
 
 -Will Cumback. 
 Greensburg. 
 
GOD S HANDIWORK. 
 
 i. 
 THE NEW-BORN BABE. 
 
 Is this a winter night, he is so warm ! 
 His little body cuddled close to thee ; 
 Struck soft against thy throbbing heart, his knee, 
 Crushed sweet upon thy loving lips, his arm. 
 
 He has been here so short a while, his form 
 Is scarcely molded to thy breast yet see, 
 He seeks thee with his mouth what ecstasy ! 
 Ah, God ! no breath of earth should do him harm ! 
 
 Life of that life which has enthralled thy own, 
 God s blessing born in living flesh and blood, 
 Love s holy gift to yearning motherhood, 
 
 Thus he is doubly thine. He shall atone 
 
 The passions of life s hurried hour, and raise 
 Thy new-found hopes toward Heaven s hallowed 
 days. 
 
 ii. 
 THE EMPTY ROOM. 
 
 The room is empty now which once was thrilled 
 With her quick presence dominating there ; 
 It has grown mute and lone beyond repair, 
 Since sound of her and movement have been stilled. 
 
 A sense of need that daily contact chilled, 
 Reveals itself, and much we miss her where 
 Her weakness was our customary care, 
 With what we do for others life is rilled ! 
 
 Tis when the old are dead we comprehend, 
 Their generation links our own to God, 
 
 And with a half unconscious upward trend, 
 We follow in the broadest path they trod ; 
 
 The room is empty but remembrance stays 
 
 To claim a kindred thought and shape our ways. 
 
 Rosalie Isabel Stewart. 
 Evansville. 
 
THANKSGIVING THOUGHTS. 
 
 Upon the broad untraveled deep that rolled, 
 
 In dark December s bleak and blustering cold, 
 
 Its icy billows on old Plymouth s shore, 
 
 A cheering voice, soft blending with the roar 
 
 Of wind and wave, made soothing harmony : 
 
 And most we honor of that noble band, 
 
 The Pilgrim mothers of our native land. 
 
 Upon the rugged frontier, where by night, 
 
 The hungry barking wolf put sleep to flight, 
 
 And all the day, cruel and pitiless, 
 
 The savage filled the lonely wilderness 
 
 With untold terror, there her daring heart 
 
 Took in the peril and the fear its part : 
 
 She there the struggling woodman stood beside, 
 
 Or nobly o er his mangled body died, 
 
 Who had the strength, all other strength above, 
 
 The wondrous power to suffer and to love; 
 
 And thus her queenly "lieauty masters the most 
 
 strong," 
 And lives in warrior s deeds and poet s song. 
 
 May Warthin Dunn. 
 Indianapolis. 
 
EXTRACT FROM THE OPEN MIND. 
 
 There is a single word, constant loyalty to which would keep one s 
 mind always open. It is The Infinite. The very word "infinite" 
 denies finality. Asserting the impossibility of finality, it commands 
 investigation, promises discovery, suggests progress. Th-e mind in 
 each of us is the mediator between our physical and spiritual natures, 
 as the mind of humanity is the mediator between the physical and 
 the spiritual world. 
 
 "The open mind" is no less the condition of physical than of 
 spiritual progress. Of all students of physical science the most 
 open minded have been astronomers. The reason for this is doubt 
 less found in the fact that they are obliged to move through an open 
 sea of undetermined space to reach the fields of their observations, to 
 touch the objects of their contemplation. Every advance in physical 
 knowledge has been made in obedience to some one s open mind. 
 There are instances on record of discoveries that have been made in 
 spite of intention by men who, having accepted finalities, set them 
 selves to prove that their finalities were final; and who in the process 
 of attempted proof have felt the finality giving way under the pres 
 sure of their own efforts, and have experienced a fall into the un 
 known, which they yet know to be knowable by the same methods as 
 
those by which they had previously known had become knowable. 
 
 No knowledge relating to physical fact could ever &eem more 
 certain to its possessor than that the earth is flat and that the 
 great waters are made to divide the lands and to separate peoples; 
 but the dullest schoolboy today knows that the earth is not iiat and 
 that the great waters connect instead of separate. No physical 
 fact could be more certainly known by the closed mind than that 
 between the grain of sand and the ant that constructs its well 
 ordered city from the sand grains there is a great gulf fixed; and 
 that between the ant, building and guarding its walled-in commun 
 ity, and Napoleon building an empire there is a greater gulf more 
 firmly fixed. But a single word which we have all gotten used to 
 has shown that between the grains of sand and the ant building 
 thereon, between the ant and the man, who by a single footstep may 
 ruin a thronged city of ants, there is no fixed boundary line; but 
 only a continuous thread of connection and relationship. 
 
 A quarter of a century ago most good folks trembled at the 
 utterance of the potent word "evolution," finding in it a threat 
 of revolution against high heaven, and an assertion of infidelity, if 
 not indeed of atheism. The man who discovered the law of evolu 
 tion which relates all things to all other things, and wno gave us 
 this word, by virtue of the open mind saw what he saw. All of the 
 collisions in which humanity has received that series of disturbing 
 jolts apparently indispensable to its progress have been occasioned 
 by the meeting of a closed mind with a new fact, with a hitherto 
 undiscovered law or with a hitherto unnamed force. General as is 
 admiration for an open mind, for the most part, the minds that have 
 avowed themselves to be open, to be conscious that they are unfilled; 
 to be waiting for more to come; have been the objects of jeering 
 comment by the majority. 
 
 Tesla in his isolated tower announcing his conviction that con 
 scious and intelligent interplanetary communication is but a ques 
 tion of time, is only more, but not differently, jeered at from his 
 predecessors, Morse, Field, Galvani and Volta at their respective 
 stages of work with the same element. They each in turn have 
 expressed views no more anathema to his generation than was 
 Columbus s doctrine of the sphericity of the earth to his. The 
 open mind in each case was the indispensable condition of all that 
 its possessor did. It is the indispensable condition of all that shall 
 be done hereafter. 
 
 Party tenets and creeds which are accepted as finalities are the 
 fetters most difficult for the human mind to break. Next to the pride 
 of creed the arrogance of nationality is a lock on the door of the 
 mind. , The arrogance of nationality, in the first instance, is indi 
 vidual selfishness and individual vanity expanded and multiplied; 
 in the second instance, it is the result of tuition in an unwarranta 
 ble patriotism. Probably few human beings have ever been so 
 blinded to their own defects and so wanting in a desire to improve 
 that they really think themselves superior in all regards to their 
 fellows. A smaller number still of individuals would 
 find it possible to rise in any company and de 
 clare their superiority to the others present; boldly saying 
 that their minds are keener, their hearts larger, their intelligence 
 more tutored, their powers better trained, their skill more practiced, 
 their wealth greater, than the corresponding qualities and posses 
 sions of their friends present. Yet what we do not permit to an 
 individual we inculcate as a virtue in a people, and the insufferable 
 arrogance that results from this tuition we christen patriotism and 
 put it at the head of the list of civic virtues. 
 
 The human mind as a whole must be the reflection of God s 
 mind. The wisdom, the goodness, the mercifulness, the love, the 
 knowledge which are God s qualities are found in the mind of 
 humanity as a whole, but each separate nation is but a single facet 
 of that Infinite Mind, reflecting only one, the dominating mental atti 
 tude, and only by being open and accessible to all that is reflected 
 from the other facets, can a national consciousness pass out of its 
 limitations into the possession of the whole; into the consciousness 
 of Humanity. 
 
 May Wright Sewall. 
 Indianapolis. 
 
IN MEMORY OF MOTHER. 
 
 Our mother is an angel now, 
 Her spirt s flown to Heaven, 
 
 The clearest gift of all, I trow, 
 That s e er to mortal given. 
 
 Three score and ten years she d seen, 
 Years fraught with pain and care, 
 
 But she is free from them, I ween, 
 In that bright home o er there. 
 
 We laid her body in the grave, 
 The grave so dark and cold ; 
 
 The soul returned to Him who gave 
 The body turns to mould. 
 
 Her suff rings she did meekly bear, 
 
 Nor murmured at her lot, 
 The thought oft brings the rising tear 
 She can not be forgot. 
 
 Dear mcther, we ll remember thee, 
 Although thy voice is stilled ; 
 
 You ve sa ;i ed across the dark, dark sea 
 Because the Lord so willed. 
 
 And may Jehovah guide our bark 
 
 Across life s stormy sea, 
 And bring us safely thro the dark, 
 
 Dear mother, unto thee. 
 
 David Huffman Tipton. 
 Coal Citv 
 
PLATC. 
 
 Without a guide, above the wandering fires 
 Of wisdom sought by those who could not find, 
 
 He paled the flaming of the world s desires 
 With one serenely clear, effulgent mind. 
 
 And like the moon that rules the restless sea, 
 He drew all tides of learning toward his feet, 
 
 And saw domains of thought that yet should be- 
 Measured the universe and found it meet. 
 
 Minnetta Theodora Taylor. 
 Greencastle. 
 
THE INDIANA CLUB OF CHICAGO. 
 
 The distinguishing characteristic of a Hoosier is his intense 
 admiration for the educational system of his state. Well might he 
 be proud, for in this respect Indiana stands as a model. The 
 history of each educational institution is replete with examples 
 of heroism and self sacrifice on the part of their many faithful 
 friends. The graduates and ex-students of the Indiana colleges, 
 appear today as the heir of all these efforts, and can well hesitate, 
 and ask the question, What can we do to pay the debt of gratitude 
 we owe the past? 
 
 The answer to this vital question came in a manner most unex 
 pected. The president of that conservative institution, known as 
 the bulwark of Catholicism, urged, in a recent address delivered 
 before the Indiana Club, of Chicago, that a more hearty sympathy 
 exist among the educational institutions of the state. Judge Robert 
 S. Taylor, of Fort Wayne, says, "I could hardly believe my ears, 
 when I heard Father Morrissey tell his Protestant contemporaries 
 that the victories of the past had been won too much by individual 
 effort; that greater victories could be accomplished in the future if 
 all the institutions of the state would more frequently cooperate 
 with one another." 
 
 The object is the key note of the Indiana Club of Chicago. Let 
 us go forth to the accomplishment of our duty as brave plumed 
 knights of old. Let honor be our watchword, the sword of truth 
 our protector. Know thy work and do it, and upon the horizon of 
 our state must and will dawn a new era, scattering its rays 
 of blessing upon all mankind and uplifting to greater perfection the 
 educational system of Indiana. 
 
 To accomplish such results requires a permanent organization 
 among the graduates of each Indiana college. Let us drink then to 
 that sentiment which makes these organizations possible. That 
 sentiment, loyalty of the college student to his professor, binds us 
 together with cords of silver and gold. Let us drink to this senti 
 ment, which seems should be a graduate s most precious possession. 
 Doubtless each one bears upon his character the distinguished 
 mark of some great teacher. Doubtless each one cherishes the 
 memory of some distinct professor who never lost an opportunity 
 to impress upon the lives of his students those just principles 
 of success: teachers who, when necessary, were willing to make 
 sacrifices for their pupils; teachers whose patient labors in life 
 too often resemble the flowers of the forest, whose fragrance is 
 lost to heedless passers by. 
 
 "Honor and reverence, and the good repute 
 Which follows faithful service as its fruit, 
 Be unto you, the living we salute." 
 
 God grant that this sentiment, loyalty of the college student to his 
 professor, will ever bind the members of this organization to "who 
 in the earlier days led our bewildered feet through learning s 
 maze." Charles Hugh Leech. 
 
 Crawfordsville. 
 
"I M IN A BOOK AT LAST." 
 
 I m asked for "forty lines of Verse, 
 
 or 
 
 Eight hundred words of Prose." 
 Now which the reader d find the worse, 
 I m sure nobody knows. 
 For all the rhymes I ve ever writ 
 Were voted dull and flat 
 And not a solitary skit 
 Escaped the Office Cat! 
 And so it is that years gone by 
 I dropped the poet biz 
 And swore I ne er again would try 
 To be what Riley is. 
 To Prose I turned my weary pen 
 And wrote it by the yard. 
 I wrote of Politics and Men, 
 Of Principles and Lard; 
 I wrote of Tariffs and of Trusts; 
 Of Frauds and of Reform; 
 I wrote of Bankruptcies and "Busts" 
 Of Panics and of Storm. 
 I wrote about the currency; 
 Of Gold and Silver too; 
 
 And sometimes just a word of the 
 Vile Opposition Crew; 
 
 I wrote about the Pugilists, 
 Of Finance and the Banks; 
 
 And then of Prohibitionists 
 
 And sometimes of the Cranks; 
 
 I wrote of Cleveland and of Blaine, 
 
 Of Roosevelt and Hay 
 
 I wrote of Kansas and of Maine; 
 
 I wrote of William ,T., 
 
 I wrote of Statesmen wise and great, 
 
 Of Politicians small; 
 
 Perhaps I wrote some Billingsgate 
 
 (I can t remember all.) 
 
 But all was written for the day. 
 
 And ere the day was done, 
 
 It found its straight and certain way 
 
 Into oblivion. 
 
 And thus, for more than thirty years 
 
 I ve scribbled hard and fast. 
 
 And now, with Poets and with Seers 
 
 I m in a Book at last! 
 
 Samuel Edwards Morss. 
 Indianapolis. 
 
TO BE AN AMERICAN CITIZEN. 
 
 The school boy of to-day is wiser than the venerable philosophers 
 who studied in the groves of Academus. 
 
 The magic of the laboratory discloses elements and combinations 
 undreamed of by the fathers of chemistry. 
 
 To be an American citizen to-day means more than ever before, 
 it means greater opportunity and enlarged responsibility. Each 
 year finds us camped upon new heights in our onward march. 
 
 We look upon our country grown great and strong. We compare 
 it with others and rejoice at the comparison. 
 
 We take pride in our territory which spans the continent, which 
 lies within the Arctic circle, and in the distant seas. 
 
 We point to our rich fields, our vast forests and to the exhaust- 
 less treasures of the earth: to our splendid cities and to our far- 
 reaching highways of commerce; to our enormous trade statistics, 
 to our invincible fleets. But these, all these, are not onr chief 
 glory. We find our most cherished rational achievement in the 
 virtue and intelligence and in the all-pervading charity of our 
 people. The rich manifestations of our commercial power, our 
 military and naval strength, great and splendid as they are, are not 
 to be counted when compared with the moral and intellectual 
 grandeur of our people. 
 
 There has been some suggestion that the American people are 
 given over to commercialism; that they are possessed of the mater 
 ialistic spirit, and take too little notice of the development of those 
 finer and gentler qualities which are at once the flower and fruit 
 oi our civilization. We find the complete denial of this suggestion 
 in our expanding common school system, in the development of 
 our colleges and universities, in the countless charities and in the 
 increasing number of those who are dedicating themselves to the 
 sacred work of the church. 
 
 The pulpit was never filled by abler nor better men men more 
 thoroughly dedicated to their high and holy calling. 
 
 The lecture room was never the source of more wholesome in 
 fluences than it is to-day. 
 
 There is on every hand, in every city, village and hamlet, a 
 generous rivalry among men and women to promote some charity 
 or some work which shall tend to uplift the vicious, the ignorant, 
 and the unfortunate. 
 
 Those who accumulate wealth stand disgraced and dishonored 
 if they do not use it for the benefit of others. 
 
 Stand fast for the maintenance of civil and religious liberty for 
 the preservation of these two great fundamental doctrines for which 
 our forefathers contended with titanic power. 
 
 Promote civic .righteousness; do not avoid the caucus, fearing it 
 will contaminate, but attend it to the end that it may not con 
 taminate the state. In the ballot box our liberties are compounded. 
 See to it that it gives true expression of the public will. Preserve 
 it from pollution; protect it and defend it as you would preserve 
 the Ark of the Covenant, for it has been purchased by the priceless 
 blood of countless heroes upon the battlefields of the republic. 
 
 Charles Warren Fairbanks. 
 Indianapolis. 
 
LIFE ETERNAL. 
 
 While wand ring in this border land, 
 We strive in vain to understand 
 The mystic realm whose rosy glow 
 Lights with its life all here below. 
 
 There s not a crest in all life s ocean, 
 There s not a wave in all this motion, 
 But in its struggle to be free, 
 Each sings eternal life of Thee. 
 
 This border-land is but one shore 
 Of the boundless forever more, 
 And every noble deed or act 
 Multiple of some eternal fact. 
 
 And they who bend the willing ear, 
 The voice of angels clearly hear, 
 Who freely fly across the line 
 Between the human and divine. 
 
 Then health and hope and life unending 
 Are neath the skies now o er us bending, 
 Not distant realm which far off lies, 
 But in our hearts, the heaven we prize. 
 
 Luther Chapin Abbott. 
 Richmond. 
 
REDEMPTION. 
 
 Oh mother Earth, so fair and sweet, 
 Made for the tread of angels feet, 
 
 By man defiled. 
 
 The time has come for thy release 
 Through Jesus Christ the Prince of Peace 
 
 From passions wild. 
 
 The greed of man has kept thee bound, 
 But now we hear a joyful sound, 
 
 Men learn to love. 
 The fatherhood of God we hear, 
 And brotherhood is growing clear 
 
 Like that above. 
 
 God meant that earth should be so bright 
 That every soul should see the light 
 
 And find repose. 
 
 He taught us how to make it so 
 Through Jesus Christ long years ago, 
 
 As scripture shows. 
 
 The gospel makes the way so clear 
 That death and hell will disappear 
 
 When we get right. 
 No curse upon us in that day 
 When we walk in the gospel way, 
 
 With saints in light. 
 
 The love of God and love of man 
 Makes clear to us a perfect plan. 
 
 Let love increase. 
 
 The greatest thing on earth we hear, 
 Seek" love that glory may appear, 
 And sorrow cease. 
 
 Mary Frame Selby. 
 Richmond. 
 
DANCE Or THE DEWROPS. 
 
 "Oho!" said a quaint little drop of dew, 
 
 "I m going to have a dance." 
 So out thro the summer night he flew 
 And gathered the drops from the starry blue 
 
 The jollity to enhance. 
 "Come, hurry along," one bright drop said, 
 
 "I m certain the train is due." 
 So, taking the Moonbeam line, they sped 
 Aclown its silvery track that led 
 
 Where rosy gardens grew. 
 They danced with the daisy that drooped her head 
 
 From the heat of the noonday sun, 
 And kissed the pinks in the flower bed, 
 And pressed the rose till she blushed right red, 
 
 And the hollyhocks, everyone. 
 The pansy looked with a sweet surprise 
 
 When they stroked her velvet dress, 
 And bathed her in purple and golden dyes, 
 And the poppy opened her sleepy eyes 
 
 When she felt their soft caress. 
 They stopped where the little rillet laughed 
 
 Neath the honeysuckle vine, 
 And pilfered sweets, as they gaily quaffed 
 To the very dregs the fragrant draught 
 
 From the breath of the jasamine. 
 When morning peeped thro the eastern skies 
 
 And fanned, with his rose-hued wings, 
 The drowsy earth, a glad surprise 
 Looked out from the depths of his great bright eyes 
 
 For he saw the prettiest things. 
 A-dance o er hill and a-dance o er dell, 
 
 A-dance o er shine and shade 
 The dewdrops footsteps softly fell 
 How*soft, not a soul that lives can tell. 
 
 In opal and pearl arrayed. 
 They danced o er gardens afar and nigh, 
 
 They danced o er forests old ; 
 But when he advanced, these elfins shy 
 Went sailing to the blue, blue sky 
 
 In a sunlit train of gold. 
 
 Esther Nelson Karn. 
 v Ft. Wayne. 
 
OLD MONROE. 
 
 I m a Hoosier from the County of Monroe, 
 And as free as any zephyr winds that blow 
 
 Over hill-top or thro glen, 
 
 Over morass, bog or fen ; 
 I m a Hoosier from the County of Monroe. 
 
 I m a Hoosier from the County of Monroe ; 
 With its hills and vales in summer beauties glow 
 
 With the music of the bird, 
 
 Just as sweet as ever heard 
 By a Hoosier from the County of Monroe. 
 
 I m a Hoosier from the County of Monroe ; 
 
 Tis the fairest spot, I care not where you go ; 
 
 Tis the fairest in the state, 
 
 Tho there s others you relate ; 
 You can never beat the County of Monroe. 
 
 When our country needs a man to make her go, 
 She can find no better one than in Monroe. 
 
 You just place one at the wheel 
 
 And he ll make the country feel 
 That it has been meandering rather slow. 
 
 My native little town is in Monroe, 
 There s no other like it any place you go ; 
 
 It is built among the hills, 
 
 And its street with rapture fills 
 At the coming of a Punch and Judy show. 
 
 There are other towns that nestle in Monroe, 
 But compared with ours they are rather slow ; 
 
 We are plenty good enough, 
 
 Altho diamonds in the rough, 
 But when sun-rays dart athwart us how we glow. 
 
 I m a Hoosier from the County of Monroe ; 
 A county where the greatest blessings flow ; 
 
 I will stick to her like glue, 
 
 It should be the same with you, 
 And we ll all be Hoosier people in Monroe- 
 
 Louis Napoleon Williams. 
 Stinesville. 
 

 Let us have equality before the law, then survival of 
 the fittest. 
 
 ^ 
 
 A HAPPY EVENT IN MY LIFE. 
 
 I attended a country district school in Southern Michigan. I was 
 one of seven tow-headed youngsters in our family, consisting of the 
 brother and six sisters. My parents were much given to "entertain 
 ing the preacher" when he made his quarterly visits to the neighbor 
 hood church. The Sundays when the preacher was our guest 
 were the longest and most dreaded days of my life, for I had to 
 "keep still and behave," when he was there. My parents also "took 
 turns" in entertaining the school teacher, who. "boarded round" and 
 suffered a corresponding reduction of wages. The coming of the 
 teacher was hailed with great pleasure for I was one of the "upper 
 ten" in school. The pleasant things the teacher would say of 
 "Nellie" as I was familiarly known as a pupil, made me an aris 
 tocrat in my own home circle, and made his presence a great joy- 
 to me. 
 
 My elder sister would read the Bible in season and out of season, 
 but she could never "leave off at the head" of the spelling class. 
 I couldn t endure to read a chapter in the Bible, for it was all 
 Greek to me, but I gloried in wearing the medal home as a svmbol 
 of my ability to stand at the head of the spelling class. So the 
 preacher and the teacher were often told that "Jennie was the 
 Bible reader and Nellie the speller" a sort of mental stand-off, as 
 to the goodness and brilliancy of us twain. 
 
 I will confess that this medal, which consisted of a silver half- 
 
dollar with a hole in it, through which a blue ribbon was drawn 
 which served to suspend it from the neck, had more charms for 
 me than all the creeds of the apostles, Sermon on the Mount, the 
 Golden Rule and the Ten Commandments combined. My greatest 
 delight was in wearing this medal home to show that I had left, 
 off at the head of the class. A prize was offered each term to the 
 pupil who had performed this feat the greatest number of times. 
 The whole neighborhood was interested in knowing who would win 
 the spelling prize. It was a greater honor, in those days, than it is 
 to-day for one to go to congress from a country neighborhood. Who 
 wouldn t try for such an honor? The readers- of this sketch who 
 learned to spell under the inspiring method of "going up and down" 
 will fully appreciate the interest taken in winning the prize. I 
 was ten years old; I had a competitor in the person of a freckled 
 faced boy about my own age, Wallace Heath, by name. It was an 
 easy task to get above all others in the class but Wallace "never 
 missed." And as I never missed it came about that one day he 
 would leave off at the head, take his place at the foot the next day, 
 when I would leave off, always leaving him at the head whenever 
 I went to the foot. 
 
 It came to next to the last day of school. Master Heath had 
 "left off at the head" twenty-two times and I had worn the medal 
 home twenty-one times, standing at the foot the last day of school, 
 my competitor succeeding me on that day at the head. Our les 
 son was the three long lines in Sanders spelling book, one line 
 ending in "scissors," the other in "bureau," and the last in "biscuit." 
 To win a place at the head this last day seemed to me to be a 
 hopeless task. The familiar sayings: "When there is a will there 
 is a way," "Never give up while life lasts." "If at first you don t 
 succeed try, try again," surged through my anxious brain. I 
 resolved to try, for maybe my competitor would rniss^ I took my 
 spelling book home with me that night. On the way home I told 
 my classmates that I would get up to the head "see if I did not." 
 A new zeal took possession of them for they determined to keep me 
 at the foot. That last day, my freckled faced competitor would 
 look over towards me with an air of complacency that set my heart 
 all a flutter, as I saw his determined "Ah, Nellie, you can t win this 
 time. There was something mysterious in that word "biscuit." 
 I felt it in my bones that that was the word, if any, that would 
 give me the coveted prize. One word after another was given 
 out by my calm-faced teacher. No one missed. I stood like a 
 stump, at the foot of the class. Finally the last word in the lesson, 
 on the last day of school and my last chance was given to Wallace, 
 standing self-satisfied in his apparent victory, at the head. "Bis 
 cuit," said the teacher. "B-i-s-c-i-u-t," said Wallace. "Next," 
 said the teacher. My heart seemed to jump into my throat. 
 "B-Ks-c-1-t," "B-i- s-ciutt," "Buiscuitt," "Bisskuitt, and so on 
 until it became a badly mixed specimen of orthography as the 
 word ran down the whole line of anxious and excited pupils. Each 
 one turned the nead down the line; with flushed cheeks and 
 flashing eyes they saw the word reach me at the foot. Without 
 waiting to spell the word and then march to the head with tread 
 and dignity of a conquering shero, I ran as I spelled, "B-i-s-c-u-i-t." 
 When the last letter was spoken I stood at the head. I won the 
 twenty-second time. As Wallace and I had equal numbers both 
 were entitled to a prize. It was in the early days of water color 
 paintings when almost every person had a box, 3x5 tnches, containing 
 tiny blocks of vari-colored paints. The teacher was quite proficient 
 (in our childish eyes) with the brush. She had prepared two 
 cards, one a bunch of apple blossoms> and the ether a spray of 
 fuchias. "Seeing I was a girl" I was permitted to take first 
 choice. So I chose the fuchias, which prize I still possess as a 
 sweet reminder of one of the happiest events of my life and a 
 triumph over serious difficulties. The event has marked my whole 
 life. Let a desire possess my soul and let me feel the righteousness 
 of my cause, no discouragements can thwart me, or turn me from my 
 purpose. So do the simple things of life make or mar us. 
 
 Helen Mar Jackson Gougar. 
 LaFayette, Indiana. 
 
AMERICA. 
 
 The name of America will be heard with veneration 
 amid the roar of Pacific s waves, upon the rivers of 
 the north, the billows of the south and the fragrant 
 land of the east where liberty is divided from mon 
 archy^ and be wafted in gentle breezes from every 
 stream and lake. It shall rustle in the harvest and 
 wave in the standing corn, and be heard in the bleating 
 folds and lowering herds upon a thousand hills, it 
 shall be proclaimed by the stars and stripes on every 
 sea of earth, as the American Union, one and indivis 
 ible. Its greatness shall be hailed with gladness. It 
 shall be lisped in the earliest words, and ring in the 
 merriest voices of childhood and swell to heaven upon 
 the songs of maidens. It shall live in the stern re 
 solve of manhood and rise to the mercy seat upon 
 woman s gentle prayer. Holy men shall invoke its 
 perpetuity at the altars of religion, and it shall be 
 whispered in the last accents of the expiring. Thus 
 shall live the American republic long after our bodies 
 become food for the worms, and when it shall be pro 
 claimed that time shall be no more and the cur 
 tains shall fall, still may the destiny of our dear land 
 recognize the conception of the poet of her primitive 
 days 
 
 "Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along, 
 
 And a voice, as of angel s, enchantingly sung: 
 Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise. 
 
 The queen of the world and the child of the 
 skies." 
 
 Harry Burr Darling. 
 La Porte. 
 
PICTURESQUE ERIN. 
 
 Mong ruins of castles, of abbeys and towers, 
 Twixt wooded islands and green leafly bowers, 
 Past remnants of convents and churches of fame, 
 Are the scenes in a land that I scarcely need name. 
 For I trust that my readers have loved it so well, 
 That on picturesque Erin I happily may dwell. 
 Now just a few moments in pleasure to while, 
 And in spirit traverse the fair Emerald Isle. 
 O ! seek where you will mong the treasures of art, 
 And none so like nature appeals to the heart. 
 For on hillside and valley, on land and on sea. 
 Glows a lesson for you, and a lesson for me. 
 All lands have their beauty and souvenirs rare, 
 Yet tis but a foretaste and cannot compare, 
 With the halo of beauty that crowns Erin s shore. 
 Thou "Sweet Innisfallen" of darling Tom Moore, 
 With thy ivy-clad ruins and moss-laden walls, 
 Thy picturesque abbeys and rook-haunted halls 
 O land full of charms, teach our world-weary hearts, 
 The contentment and hope that thy beauty imparts, 
 Tho tumbled thy palaces, doomed to decay, 
 Yet thy story of glory shall ne er fade away. 
 Antiquity s spirit hath shadowed thee o er, 
 But thy youth reincarnate shall fade nevermore. 
 Then teach us the lesson, O land of our sires, 
 To live on with a courage that never shall fail. 
 Our hearts with thy ever-new hope to inspire ; 
 Be this thy blest mission, sweet land of the Gael. 
 
 Helen May Trwin. 
 Ft. Wavne. 
 
WHEN PAPA HOLDS MY HAND. 
 
 I ain t afwaid o horses n r stweet-cars, n r anyfing; 
 
 N r aut-tomoblies, n r th cabs; an onct, awa-a-ay last spwing, 
 
 A grea big hook an ladder fing went slapty-bangin by 
 
 An I was putnear in th way an didn t even cry! 
 
 Cause when I m down town I go wound wif Papa, un erstand, 
 
 An I ain t fwaid o nuffin when Papa holds my hand! 
 
 Cause stweet-cars wouldn t hurt him! An th horses wouldn t dare! 
 
 An if a aut-tomobile run agin him he won t care! 
 
 He ll al ays stand between me and th fings wif danger in 
 
 I know so, cause he al ways has, ist ev rywhere we been. 
 
 An nen at night I laugh myself clean into Dweamyland 
 
 An never ca re how dark it is, when Papa holds my hand. 
 
 S a funny fing one night when I put-tended I was sleep, 
 
 An Papa s face was on my hand, I felt a somepin cweep 
 
 Acrost my fingers; an it felt ezactly like a tear, 
 
 But could nt been, cause wasn t any cryin t I could hear; 
 
 An when I ast him bout it, he ist laughed t beat th band 
 
 But I kep wonderin what it was at cweeped out on my hand! 
 
 Sometimes my Papa holds on like I maybe helped him, too; 
 
 An makes me feel ost awful good puttendin 1 ke I do; 
 
 An Papa says w y Papa says w y somepin like at we 
 
 An* God ist keep a-holdin hands th same es him an me. 
 
 He says some uvver fings at I ist partly un erstand 
 
 But I know this: I m not afwaid when Papa holds my hand. 
 
 Strickland Wordsworth Gillilan. 
 (Author of "Off A gin, Finnegan.") 
 Indianapolis. 
 
IL BEL CANTO. 
 (Permission of the New York Independent.) 
 
 The minstrel in his motley cloak, 
 
 With the plume and floating hair, 
 
 Could turn the torches tawny smoke to incense in the air. 
 
 The dame upon the dais dreamed, 
 
 The good knight pondered near, 
 
 The man-at-arms a statue seemed that leaned upon its spear; 
 
 And all the humble vassal throng 
 
 Were mute in groups apart, 
 
 The while he sang a fitting song for every beating heart. 
 
 He sang of meadows, trippingly, 
 That dimpled neath the breeze; 
 
 Of kine that stood where ripplingly the waters lapped their knees; 
 Of vines with clusters amethyst, 
 Of orchards sagging low, 
 
 Of red moons peering through the mist when heaped barns over 
 flow; 
 
 Of feast-days, frequent, glad and long, 
 Of liege-lords kind and mild, 
 And as the bard gave o er his song the vassals stirred and smiled. 
 
 He sang again of battlefield 
 
 And puissant deeds of war; 
 
 Of splintered pike and riven shield and cloven helmet bar; 
 
 Of glory hand in hand with death, 
 
 Of valor deified; 
 
 Of men who cheered with latest breath the cause for which they 
 
 died; 
 
 Of leaguered towns defenders held 
 Tho plague and famine came, 
 And as he ceased there hoarsely swelled the warriors deep acclaim. 
 
 He sang again and now his song 
 
 Moved all the listening band; 
 
 Each peasant found among the throng a peasant maiden s hand; 
 
 The man-at-arms resolved to seek 
 
 The heart he longed to know; 
 
 And something brushed the lady s cheek when once a torch burned 
 
 low. 
 
 The arches echo held it long 
 The raptured hush above 
 The lowly, lofty, world-wide song the earth-old song of love! 
 
 Bessie Miller. 
 Indianapolis. 
 
A WORD ABOUT WORDS. 
 
 If there had been no picturesque Indiana with furrowed field, 
 open wood and slanting hillsides; if the writer could not, while 
 inhaling the odor of the new-plowed ground and steeping her soul 
 In mystic beauties, have had an eye ana an ear and a heart for the 
 human being who directed the furrow; if there was no folk-lore, 
 nor history, nor out-of-door source of exaltation, might not our 
 writers find inspiration enough within the lids of an unabridged 
 dictionary? Might it not still have been "literary Indiana?" 
 
 The spoken or written sign of an idea words. Beautiful, reson 
 ant, meaningful words. Plain, forceful, simple words. Imagine 
 living without speech the song of life and the life of love! "In 
 the beginning was the word." The first and the last. Without 
 which there would be no love, no hate, no business, no books: 
 neither war, nor peace. Words that will stalk or scamper, flout 
 or flourish, languish or leap, according to the marshalling ability 
 of their master; that can color with every hue and subdue with 
 manifold shadows, earth s every language. A rich vocabulary 
 and pleasing "style" in the tongue learned in babyhood is very 
 inviting and altogether delicious. There are word-feasts on our 
 bookshelves that can never wither nor decay, nor become vapid 
 with long standing. 
 
 What shall be said of slang, and of dialect? One of the great 
 masters of the word-craft said of the origin of slang: "It is the 
 blear-eyed language of misery." Perhaps, then, dialect might 
 aptly be called the squint-eyed language of the humble, and it 
 must not be forgotten that a squinting eye is often an indication of 
 a shrewd mind. When not overdone, dialect is almost as expres 
 sive and impressive as the face of the real character would be. 
 In the case of Mr. Peggotty, who made such a long, patient and 
 loving search for little Em ly, the dialect from his lips portrays 
 him almost as well as his photograph would. When he tells 
 about the night "it snew so ard," we can see and hear and feel 
 the chilliness of the snow-storm, and can realize his troubled efforts 
 to press his honest old body and ruddy-tanned face bravely through 
 it. 
 
 Ah, words are wondrous things, said and unsaid! Sweet and 
 soulful and sorrowful; stern and harsh and bitter. Cruel as death. 
 Sweeter tha.n life. 
 
 A lifetime spent in learning how to put them together will make 
 an author. 
 
 Rua Cassandra Miller, 
 Darlington. 
 
LITTLE ONES. 
 
 Children s voices how we love them, 
 Sweetest music to our ears, 
 Down through ages softly blending, 
 With the ripe and golden years. 
 
 Gladsome notes their hearts are thrilling, 
 Ringing on through time and space, 
 Each fond glance His praises telling, 
 Beams forth with His loving grace. 
 
 Little children, God s own treasures, 
 Stored with youthful race and beauty, 
 Tripping lightly through lifes pleasures, 
 Drinking all its sweets and joys. 
 
 Little arms encircles us, 
 Pleading eyes look into ours, 
 Questions oft we can not answer, 
 Come from tho c loving lips of theirs. 
 
 Nannie E. Greene Decker. 
 Anderson. 
 
EXTRACT FROM THE CHARIOT RACE IN BEN HUR. 
 (By kind permission of the author.) 
 
 There had never been anything of the kind more simple; seldom 
 anything so instantaneous. 
 
 At the moment chosen for the dash, Messala was moving in a 
 circle around the goal. To pass him, Ben Hur had to cross the 
 track, and good strategy required the movement to be in a forward 
 direction; that is, on a like circle, limited to the best possible 
 increase. The thousands on the benches understood it all: they 
 saw the signal given the magnificent response; the four close 
 outside Messala s outer wheel, Ben Hur s inner wheel behind the 
 other s car all this they saw. Then they heard a crash loud 
 enough to send a thrill through the Circus, and, quicker than 
 thought, out over the course a spray of shining white and yellow 
 flinders flew. Down on its right side toppled the bed of the 
 Roman s chariot. There was a rebound as of the axle hitting th^ 
 hard earth; another and another; then the car went to pieces; and 
 Messala. entangled in the reins, pitched forward headlong. 
 
 To increase the horror of the sight by making death certain, the 
 Sidonian, who had the wall next behind, could not stop or turn 
 out. Into the wreck full speed he drew; then over the Rornaii. 
 and into the latter s four, all mad with fear. Presently, out of 
 the turmoil, the fighting of horses, the resound of blows, the murky 
 clouds of dust and sand, he crawled, in time to see the Corinthian 
 and Byzantine go on down the course after Ben Hur, who had 
 not been an instant delayed. 
 
 The people arose, and leaped upon the benches, and shouted and 
 screamed. Those who looked that way caught glimpses of Messala, 
 now under the trampling of the fours, now under the abandoned 
 car. He was still, they thought him dead; but far the greater 
 number followed Ben Hur in his career. They had not seen the 
 cunning touch of the reins by which, turning a little to the left, he 
 caught Messala s wheel with the iron-shod point of his axle, and 
 crushed it; but they had seen the transformation of the man, and 
 themselves felt the heat and glow of his spirit, the heroic resolution, 
 the maddening energy of action with which, by look, word, and ges 
 ture, he so suddenly inspired his Arabs. But such running! It 
 was rather the long leaping of lions in harness; but for the lum 
 bering chariot, it seemed the four were flying. When the Byzantine 
 and Corinthian were half-way down the course, Ben Hur turned the 
 first goal. And the race was won! 
 
 Lew Wallace. 
 Crawfordsville. 
 
CHEERFULNESS AND CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 Example and not pretext is the surest index of the 
 virtues of men, for a diamond will glitter in the cap 
 of a peasant as well as in the crown of a king. If a 
 man earnestly strives to ascertain the right and then 
 makes an honest effort to do it, he will provide himself 
 with some very good religion for every-day use. The 
 fact is, a man can well be a Christian without being 
 a crank. 
 
 U A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market." 
 The melancholy man who cannot laugh, is a misfor 
 tune. The sanctified maa who rebukes others for laugh 
 ing is an outrage. The man who laughs is easily under 
 stood. There is no mystery in the purpose of his be 
 ing. He is a living, moving, breathing benediction, 
 blessing all and blessed by all. As the sunshine 
 warms the earth in the springtime and brings forth 
 the flowers, so does laughter warm the heart and bring 
 forth that which is good. The smile and not the tear, 
 brightens the household and chases the spectre of care 
 from the hearthstone. The good-natured man who 
 laughs his way through the world, sails his boat over 
 a summer sea, while the melancholy man is cast among 
 the breakers without rudder or compass. Tis true 
 we cannot always laugh for sorrow has her season 
 and when she enters the door and takes her seat at 
 the fireside, mirth folds her hands and is silent. Happy 
 is the man who looks upon the bright side of the pic 
 ture of life and turns from the shadows and walks in 
 the sunshine. The man who refuses to laugh when 
 he can, strews thorns in his pathway as he plucks 
 the roses and sows the thistles. The man who per 
 suades himself that there is an antagonism between 
 cheerfulness and religion, turns from the lesson that 
 the Hand of God has written. Dyspepsia and religion 
 should not be confounded. Cheerfulness is the hand 
 maid of contentment, and true devotion will not be 
 come enthroned in the heart until contentment takes 
 her seat in the conscience. Humilitation and morti 
 fication are not necessary. If a man is cheerful and 
 contented while doing good, he acMs lustre to his vir 
 tues and pleases God by pleasing His creatures. 
 Cheerfulness is to the children of men what the stars 
 are to the night and the flowers to the fields. Cheer 
 fulness and contentment, hand in hand, often pass the 
 rich man s door to enter the poor man s cottage. A 
 happy peasant is more to be envied than an unhappy 
 king. Henry Clay Fox. 
 
 Richmond. 
 
DREAMS. 
 
 Dreams ought to be utilized. I have a friend who, from the recol 
 lection of almost any night s sleep, can furnish the plot for a very 
 respectable novel; yet these all remain unrecorded. We have no 
 right to permit so much literary capital to be wasted. In old times, 
 when men believed in dreams, they played an important part in 
 poetry and history. The Evil Dream dispatched by Jove descended 
 from Olympus and sat by the ear of his victim like Satan at the 
 Ear of Eve. The dreams of Pharaoh and Nebuchadnezzar were the 
 forerunners of the destinies of Egypt and Babylon. 
 
 But in our more skeptical age this noble temple of prophecy and 
 warning has been left desolate, and the origin of dreams is 
 attributed, not to the gods, but to dyspepsia. Their interpreter is 
 no longer the national prophet, but the family physician. They 
 are abandoned by poet and historian. Their weird and golden phan 
 tasies have died almost completely out from the literature of the 
 world. Once in a generation some master hand strikes the strange 
 chords of dream life, as when Shakespeare s Clarence dreams of 
 the retribution of eternity, or De Quincy pours out the passionate 
 music of his "Dream Fugue on the Vision of Sudden Death," but 
 the myriads of dreams, with their wild scenes, startling situations, 
 and strange imagery, which are permitted to go to waste, is most 
 shocking to a proper sense of literary economy. What an interest 
 ing problem to explain their crabbed logic, to unravel their 1 tangled 
 skeins of thought and tell why the most extraordinary characters 
 meet at the mo<st important places and do such startling things. 
 Why is our imagination most free and active while we sleep? Was 
 the old idea after all the true one that a "dream is also from God?" 
 Why can we not control them? Why is it that both for delight 
 and pain they must have their will of us, and transport us at their 
 sovereign pleasure to heaven or to hell? Is it to tell us that our 
 waking hours are equally at the mercy of inexorable fate? Why do 
 they deal so pitilessly with those we love, making them not only 
 the objects of calamity, but even the agents of crime, placing the 
 vials of poison in the hands that are the fondest and tenderest on 
 earth, or crowning with the diadem of prosperity the brows of our 
 deadliest enemy? What right has a dream to work this strange 
 phantasmagoria with our hopes and fears, our fortunes and our 
 affections? 
 
 William Dudley Foulke. 
 Washington, D. C. 
 
EPIGRAMS. 
 The Cynic s Idea of Marriage. 
 
 The bait seems tempting while the trap stands wide, 
 I .MI things look different to the mouse inside. 
 
 Conceit. 
 
 Conceit still dogs Humility, 
 For think how it would grieve us, 
 When we confess our inmost faults, 
 To have the world believe us! 
 
 The Penalty. 
 
 Not to the "lion" is the hunt amusing, 
 Nor by the wit should one fact be ignored- - 
 The more you re capable of entertaining, 
 The more you re capable of being bored. 
 
 The Wordless Poem. 
 
 What need to toil with rhyme and metre? 
 
 The thought I labored to express 
 
 The rose-vine speaks in language sweeter, 
 
 Ay, more divine and far completer, 
 
 In one rich bud s pink loveliness. 
 
 ECLIPSE. 
 
 God keep us from the sordid mood 
 That shrinks to self-infinitude, 
 That sees no thing as good or grand 
 That answers not the hour s demand, 
 And throws o er Heaven s splendors furled 
 The shadow of our little world. 
 
 ON CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 How we remember Him! Year after year 
 In vain exchange more costly gifts are bought. 
 We dine the surfeited but leave Him out, 
 And give Him naught! 
 
 And while we feast, by bare and cheerless hearths 
 Hang little empty stockings! In distress 
 How many a wee, cold, disappointed child 
 Sobs supperless! 
 
 How can we think the heart of Christ is glad 
 When thus we keep His day? Ah, at the need 
 Much rather of His poor, unclothes, unfed. 
 How it must bleed! 
 
 Albion Fellows Bacon, 
 
 Evansville. 
 
THE TREE. 
 
 And up 
 
 The Spring s bright leaves bath in Arcadian sun, 
 Feel the warmth, and the light lilt of wings 
 High, yet higher still there floats 
 Bright cloud vapor; back curved throats 
 Of happy bird life widening flings 
 Their lives essence, sculptured into sound 
 All Worlds their One. 
 Wide and around 
 
 Down, down there beneath the bole, 
 Spread thick in little sameness, 
 A multitude trefoliate roll. 
 Heads little bee calling flowers, 
 Beneath and little from their highness, 
 In dappling of purple showers 
 Invite their wandering eye: 
 
 Their high, bird mated, breeze and sun warmed eye. 
 These little, dainty things they pity them, 
 Unhappy and near to earth, 
 Reaching and longing from their little stem 
 For their high birth. 
 The flowers? 
 
 Life hath many strains within her harp, 
 Where leaves float high and falling petals carp 
 The flowers 
 
 Long ere the leaves, serrate on their stem 
 Had burned and fallen fruitless mingling them 
 Had from each head a multitude of like 
 Alike and fertile, reared sweet holding cups 
 Above the blades, beneath them, and the moss 
 And loamy ground the scuttling ground things cross; 
 Happy and like; 
 
 Blind of that beneath, and from it sups 
 A thankfulness of that more high. 
 And blade, and clover head, and leaf, and cloud, 
 And feathered, circling, darting, happy Life, 
 All passing by 
 Rife 
 
 With little Selves cohesions shroud 
 Into the greatness of their little sheath 
 Unto themselves see not that more high 
 Understanding^, the more than that beneath. 
 
 Florence Lmsley Fox. 
 
 Richmond. 
 
JULIETTE S QUESTION. 
 
 A tiny girl with nut-brown hair 
 Kneels down beside her mother s chair, 
 Asking Him who heareth prayer 
 
 To guide her little feet. 
 Then climbs she up on mamma s knee 
 And cuddles close as close can be, 
 While mamma sings a lullaby 
 
 In accents low and sweet. 
 
 The bright head turns from side to side, 
 The trip to Dreamland seems denied : 
 At last, a fairy tale is tried 
 
 Whose magic ne^er fails. 
 And Juliette lifts her drowsy eyes. 
 As blue and soft as summer skies, 
 And asks the question wondrous wise, 
 
 "Do Fairies all have Tails?" 
 
 Elizabeth Mifflin Laws Hibberd. 
 Richmond. 
 
HOW THE COLONEL LOST OUT. 
 
 "Yes," said the colonel reflectively, "many queer things do happen 
 things that a man would have a hard time in explaining if he were 
 called on to do so. I ll tell you, young gentleman, that in this 
 life of mine I have had at least one experience that would drive some 
 men to drink," and the colonel looked around suggestively. 
 
 The colonel, a one-armed veteran of the Civil War, was the best 
 raconteur of the club, and as such was eagerly listened to by the 
 younger generation. A tap of the bell brought a round of his favor 
 ite beverage, and after sampling it, with glasses in easy reach, we 
 all settled back in our chairs to listen to the story that was sure to 
 come. 
 
 "You fellows have all heard how I lost this arm at Pine Ridge? 
 When I enlisted in the 20th, like many another young fellow, I left 
 a sweetheart in Indiana whose promise had been given me a beauti 
 ful, high-spirited girl who kissed me bood bye, and saw the regiment 
 march away with a cheer on her lips and but few tears in her eyes. 
 Before we parted she slipped a ring on my finger, and as I left she 
 st^id: Wear this, dear; bring it back with you, and be true to 
 your flag and me. 
 
 "Well, I wore the ring all through our long, hard campaign, until 
 
that Pine Ridge cannon ball came along, took away arm and ring, 
 and left me unconscious on the battle field. After a hospital experi 
 ence I finally recovered, sufficiently to be sent home, -with a colonel s 
 commission, discharged as unfit for duty. 
 
 "At the old home i was, of course, treated as a hero. The young 
 ladies insisted on showing me flattering attentions; I was asked 
 everywhere, and was quite the lion of the hour. 
 
 "Isabel, my fiancee, was as devoted as before, I suppose, but her 
 nature was such that she was too proud to show her feelings as 
 plainly as my vanity sometimes wished her to do, and as a conse 
 quence I began to think that she had changed toward me. It may 
 be that another girl, a little, plump, black-eyed charmer, had some 
 thing to do with this idea, but, at any rate, I soon began to notice 
 other charms than Isabel s. 
 
 "One night my fiancee and I attended a reception, and Sadie, the 
 black-eyed charmer of whom I have spoken, was there also, Isabel 
 and I had tired of mingling with the throng and had round a secluded 
 place in the conservatory. We talked until weary and sat there in 
 silence, when Sadie came in. She did not see us, and as she stood 
 by the side of a large palm, in an attitude of unstudied grace, I 
 thought she formed the most beautiful picture that I had ever seen. 
 
 "Almost involuntarily I contrasted her charms with those of the 
 proud beauty at my side. To my eyes the advantage all lay with 
 Sadie. Her beautifully rounded figure seemed to be my ideal of 
 loveliness, and I wished that I might clasp her in my arms arm, I 
 mean and tell her how sweet a picture she made. The longing 
 grew almost too strong to be resisted, and I had half risen to my 
 feet, forgetting Isabel s presence, when I was stopped by a strange 
 thing that was taking place. Faintly outlined, a mere vapor at 
 first, but growing plainer with each succeeding second, where Sadie 
 stood there appeared the figure of a man s arm clothed in a soldier s 
 sleeve of blue. 
 
 "The arm slowly curved itself around Sadie s waist, and as it 
 tightened itself into a firm hug, like a star of light, a ring on the 
 hand showed itself to my startled gaze. My eyes seemed to be 
 starting from my head in amazement, for the ring was that which 
 Isabel had given me, and the hand that I looked at was the 
 exact likeness of my missing one. 
 
 "A cry at my side, of mixed fear and rage, brought me to my 
 senses. Isabel was standing with outstretched arms pointing at the 
 apparition. What does this mean, sir? she said. Her voice aroused 
 Sadie, who, seeing the image around her waist, promptly fainted. 
 
 "I have told this story to several persons, and but one has ever 
 been able to give me an explanation. He was an ascetic from India, 
 who was lecturing on The Influence of Mind Over Matter. He told 
 me that my desire to embrace Sadie had been impressed very strong 
 ly on my astral being, that that part of my being had, for the time, 
 got control over my physical body, and that the arm which I saw 
 was the arm that I had lost, and, being lost, was trying to follow the 
 impulse that would have controlled it had it still continued to be 
 a part of my body and subject to the control of my mind. Others 
 did not accept this theory, and some, I regret to say, were skeptical, 
 while a few did not hesitate to say that the vision had been induced 
 by a large, well-developed jag. You fellows can think as you please. 
 I leave the solution of the problem with you. Waiter! Another one 
 of the same kind." 
 
 "But, colonel," cried several in protest, "what became of the 
 girls? Did you marry Sadie?" 
 
 "Marry! Huh!" grunted the colonel, between swallows, "don t you 
 know I was never married. Isabel dismissed me then and there 
 for losing the ring she had given me. And Sadie, when I asked 
 her later to marry me, replied with ill-concealed horror that she 
 was sorry, but that she could never, under any circumstances, marry 
 a piece of a man whose dismembered fragments were in the habit 
 of embracing every woman whom their former owner might take 
 a fancy to." 
 
 And the Colonel set down his empty glass and went to join another 
 group. 
 
 Harvey Harmon. 
 Princeton. 
 
A SIGH FOR YE KNIGHT OF OLD. 
 A Contrast. 
 
 All force, all powerful, he stands 
 His feathered helmet 
 Glistening in the sun ; 
 His mighty muscles, broadened 
 Shoulders, splendid head and arm 
 
 My knight! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Long years ago, we met and loved, 
 I know it so. 
 
 My satin frock swept by the 
 Antlered door. A curtsey dropped 
 Quite to the floor, and from my 
 Hair a rose, which quickly, 
 As he spied it, went to hold 
 A dearer place near his 
 Great heart, great 
 In its love of honor, 
 Love of home and state, 
 Of courtesy and gentle strength ; 
 A love fcr all that 
 Went for might and good 
 
 My knight! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 He s off of his wheel 
 
 And in with a shout 
 "Oh ! Marie, dear Marie, 
 
 What are you about? 
 
 "Let s away to the links, 
 
 Or it will be fun 
 In the automobile 
 To ghe Ted a run. 
 
 "Come, into your short-skirt 
 
 Without more ado !" 
 I can t have the other 
 So I guess Gus ll do. 
 
 Margaret Randolph Jewett. 
 Evansville. 
 
THE POOR MAN S BURDEN. 
 
 Pile up the poor man s burden 
 The weight of foreign wars ! 
 
 Go shrewdly yoke together 
 Great Mercury and Mars, 
 
 And march with them to conquest, 
 As once did ancient Rome, 
 
 With vigor on her oorders 
 
 And slow decay at home! 
 
 Pile up the poor man s burden ! 
 
 Accept Great Britain s plan ; 
 She does all things for commerce, 
 
 Scarce anything for man ! 
 Far off among the pagans 
 
 She seeks an open door 
 While Pity cries in London 
 
 "God help the British poor!" 
 
 Pile up the poor man s burden ! 
 
 His sons will hear our call ; 
 Will feed the jungle fever 
 
 And stop the Mauser ball ; 
 Will fall, far off, unnoted, 
 
 For spoils they may not share, 
 And spill their blood to water 
 
 A laurel here and there ! 
 
 Pile up the poor man s burden ; 
 
 Keep in the old, old track! 
 Let glory ride as ever, 
 
 Upon the toiler s back ; 
 Lay tax on tax upon him, 
 
 Devised with subtle skill- 
 Call forth his sons to slaughter 
 
 And let him pay the bill ! 
 
 Pile up the poor man s burden ! 
 
 The lords of trade, at least, 
 May drink, like King Belshazzar, 
 
 In comfort at the feast ; 
 May boast, as did the monarch 
 
 Within his palace hall, 
 While God wrote out his sentence 
 
 In fire upon the wall ! 
 
 Howard S. Taylor. 
 Chicago. 
 
INDIVIDUAL IN LITERATURE. 
 
 To be individual in literature, to be a writer, what must one 
 possess talent or perseverence in the exercise of that talent? Or 
 does one have to feel what he writes? 
 
 We may write correctly, and learn to write well; we may have 
 the advantage and beauty of form, but a book without tone, 
 (which constitutes style), a book without that invisible something, 
 whether real or imaginative, which makes living creatures appear 
 on its pages, lacks everything. 
 
 It is the beauty and charm of art, in writing, that attracts and 
 satisfies man; not the subject, which is insignificant. 
 
 No matter how many plots or new themes are invented, they are 
 summarized into these four. Man, may be considered with the 
 idea of his relations to himself, to his brother, to the fairer sex, 
 to the infinite. 
 
 Happily the tendency of the writer of to-day is towards optimism. 
 
That he seeks to get away from unpleasant thought, and inartistic- 
 tones, is most obvious. His efforts are made to secure single 
 tones, and simple designs, as in painting and sculpture. As in art, 
 we notice a commendable feeling, subdued, refined, harmonious 
 and soothing. 
 
 Writers, when regarded from the point of view of method, ot 
 temperament, or of style, differ greatly. 
 
 A representative of the traditional school of fiction, bases his 
 novel themes upon material that everyone has used. If he is 
 fortunate enough to have discovered some new and unfrequented 
 nook, wherein to lay" his plot, he may be able to work out some 
 combinations that are both piquant and possible, and in conse 
 quence charm his readers. It will, however, require the greatest 
 skill, and a very delicate perception of all their possibilities, and 
 an artistic eye for nature, to draw exquisite backgrounds, to make 
 it interesting, or acceptable. Other writers give simple glimpses 01 
 life, EO depicted, that they abound in humor, and quaint fancies, 
 yet possess a perfectly true sense of proportion. Especially doeb 
 the short story writer prove effective, where his stories are admir 
 able in proportion to their brevity. 
 
 Then there is the good story teller, who vivid and daring, tells 
 it with such courage, that he might be accused of recklessness. 
 He must have a vein of sentiment, close to his humor so that he 
 will never overwork either the pathos or the humor. He brings 
 into the tepid atmosphere of our mid-century literature., a whiti 
 of mountain air, with a piney flavor to ii, that is bracing ana 
 delightful. 
 
 The old world is not sufficiently rich in mirth that it can affor* 
 to lose this class. Of their kind they are inimitable, and will fart 
 far better than, \vhat might be termed heavy-weights in literature, 
 who can only claim such immortality, as to be handsomely bound, 
 aid never read. 
 
 Fate has made some famous, others, whom praise has lulled to 
 sleep, are oblivious to the stages of literary life, where they are 
 loved, hated, ignored, praised, forgiven to-day, forgotten tomorrow. 
 
 The influence of some writers is so great that they could no 
 more be ruled out than a Napoleon, Earl of Beaconsfield, or Cecil 
 Rhodes, or any other personification of power. They stand to-day 
 with the best of their foreign brothers, pure and simple, even as an 
 oM master on the walls. They have recognized technical arcomp- 
 lishments, and to spare, have dared to stray from the hopelessly 
 conventional path, and display originality they are a synonym 
 for new world art. Emersonian in greatness, glowing as a Rubens, 
 and colorful as a Turner. 
 
 Since all the stars that twinkle are not of the first magnitude, 
 why refuse to shine? Stars of lesser magnitude are not necessarily 
 powerless, they may light the pathway of someone, whose efforts 
 and struggles, may help the world onward, and humanity to a 
 higher level, and brighter day. History has never been a purist, 
 in what it has adjudged great. It has always been more like a 
 gleaner in a wheatfield, more intent on gathering, and saving, 
 than particular in its selections. The truly great writer is the one 
 who can listen with charmed impartiality, can digest and assimi 
 late the praises of others he is indeed great. 
 
 Louise Spilker. 
 
 New York. 
 
THE VANITY OF MEN. 
 
 A desire for personal ornamentation has always been regarded 
 as a quality of mind peculiar to woman alone. To believe one-half 
 that is written, she is a creature whose main business in life is 
 to haun-t milliners stores in search of the proverbial "love of a 
 hat," or divide her time dawdling- over dry-goods counters and the 
 dressmakers. It has become the fashion to thus speak slightingly 
 of women as being inordinately fond of display. 
 
 Those who affect to believe that women have a "corner" in vanity 
 ire fond of quoting the list of her besetting sins as enumerated in 
 Holy Writ and applying to the female sex the love for "tinkling 
 ornaments, their cauls, their round tires like the moon, the 
 chains and bracelets and the mufflers, the head-bands and earrings, 
 the changeable suits of apparel, the mantles and the wimples and 
 the crisping pins, the glasses, the fine linen and hoods and vails." 
 
 It is astonishing how accurately and glibly this passage is quoted 
 by men who do not know another word of the Bible. Never 
 once do they get twisted on the wimples and the crisping pins 
 although it possibly might puzzle them to define these terms. But 
 is not this catalogue designed to show the utter vanity of the 
 female character matched in our own times by the elaborate acces 
 sories of a gentleman s toilet, which includes such fripperies as 
 diamond shirt studs, ornamental canes, opera glasses, perfumes, 
 pomades, scented baths, jewels, elaborate neckties, expensive gloves, 
 slippers, luxurious dressing gowns, smoking jackets and caps, em 
 broidered hose, fine underwear, silk negligees, ruffled night-shirts, 
 and sweet, flowing pajamas, the whole rivaling in splendor and cost 
 the magnificent wardrobe of an Oriental potentate. 
 
 Surely fair-minded judges will admit that this list offsets the 
 other, yet notwithstanding this showing it is hard for the average 
 man to believe that feminine vanity is matched by his own. The 
 male writers of the world have kept back man s weakness too long 
 for this error to be easily routed. Even the venerable prophet 
 Jeremiah takes a hand in it and boldly asks: "Can a maid forget 
 her ornaments or a bride her attire?" Oh! Jeremiah { Holy 
 Prophet! Well do we know that there were no Knights of Pythias 
 or Noble Order of Red Men, or Sons of Veterans, or the Grand 
 Order of This and That and the Other in your day or never would 
 your mighty pen have employed weak woman and her finery as 
 subjects for your simile! 
 
 Decked in dazzling trappings that flash and glitter like gems in 
 the sunlight, with waving plumes and resplendent head-gear, giddv 
 scarfs, bright tassels, gold lace and polished brass, "sword and pistol 
 by their sides," stepping proudly to the blare of trumpets with 
 streaming banners and gaudy pennants flying, ten thousand men, 
 more or less, will parade up and down, around and across a dusty 
 city under a broiling 1 sun, hour after hour. 
 
 And for what? 
 
 To be admired. To make a display. To show how handsome 
 they look. 
 
 They are the heroes of the hour. From dizzy heights as far as 
 buildings can extend they know that fair women are watching them 
 and waving dainty handkerchiefs. They know the streets are 
 thronged to suffocation with a surging mass of spectators, young, 
 old, rich, poor, women with babies in their arms, school children- 
 all everybody a whole city full who have gathered there to feast 
 the eye on their beauty and elegance! 
 
 And their bosoms swell with pride and they hold their shoulders 
 straighter, and they step more proudly while the chief, captains 
 and leaders of the host who ride on prancing chargers feel the 
 grandeur of the situation and nod their plumed heads like mighty 
 Joves from the summit "of Olympus. Fatigue and perspiration 
 and aching limbs are swallowed up in Vanity. 
 
 Then let their gala days be frequent as- they will. None will 
 censure them their love for these pretty exhibitions. They are 
 only straws showing how marvellously similar is the mind of man 
 and woman. But let us adjure our masculine friends in future 
 to own their full share in human weaknesses. , 
 
 Virginia Sharpe Patterson. 
 Kokomo. 
 
WILLIAM McKlNLEY A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE. 
 
 A great personal sorrow has befallen us. The same sorrow has 
 thrown its ghastly shadow across the pathway of every one. We 
 have all of us, of all parties alike, of all sections alike but just 
 turned our faces sadly from the new made grave of a mighty 
 friend and kinsman of our own. Yonder we laid him by the home 
 that he loved. Yonder sleeping in the bosom of a continent, whose 
 chief nation he had guided into an immortal destiny a destiny 
 that had been preparing for us since 
 
 "The dark was smote in twain 
 And the stars first saw each other plain" 
 
 there we laid him amid the tears of millions. For the infamous 
 hand that struck out this immortal life, struck a blow directly, 
 at the hearts of eighty millions of people. Yes, move than eighty! 
 millions. His loss was the loss of the Anglo-Saxon race. His 
 gain the gain of his immortal life and thrice immortal martyr 
 dom was the gain of all the Sons of God that speak of liberty and 
 courage and voice their faith and hope and sorrows in the English 
 tongue. That nation that gave us the proud blood from which 
 he descend or rather from which he ascended that nation which 
 is boun fl to us by all the ties of kindred blood and common names , 
 by all the ties of similar privileges, of united hopes and common 
 laws, has been touched with the cry of our mourning. Wherever 
 liberty has thrilled men with hope, there our sorrow has touched 
 that homely sympathy that heeds the common life/ that great 
 common life of the race which shares our sorrow and which must 
 also partake of the majestic responsibilities of that enlarged 
 destiny which the life and death of William McKinley have be 
 queathed as an unalienable heritage to mankind. 
 
 Slowly indeed did God form William McKinley. Slowly indeed 
 the star of destiny beamed above him and guided him onward. 
 God never gave him a work to do until he had fitted him to do that 
 work. He never made him Congressman until He had fitted him 
 to stand among the great constructive statesmen whose names 
 ornament the roll of our national honor. He never made him 
 Governor until He had fitted him to lift to higher things one of the 
 noblest commonwealths ever built by the sorrowing but triumph 
 ant toil of men. He never made him President until He had fitted 
 him to stand, as a ruler, by the side of Alexander, by the side of 
 Caesar, by the side of Napoleon and Frederick the Great and the 
 kingly Cromwell. This is no mere orator s tribute. Far be it 
 indeed from being a partisan tribute. Tis the proud tribute ot 
 time. Twill be the prouder tribute of eternity. For when Time 
 shall have finished her work, and shall record for immortality 
 those rare spirits which have been the proudest achievements of 
 her toil, she will not speak in mighty voice of William McKinley 
 the Congressman, who shaped a policy that guided an unhappy 
 nation from the despair of a disastrous poverty into the pride and 
 glory of a limitless prosperity; she will not speak of William 
 McKinley, the Governor, the masterful helmsman of a free state, 
 moving grandly on towards a nobler civilization and a more fruit 
 ful mode of being; she will not even speak of William McKinley, 
 the President, the immortal ruler of an imperial race, who broad 
 ened the destiny of the centuries, and stamped a new conceptior 
 of human greatness upon the imaginations of mankind: but in that 
 still small voice, which has forever been the sweetest eloquence 
 that eternity has set upon the lips of time, she will whisper to the 
 uttermost coasts of destiny, the name of William McKinley, the 
 child-lover, William McKinley, the wife-lover, William McKinley, 
 the neighbor-lover, the lover of men, the first gentleman ot ms 
 time, the last princely heritage of a Christian civilization and i 
 noblest figure that trod the modern day. 
 
 Vprnnn 
 
AN EXTRACT FROM "INDIANA." 
 
 Silas Templeton. "Yes lad, you kin talk bout the advantage uv 
 Indianapolis but I don t want none o city life in mine. Sich 
 livin is all right fer them as likes it, but give me the old place 
 where you and me wuz born. I d die if I didn t hev a rail fence 
 ter set on and whittle casionally er if I cudn t smell the blossoms 
 uv the peach er apple tree." 
 
 Robert Templeton. "But father, don t you get lonesome, living 
 here all by yourself?" 
 
 Silas. "Lonesome! Why, boy, I ve bin lonesome nigh onter twenty- 
 five year. Bin lonesome ever since thet day in January when we 
 scraped away the snow and laid yer mother ter rest in the church 
 yard. You don t rickolict her, I reckon. No, you wuzn t but four 
 years old when she died. Then I had ter be both father and 
 mother ter you, lad, I nursed you through the measles and the ty 
 phoid fever and hev watched yer disposition ever since you wuz big 
 enough ter run round and talk. Fore very long I see you didn t take 
 ter farm work and then I begin ter figer and save so s I cud 
 send you away ter school, cause I knowed yer mother wud a 
 wanted you edicated if she wuz livin . Durin the winter 
 months when you wuz away at school and work wuz slack bout the 
 place I cudn t help but feelin lonesome as I set by the old fire 
 place where you and me set so many times. And when spring 
 time ud come and the birds ud sing and I knowed it wuzn t fur 
 off when you d be comin home fer summer vacation seemed as 
 I cudn t hardly wait ter see you, and I d git lonesomer than ever. 
 Then I d pick a bunch o lilacs and mozey over ter the church-yard 
 and put em on yer mother s grave. She allus liked lilacs and 
 after that seemed as how I wudn t feel so lonesome like. And 
 ever since you got yer piece o sheepskin with the writin on signed 
 by yer perfessor and hev bin livin in Indianapolis I ve do^e 
 nothin else* but be lonesome until th other day I put on my meetin 
 clothes and lowed I d run down and see you fer a spell and then 
 somethin seemed ter say ter me, "Silas Templeton, yer aint got no 
 business doin any sich thing. If that boy wanted you ter visit him 
 he d tell yer so." I lowed as how you wuzn t any farmer boy 
 any longer, lad, but an edicated gentleman and thet it moughtn t 
 do you no good ter hev yer old dad come pesterin round monsrst 
 yer edicated friends. Somethin told me as how yer moughtn t like 
 it cause I wuzn t edicated and didn t hev no fine ways like city 
 
 folks. Thought you mought feel kind o shamed uv me, lad, 
 
 and I didn t want that." 
 
 Robert. "Ashamed of you! Why, I" 
 
 Silas (interrupting). "No need uv feelin bad lad, yer all I ve got 
 and if yer gettin long and are happy don t mind bout yer old 
 dad. I want you ter succeed, and as fer me guess I ll git long 
 somehow. Guess I ll turn In now. Bin workin purty hard all 
 day. Afore you come ter bed don t fergit fpr blow out the 
 candle in the kitchen. (Going.) Good night, lad." 
 
 Graham Paul Taber. 
 LaPorte. 
 
NOVEMBER DREAMS. 
 
 When you lie awake at night entertaining insomnia, did you 
 ever note the different sounds that haunt the darkness? You hear 
 the clang of a distant bell, the shriek of a locomotive, the dry leaves 
 rustle under the light, timid footsteps of some shy creature, until 
 the wind sends them eddying away across the lawn and fills their 
 places with a fresh shower from the top most limbs of a huge oak 
 just without your bedroom windows. 
 
 A sleepy bird sends forth a sweet voiced protest, and some way you 
 fall to thinking of how very soon the snow and sleet will come. If 
 winter should come tonight would that cricket in the grass outside 
 that has never stopped for one single instant during the last four 
 hours, freeze to death? Tis a cheerful little beast, and it 
 would be a pity for it to die such a death. You would find it to 
 morrow perhaps, and carry it to a house where there is a big wood 
 fire, and it shall sing upon the hearth while the master laughs, a 
 laugh that makes you think of spare-ribs, and sweet potatoes, and 
 apple-toddy and pop corn. 
 
 We were foolish youths when we first sat beside that glowing 
 fire but it was a foolishness worth all the wisdom of age, and how 
 we slept after an evening there. 
 
 How we watched the dancing flames as a drowsiness stole over us, 
 in the midst of our dreams of future greatness! We would be poets, 
 some day, and all the world should hear of us. Had we not written 
 verses for the school journal, and did not several different people 
 say they were remarkable for so young an author? We liked 
 flattery laid on with a trowel in those days, and nothing less satis 
 fied us. We were not guiltless of fishing for compliments, and 
 enjoyed them even when they were dragged in by the hair. But 
 all these rosy dreams were not sufficient to keep us long awake, 
 and we slept like any other conscienceless creature, hours upon 
 hours, and no voices of the night were heard by us then. Storms 
 gathered and broke about our dwelling, the house was smitten by 
 lightning, a tree nearby was blown down with a great crash, but we 
 knew naught of it, nor cared, because "The thoughts of youth are 
 long, long thoughts," and we were much too busy with them to pause 
 because the elements were at war. 
 
 Will such sleep as that ever again visit our pillows? Is there 
 any phillter known to science that can bring it back? And that 
 the night wears on till "jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty 
 mountain top" and the loud clang of the breakfast bell seems at 
 first a rude discord. But it rings on and on, getting farther away 
 at every stroke, until its echo comes to us from a distant shore, 
 and we in a flower-laden boat with silken sails float on a sea of 
 milk to the land of the lotus, where the queen of dreamland stands! 
 
 Adelaide Eugenia Sherry. 
 West Point. 
 
THE) FUTURE OF OUR NATION. 
 
 The little ship of state, launched upon the troubled waters, at the 
 conclusion of the revolutionary war, is destined under the providence 
 of God, to lessen the burdens of the oppressed, and to enlighten, ele 
 vate and bless the whole world. 
 
 The experiment of self-government has proven a success, and since 
 the formation of our government by the original colonies, star after 
 star has been added to the galaxy of states. 
 
 The purchase of Louisiana from France in 1803, more than doubled 
 the area of our territory. Then the annexation of Texas, our Mexi 
 can treaties, the purchase of Alaska from Russia and the acquisi 
 tion of our late possessions, have more than quadrupled our original 
 domain. 
 
 The people of other nations coming to our shores, are rapidly 
 becoming Americanized, and learning to speak the English language. 
 The Anglo-Saxon race will finally girdle the earth and their language 
 become the language of the world. 
 
 Through our splendid system of free schools the masses of the 
 people are being educated, and prepared for the duties and responsi 
 bilities of citizenship, and every one the privilege of carving out 
 his own destiny. 
 
 We look at the future destiny of our country with patriotic pride; 
 when it shall truly become the beacon light of the world, and from 
 it all nations shall catch the spirit of government of the people, for 
 thr people and by the people. 
 
 The earth shall then blossom as the rose, kingly power shall 
 cease, the down-trodden shall be lifted up, and the Fatherhood of 
 God, and the brotherhood of man universally recognized. 
 
 Through America the heathen nations* will be brought under the 
 benign influence of the gospel of Christ. God has raised us up for 
 that purpose. The United States will furnish the men and supplies 
 for this grand army, fighting against sin and Satan in subjugating 
 the world to the mild reign of Prince Emmanuel. The kingdoms of 
 this world will then become the kingdom of Christ. 
 
 Two things, however, menace us as a nation. First, the liquor 
 traffic, authorized and protected by law the blackest spot today upon 
 the pages of American civilization. 
 
 Second, the combination of capital in the formation of trusts, 
 whereby the rich are becoming richer, and the poor poorer. The 
 antidote for these evils, however, will be found in the gospel of the 
 grace of God. When all shall bow, in sweet submission to the mild 
 scepter of the King Eternal, then 
 
 "Each can feel his brother s sigh, 
 
 And with him bear a part, 
 When sorrow flows from eye to eye, 
 And joy from heart to heart." 
 
 If true to our mission, then what a glorious destiny awaits us as 
 a nation. Hundreds of millions of happy, prosperous, contented peo 
 ple will one dav inhabit our land, and the heart of every true loyal 
 ritizen will swell with pride, when he gazes upon the stars and stripes, 
 and realizes the fact that he is an American citizen. 
 
 Mordecai B. McKinsey. 
 Frankfort. 
 
I 4*3^fll * KHL .j ; : :Miiiit 
 
 ^ 
 
 
RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Religion and Philosophy, or Reasoning, are not two separate 
 sciences, but walk hand-in-hand "wedded/ so to speak, the com 
 plement and evidence of the other. 
 
 We believe and hold that though we may not fathom the depths 
 of meaning in God s revelation s, yet it is the expression of all God s 
 art or poetry as is nature the symbol of all His science, and life 
 the manifestation of all His philosophy. 
 
 Man in God s image, is but an imitation of his Creator and so 
 we see man, like unto Him in whose likeness he is formed, to be 
 a creature of Science, Art and Philosophy a three-phased being 
 essentially no more. 
 
 The old Catacombs at Rome are indeed the cradle of the history 
 of the burial of Christianity, where its impress has left its tracks 
 behind forevermore and stand in undisputed attestation to the fact 
 of its resurrection. Next to Divine Revelation itself Archaeology 
 as a science is opening the way to the unquestioned fact of the 
 reality of Christianity. 
 
 In the Catacombs of Rome and of other ancient cities stand 
 the relics and engravings belonging to the age of the Christian 
 martyrs of Paul and the others. To the actual visions of man 
 to-day are they an "evidence of things unseen." We cannot deny 
 what with our eyes we see and what on the pages of history and 
 Archaeology is recorded. They dare not be false it is in our power 
 "to go and see." Then it is that Paul s Letters have a new and 
 intenser meaning; are to us become possessed of a clear and hal 
 lowed sacredness. 
 
 Study the Archaeology of Rome its history, etc. then turn 
 again to "Romans" and at once are Paul s melodies become a 
 glad and joyous requiem with the awful sublimity of truth attend 
 ing unquestionable and inspiring. Look at the Babylon of sin as th? 
 spectre of the Catacombs and is it a wonder Jesus on the cruel 
 cross turned to wailing women and tenderly enjoined them: 
 "Daughters of Jerusalem weep not for me, but weep for yourselves 
 and for your children." We in the sunlight of the resurrection 
 life have need indeed to "look up, rejoice and be exceeding glad 
 that out of the Catacombs of Rome is the Well spring of our 
 Eternal Day. 
 
 Cora Broadherst Jacks. 
 
 Jamestown. 
 
A DREAM OF YESTERDAYS. 
 (From "At the Court of Bohemia," Century Book Co.) 
 
 As I close my eyes from weariness to all that is about me 
 Of work and care and worry that have made my own their ways 
 
 Another picture blots from sight the vexing scenes that flout me, 
 And I journey into Dreamland with a dream of Yesterdays. 
 
 A dream of summer sunshine, and of breezes softly sighing 
 
 To the yellow, mellow sprites a-dancing thro the swaying leaves- 
 
 Of a brook a silver ribbon winding o er the lush mead lying 
 As an undulating carpet of the sort no mortal weaves. 
 
 The fragrant air comes laden with the lilting, lang rous voices 
 Of the woodland and the meadow the grand opera of life; 
 
 Where love and laughter linger, and the God-made soul rejoices 
 Where the gates swing wide to pleasure but are barred to pain and 
 strife. 
 
 Was it all a passing fancy those brief hours of life elysian? 
 
 Did they disappear forever when the years brought wisdom s pain? 
 I would turn back to the Lethe-and-nepenthe of my vision 
 
 Is it all in vain, I wonder? May I never dream again? 
 
 Does the same soft summer sunshine spread its splendor through 
 
 the woodland? 
 
 Do the birds sing just as sweetly are the roses just as fair? 
 May we walk again the primrose paths of happy, carefree childhood.. 
 When our Good Night is Good Morning in God s playground Over 
 There? 
 
 Elwood Eldenne Small. 
 Valparaiso. 
 
1 
 
 - 
 
BEYOND THE LIMIT. 
 
 (Courtesy of the Century Magazine.) 
 
 A dream lay on the rim 
 Of the horizon far and dim, 
 Where the sea and sky together 
 Shut in the golden weather; 
 The ships with stately ease, 
 Close to the steady breeze, 
 Drew on, and on, and on, 
 Pierced the limit and were gone. 
 
 The headlands in the sheen 
 Of orchards waxing green, 
 Were like billows of rare bloom ; 
 The air was all perfume ; 
 Great sea-birds overhead 
 On silent pinions sped ; 
 All was so sweet and calm 
 That mere living was a balm. 
 
 But somewhere, far away, 
 A hint of sorrow lay ; 
 A vague, deep longing stirred ; 
 Some strain, as yet unheard 
 (Of music strange, to shake 
 The heart till it should break), 
 Was just beyond the rim 
 Of the horizon far and dim. 
 
 OlandIO sky! O sea! 
 Is there no peace for me? 
 What shadowy dread is this 
 That hovers round my bliss? 
 Far as my vision goes 
 My tide of pleasure flows ; 
 What lies beyond the rim 
 Of the horizon far and dim? 
 
 Maurice Thompson, 
 Crawfordsville. 
 
A WISE BIRD. 
 
 The crows held a meeting one summer s morn 
 In grandpa s field to dig for corn, 
 
 And one old crow with a shining pate, 
 Just a wee bit blacker than any mate, 
 
 Said, "Come, my friends, let us begin 
 To dig for corn, tis sure no sin." 
 
 But in looking down the tempting row 
 He spied the farmer s old scare-crow, 
 
 And the wise old bird just flapped his wings 
 And cried, "Do you see that funny thing?" 
 
 And twisted his neck and laughed "Ha ! Ha !" 
 And every crow replied, "Caw! Caw!" 
 
 Grandpa rummaged the garret through 
 
 And found the old umbrella blue, 
 And smiled and said, "I think to-day 
 
 I ve got em fixed sure, anyway," 
 But the wise old bird, when the day got hot, 
 
 Discovered this nice, cool, shady spot, 
 And said, "What a nice little tent the farmer s 
 made, 
 
 While the rest of you work, I ll sit in the shade." 
 
 Hortense Cora Jackson. 
 Richmond. 
 
GOLDEN ROD. 
 
 Sweetest and fairest of summer Mowers, 
 As over the field its radiance showers, 
 And over the clover its blossom towers, 
 
 The beautiful golden rod. 
 Standing with modest and graceful air, 
 Smiling at all with a face so fair, 
 Fit for a queen on her throne to wear, 
 
 The beautiful golden rod. 
 Bowing and nodding with happy glee, 
 Greeting the bird and the honey bee, 
 The happiest flower in the field, you see, 
 
 Is beautiful golden rod. 
 
 Where in your walks have you chanced to meet 
 A flower whose blossom was half so sweet, 
 Except near its own little country seat, 
 
 As beautiful golden rod. 
 How quickly it brings to a darkened room, 
 Where all before was sorrow and gloom, 
 A sunlight and joy that i wrought by a bloom, 
 
 Of beautiful golden rod. 
 It reminds you again of the legend old, 
 How once a child with curls of gold 
 Made a loving wish, that is often told, 
 
 By beautiful golden rod. 
 A wish that all her face might see 
 Should change from sorrow to sweetest glee, 
 And all the world should happy be 
 
 As beautiful golden rod. 
 Next morn as the sun rose o er the hill, 
 Little golden rod was standing still 
 While the whole world seemed with joy to thrill, 
 
 Like sweet little golden rod. 
 But her dress was changed to brightest green, 
 And her yellow curls to a golden sheen, 
 And there she stood as the flowers queen, 
 
 This beautiful golden rod. 
 But years and years have passed away, 
 And yet the world is blithe and gay 
 W r here er these golden blossoms stray, 
 
 This beautiul golden rod. 
 
 Bessie Lee Bleasc. 
 Muncic, 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 What is purer, more lender than the rose 
 As it opens its petals and wavering blows? 
 The dew, that over its soft petals streams, 
 Just opens the buds, just begins life s dreams. 
 
 Each rose-leaf is one whole chapter of love, 
 A message to us from the realms above ; 
 The virtues it breathes but few of us know, 
 Yet we meet with the rose wherever we go. 
 
 Oh! how can we compare a rose and its -thorn 
 With a beautiful soul and a heart that is torn? 
 One is all sunshine, one is all bliss, 
 The other all sadness a life of remiss. 
 
 Maud Muller Jones. 
 Elwood. 
 
OLD PEACH BLOSSOM TOWN. 
 
 This is the quaint old town. From hill to river 
 
 The vineyards purpling sweep 
 Floodeth the sunshine with a brighter glory. 
 
 The rose hued valleys deep 
 
 Of Old Peach Blossom Town ! 
 
 These are the hills, O infinite and tender 
 
 That music-thrill that calls 
 A note of joy at dawn or sunset splendor 
 
 Amid the water falls 
 
 In Old Peach Blossom Town ! 
 
 This the old Market Place. O children playing 
 
 Today within the Mart, 
 Where, where are those who in Time s pala< 
 
 straying. 
 Were once of thee a part, 
 
 Dear Old Peach Blossom Town ! 
 
 Ah, the glad scene ! to wear the royal ermine, 
 
 As if a cent ry dead ; 
 In the gold twilight of a living sermon 
 
 Hath one your pages read 
 
 Fair Old Peach Blossom Town ! 
 
 By steps celestial to its closed windows 
 
 Now raining blessing down ; 
 For like the lilies is thy memory s highway 
 
 In tears of laughter blown 
 
 Dear Old Peach Blossom Town ! 
 
 Here in thy church-yard are the sweets revealing 
 
 Of love from earth to star, 
 Hope-scented are the cells of darkness sealing, 
 
 Joy s misereres far 
 
 In Old Peach Blossom Town ! 
 
 Life s fluffing leaf with universal falling 
 
 Into Time s whirlpool drawn ; 
 May I but hear His messengers swift calling 
 
 From dark to better dawn. 
 
 In Old Peach Blossom Town ! 
 
 Elizabeth S. Lamb Thompson, 
 Muncie. 
 
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 ^Jl^m 
 
 dsfe. 1^^ 
 
, MYSELF AND YOU. 
 
 There are only myself and you in the world, 
 There are only myself and you ; 
 
 Tis clear, then, that I unto you should be kind, 
 And that you unto me should be true. 
 
 And if I unto you could always be kind, 
 And you unto me could be true, 
 
 Then the criminal courts might all be adjourned, 
 And the sword would have nothing to do. 
 
 A few fertile acres are all that I need, 
 
 Not more than a hundred or two, 
 
 And the great, wide earth holds enough, I am sure, 
 Enough for myself and for you. 
 
 The sweet air of heaven is free to us all ; 
 
 Upon all fall the rain and the dew ; 
 And the glorious sun in his cycle of light 
 
 Shines alike on myself and on you. 
 
 The infinite love is as broad as the sky, 
 And as deep as the ocean s blue, 
 
 We may breathe it, bathe in it, live in it, aye, 
 It is life for myself and for you. 
 
 And the Christ who came when the angels sang, 
 Will come, if the song we renew, 
 
 And reigfn in his kingdom the Prince of Peace 
 Reigning over myself and you. 
 
 O, then, mav I be unto you always kind, 
 And be you unto me always true; 
 
 So the land may rest from its turmoil and strife, 
 And the sword may have nothing to do. 
 
 Hana Lavinia Bailey. 
 Richmond. 
 
THE OVERSOUL. 
 
 (From "Lays and Lyrics,") 
 
 If I were blind and you should steal 
 
 Into my presence unaware, 
 There is a sense to flesh unknown 
 But deeper, higher, heaven-sown, 
 
 Would testify that you were there 
 A sense, not of the senses five, 
 Acute and subtle and alive 
 
 As they ; magnetic far above ; 
 A prescience keen, elate, 
 
 That would announce thee, O my love. 
 
 If I were deaf and you should speak 
 In dulcet tones fond words of love, 
 My heart would hasten to reply 
 In suffused cheek, in kindling eye 
 
 Speech without words, a thing to prove 
 My soul kept understanding clear, 
 The royal right of souls, sans fear 
 
 Of mishaps to its house of clay : 
 This or that window barred 
 
 Shall not debar the day. 
 
 If I were deaf and dumb, and blind, 
 
 Dead in so much as it might seem, 
 Still outlet, inlet there, and road 
 Whereby Omniscience lights the load ; 
 
 Whereby the vision and the dream 
 Flow in ; whereby the rainbow, sign 
 Vouchsafed of benison benign, 
 
 On Sorrow s background smiles at rest ; 
 For clay is plastic still to soul, 
 
 Can be conformed to suit its guest. 
 
 Thomas Ewing Smiley. 
 Indianapolis. 
 
PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE. 
 
 Pittypat and Tippytoc, 
 
 Here they come and there they go, 
 Busy, happy, all the day, 
 Full of fun and full of play, 
 
 Running, romping to and fro, 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe. 
 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe, 
 If you meet them you will know 
 That their little hearts are pure, 
 That they are no evil doer, 
 We are glad that it is so, 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe. 
 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe, 
 In their sled upon the snow, 
 Playing Santa Claus is near, 
 With his toys and prancing deer, 
 Tuck them in away they go, 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe. 
 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe, 
 
 Little voices sweet and low, 
 
 Oh ! what will your future be, 
 Sailing on life s stormy sea, 
 
 Full of danger, full of woe, 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe. 
 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe, 
 I have always loved you so, 
 Sad and gloomy is the home, 
 If you never have been known. 
 For vou keep the heart aglow, 
 Pittypat and Tippytoe. 
 
 Joseph Wall. 
 Huntingdon. 
 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 Let me do my work each day ; and if the darkened 
 hours of despair overtake me, may I not forget the 
 strength that comforted me in the sadness of other 
 times. May I still remember the bright hours that 
 found me walking over the silent hills of my childhood, 
 or dreaming on the margin of the quiet river, when a, 
 light glowed within me, and I promised my early God 
 to have courage amid the tempests of the changing 
 years. Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp 
 passions of unguarded moments. May I not forget 
 that poverty and riches are of the spirit. Though the 
 world know me not, may my thoughts and actions br- 
 such as shall keep me friendly with myself. Lift my 
 eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of 
 the stars. Forbid that I should judge others lest I 
 condemn myself. Let me not follow the clamor of tfic 
 world but walk calmly in my path. Give me a few 
 friends who will love me for what I am and not for 
 what little I may possess. And though age and in 
 firmity overtake me, and I come not within sight of 
 the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful 
 for life and for time s olden memories that are good 
 and sweet; and may the evening s twilight find me 
 gentle still. Max Ehrmann. 
 
 Terre Haute. 
 
THREE GIRLS. 
 
 Marion, Mazie, and May ! 
 
 Three girls came to my den today, 
 
 Three girl graduates, sweet of course, 
 
 Laughing and blushing in maider remorse 
 
 That they had ventured to make their way 
 
 Into an editor s den today. 
 
 "Marion, Mazie, and May." 
 They wrote their names in precisely that way 
 On my blotting pad, which is scarred and blurred 
 With many a scratch that s the ghost of a word, 
 And then they left me, blithesome and gay 
 At thought of Marion, Mazie and May. 
 
 What is the charm of a laughing maid, 
 That I, who am middle-aged, married and staid, 
 Should rejoice in a visit like that of today, 
 And forget that my head grew long ago gray, 
 In thinking of Marion, Mazie, and May? 
 
 What is the charm of a flower by the way? 
 Why do we harken to songs of birds? 
 What is it in the beginning of day 
 That fills us with joy never put into words? 
 T?ead me these riddles then ask me to say 
 The wherefore of Marion, Mazie, and May. 
 
 George Gary Eggleston. 
 Madison. 
 
JUNE. 
 
 O leafy June, thy fragrant air 
 Steals on the senses everywhere , 
 From meadow lawn and wooded hill 
 There comes to me a deep heart thrill ; 
 Each soft breath on its bosom bears 
 Some treasure of the buried year. 
 
 Old memories come in pressing train 
 A smile, a jest, an old refrain, 
 Of some long since forgotten lay, 
 In chords of sweetest melody. 
 Each perfume whispers soft and low, 
 We bring you back the long ago. 
 
 We bring for hearts o er fraught with care 
 A solace in the balmy air; 
 From pasture field, from grassy lane 
 We come to soothe the couch of pain. 
 We fan and cool the fevered brow 
 And breathe a benediction low. 
 
 We bring you back the hidden face ; 
 Through us each lineament ye trace. 
 O ! vanished forms to memory dear 
 Ye seem again to linger near. 
 O ! tender loving eyes long dim, 
 Ye seem again to softly beam. 
 
 Ye flowers that bloom the graves above, 
 
 Ye shed the incense of your love ; 
 
 O er hallowed dust, your leaves ye strew, 
 
 As light as falls the evening dew. 
 
 O Nature! all thv offering bear 
 
 The impress of the Father s care. 
 
 Elizabeth Bradbury Harned. 
 Richmond. 
 
MY POSEY. 
 
 A lovely posey rests on i:iy breast, 
 
 Can you guess the flowers in it? 
 The rose, and the lily too, pure and blest 
 
 With a touch of sunshine in it. 
 And the violet soft and pure and fair, 
 
 Yes, a cluster of bleeding-heart too, is there. 
 
 Tis a baby s head with its gold, gold hair 
 
 That I hold upon my breast 
 And the rose is the pink of her dimpled cheek, 
 
 The lily, her brow so fair ; 
 Her dear blue eyes are the violets blest 
 
 And the sunshine her curlv soft hair. 
 
 These flowers, dear babe, are thine, all thine, 
 
 God keep them so pure and fair 
 But the bleeding heart is mine all mine 
 
 That would save thee from all life s care. 
 
 Sophia Fredericks Pezzoni. 
 Elkhart. 
 
TODAY AND TOMORROW. 
 
 Waves and shore and sky all blended, 
 
 As a weary life that ended 
 Seeks beyond this world of sorrow, 
 
 A serene and bright tomorrow. 
 Where no waves will ever dash, 
 
 And no wind will moaning crash 
 Over strife and roughest way, 
 
 Gainst the sorrows of today. 
 
 Waves and shore and sky all glorious 
 
 As a soul that now victorious, 
 Has just wakened to the light 
 
 Of God s love and of the right, 
 To the glory and the beauty 
 
 Of c life of love and duty. 
 Tho the path be strewn with sorrow, 
 
 At the end is God s tomorrow. 
 
 Winnifred Margaret Way, 
 Furnessville. 
 
ART AND ARTISTS. 
 
 Has the world anything better to offer me to store 
 away in my memory to comfort a dark day than a 
 knowledge of art? 
 
 An Art Institute is a delight forever with its paint 
 ings and priceless treasures. Do people ever stop 
 to think how many of these paintings are the work ot 
 artists who have burned out heart and soul on the 
 altar of their canvases? 
 
 With me there dwells a feeling of reverence for truly 
 good works of art, whether from the hands of those 
 still journeying on the rough road of an artistic career, 
 or those whose "vanished hands" have left us the best 
 they were capable of, and whose aim was always the 
 brightest and noblest possible. 
 
 In many cities, in certain streets, in pleasant nooks 
 and corners, so dear to Lhe artistic heart, I find the 
 artists at their easels. 
 
 They tell me that often their paths are beset with 
 many difficulties and discouragments but no struggle, 
 no hard work is too dear a price to pay for even a 
 measure of success. 
 
 Then again I find the studios of artists who are 
 ciowned with success who do not relax any effort 
 but toil on for sheer love of their vocation. 
 
 I recognize the fact that the eyes of most people 
 are educated by looking at pictures, rather than by 
 looking at nature and "they finally come to see in 
 nature what the painters have insisted was there." 
 
 An artist knows the language of the elements, whose 
 master-word, like that of man, is God. And paints 
 them in tones wild or gentle as their own ; the stormy 
 heavens, the passionate seas,, the first lights of morn 
 ings, the glories of departing sunsets, the still radiance 
 of rising moons, are vassals to the artist s brush. 
 
 Estelle Mildred Knapp. 
 South Bend. 
 
LIFE S AFTERGLOW. 
 
 When we hehold the setting sun 
 
 Send forth its parting light, 
 Amid its glory-tinted clouds 
 
 Flow beautiful the sight. 
 When interblending red and gold 
 
 Into each other flow, 
 The brilliant combination makes, 
 
 A lovely afterglow. 
 
 So when our lives have struggled through 
 
 Much false, ambitious pride, 
 And selfish loves, once very sweet, 
 
 Have all been crucified, 
 God shows unto each loving heart 
 
 A shining path to go, 
 Which makes life s evening radiant with 
 
 A golden afterglow. 
 
 When three score years and ten are reached, 
 
 The fever heat of youth 
 Subsides into the quiet calm 
 
 Of trustful, restful truth. 
 We cannot thank our God enough 
 
 That we can come to know, 
 Through sweet communion with Himself, 
 
 This glorious afterglow. 
 
 That we have learned how valueless 
 
 Earth s empty honors are, 
 How quickly they take wings and fly 
 
 Beyond our reach ?.far. 
 We then cling closer to our Lord, 
 
 Assured that he will show 
 Us how to keep the sunshine of 
 
 This Heavenly afterglow. 
 
 Anna Maria Starr. 
 Richmond. 
 
SONG. 
 
 I was laid low among the reeds : 
 
 And there Love found me. 
 Slow, slimy things, and water weeds 
 
 Were moving round me. 
 
 The world passed by. I blamed it not. 
 
 Gay life hates sorrow. 
 The joy it never gave my lot 
 
 I would not borrow. 
 
 From it I got my grievous bed 
 
 And wounc that killed me. 
 "Why, sweet" ! Love said and raised my head 
 
 And kissed and thrilled me. 
 
 His sun-like eyes drank all my gloom 
 
 And my distresses. 
 Ah. he to whom this Love doth com: 
 
 All things possesses! 
 
 Mary Hartwell Catherwood. 
 
 Chicago. 
 
HOMEWARD. 
 
 I m going home, to my old home again, 
 Where anxious loved ones daily watch and wait, 
 And leaning o er the old familiar gate 
 Look for my coming down the shady lane, 
 And disappointed, watch and wait in vain, 
 I m going home. 
 
 I m going home to where the apple blooms 
 Waft out delicious odors on the breeze ; 
 W r here robins sing among the old, oak trees ; 
 And lilies waste the dreamiest perfumes, 
 That float in all the dim, old-fashioned rooms; 
 I m going home. 
 
 T m going home where Time has glided by 
 All unremembered down the flight of years, 
 And left his track unstained by storms of tears 
 Where holv love beams from a mother s eye, 
 And lights a way-worn wanderer s gloomy sky; 
 I m going home. 
 
 I m going home to quiet and sweet peace, 
 
 Where golden sunbeams gild the summer airs; 
 And cast aside life s conquest and its cares; 
 And bid the world good-by, with sweet surcease 
 Of all ambitious dreaming s mad increase ; 
 I m going home. 
 
 I m oing home and rest forever there, 
 
 With peaceful faces wreathed in loving smiles; 
 W r here cheating Time paints me no afterwhiles, 
 And tints with silver hues the sunny hair^ 
 Restore my soul with restful dreams so fair; 
 I m going home. 
 
 Idael Makeever. 
 
 Valparaiso. 
 
A LITTLE NEST. 
 
 A little nest : 
 
 Though rudely built and woefully poor 
 A little window, a little door, 
 A little cot beside the wall 
 Where caressing moonbeams fall. 
 
 A little nest : 
 
 Hallowed with nativity s tie 
 A little of life and then to die, 
 A little wife, a little child 
 And over all, the west wind wild. 
 
 A little nest : 
 
 Treasured in every being s heart 
 Something beautiful, living and apart, 
 A little song, a little play 
 And then the shadows close the day. 
 
 Pearl Dutchess Westfall, 
 Spencer. 
 
THE OLD WOOD PILE. 
 
 One thing I used to hate to do, it fairly made me shake, 
 The blessed live-long day clear thro , I d feel so sore 
 and ache 
 
 Choppin wood ! 
 
 That old woodpile I clearly see it s vision is a joy, 
 Just once again I d like to be a big green awkward 
 boy 
 
 Choppin wood ! 
 
 I used to hear my father call it almos made me sick, 
 An then I d let that old ax fall you know it was a 
 trick 
 
 Choppin wood ! 
 
 My mother s voice I too would hear for she had made 
 
 a rule, 
 To tell her Johnny boy so dear when he got home from 
 
 school 
 
 "Chop some wood !" 
 
 About that time I d get real mean and awful lazy too, 
 As then it always seem I never would get through 
 Choppin wood ! 
 
 I d stop an rest a little while and wipe away the sweat 
 Then Pa d stan roun an smile that made me mad 
 you bet 
 
 Choppin wood! 
 
 That ole ax han l I d then grip and swing it tword the 
 
 skv 
 Then off you know would fly a chip, and hit me in the 
 
 eye 
 
 Choppin wood! 
 
 In fancy now since I ve grown old, I live again in boy 
 hood years 
 
 An hear my father when he d scold, and maybe 1 
 he d box my ears 
 
 For not choppin wood ! 
 
 Barbara Alice Shackle. 
 Morristown. 
 
THANKSGIVING AND PRAYER. 
 I. 
 
 We thank Thee for the joyful sowing time, 
 When balmy south winds wander in the spring 
 With kisses warm for every growing thing 
 That glads the world with hints of blossoming ; 
 
 For all earth s beauty, simple or sublime ; 
 
 For limpid streams that run in rippling rhyme, 
 And sweet delight to hills and valleys bring ; 
 For humming bees and happy birds that sing 
 
 And nest in coverts where the wild vines climi). 
 
 And woodland voices with the wind-harps chime ; 
 For wondrous glory of the summer skies, 
 
 And wealth ol clouds distilling genial showers 
 
 That thrill with vigor languid trees and flowers, 
 
 Whose fragrance sweetens all the ways of life ; 
 
 For hearts that love through all earth s bitter strife, 
 And eyes that smile when lips young laughter dies. 
 
 Dear Lord, let truth s persuasive, still, small voice 
 
 The sinful quicken till their souls rejoice ; 
 Thrice multiply the wisdom of the wise 
 And temper winds to human butterflies. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Great Giver of the bounteous harvest day, 
 God of the seed and sower, kindly hear 
 The hymns Thy children carol year by year, 
 
 Sincere, glad offerings of prayer and praise, 
 
 And let us walk with Thee and learn Thy ways. 
 
 To those who sorrow lead us softly near 
 With dew-like words that vivify and cheer. 
 
 In hearts that hunger through the world and wait 
 
 For human love and sympathy outside the gate 
 Unfed and dying, let Thy mercy shine 
 
 And heal their hurts with Balm of Gilead. 
 
 Guard helpless little ones who weep and pine. 
 
 For mothers early coffined with the dead ; 
 
 Where e er their hapless, tiny feet may tread, 
 
 Be they by guardian angels safely led, 
 Embosomed in Thy tenderness divine. 
 
 Josinah VanMatre Hickman Koons. 
 
 Muncie. 
 
SOMEBODY. 
 
 Somebody s cheeks are burning 
 
 With the fire of a feverish heat, 
 Somebody s lips are yearning. 
 
 For the kiss of an angel, sweet. 
 Somebody can be the good angel, 
 
 That comforts the sorrowing soul, 
 Some one can breathe just a whisper, 
 
 That will make a poor sufferer whole. 
 
 Somebody s brow is throbbing, 
 
 Somebody s hand is cold, 
 Somebody s heart is aching, 
 
 Somebody is growing old. 
 Somebody s voice is feeble, 
 
 Somebody s steps are slow, 
 Somebody s eyes are dimming, 
 For the lights are burning low. 
 
 I know a nice little somebody, 
 
 That climbs upon somebody s knee, 
 And lovingly say to somebody! 
 
 "Have you dot any tisses for me?" 
 Some little body is longing, 
 
 The sunlight of heaven to see, 
 And some little body is waiting, 
 
 For a smile of affection from me. 
 
 Somebody, I know of, is happy, 
 
 For somebody came, one day. 
 And placed in her thin hand a paper, 
 
 That drove the old mortgage away. 
 Somebody smiles, when she kisses 
 
 Her own little darlings three, 
 And somebody blesses somebody, 
 
 Are those blessings for you and me? 
 
 Somebody else is sitting 
 
 In a cottage by a stream; 
 Watching the flight of the shadows, 
 
 And the dawn of the morning s gleam. 
 In that cottage are four little orphans, 
 
 Surrounding a poor widow s knee, 
 And their sad, hungry eyes are imploring 
 
 A brotherly kindness from me. 
 
 Someone else should be happy, 
 
 Somebody else should be ^rue, 
 Bask in the sunshine of plenty, 
 
 Even as me and you. 
 Some one is earnestly trusting 
 
 That some one is willing to be 
 A friend in the midnight of sorrow, 
 
 That friend should be you or me. 
 
 Charles Asbury Robinson. 
 
 Greenfield. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM "DOWN ON THE WABASH." 
 
 Used to be so quiet, and so sorter peaceful; 
 
 Nothin broke the silence, but the wind among the corn; 
 Jest a sobbin low, like the voice of lovers partin/ 
 
 Down on the Wabash, the place where I was born. 
 
 It s powerful curious, aint it? How our tho ts 11 wander backard 
 
 And we ll clean fergit the present, when we think uv what has bin 
 
 And, altho we re gray and wrinkled; we re no longer men and 
 
 wimmen, 
 
 Fur we ve traveled back to childhood, and are boys and girls 
 agin. 
 
 Now I shet my eyes. It s summer! The bumble bee is hummin , 
 And gatherin loads of honey, from the blossoms mong the corn. 
 
 I can see the crows fly over. I can hear a partridge drummin, 
 And, mellered by the distance, a fur off dinner horn. 
 
 The sparks fly up the chimbly. The shadders dance and flicker. 
 
 The smoke goes soarin uppards, and floats off in purple rings; 
 The girls out in the kitchen, poke each other s ribs and snicker; 
 
 It s evenin and Ham Hollingsworth tunes up his fiddle strings. 
 
 Ah! the sound of that old fiddle thro my memory is ringin , 
 And I hear the noisy footsteps, keepin time upon the floor; 
 
 And around the dear old hearthstone, my heartstrings still are 
 
 clingin, 
 Tho the firelight, and the dancers, are gone forever more. 
 
 And through the sashless winders, the mournful wind is sighin, 
 A lonesome owl is hootin in the old dead ellum tree. 
 
 The foxes dig their holes, and at night the bats go flyin, 
 
 In and out among the ruins where the old home used to be. 
 
 But the same old yaller moonlight, sparkles out there on the river; 
 
 And smiles the same, and beckons, as it dances on the wave; 
 The same old hills behind it; The same old sky bends over; 
 
 But the homestead is a ghost now, and silent as the grave. 
 
 Alice D. 0. Greenwood. 
 Newport. 
 
LUCREZIA. 
 
 I reach for her and feel her gone. Oh, to reach for her and feel 
 her gone! In the dense blot of darkness, vainly my lips seek for 
 that warm soft face, her spirit-pure face, in its frame of jet-black 
 hair. Oh, so sweet! The forehead! In size, just ample enough to 
 plant a kiss upon; and only so high, this forehead, that when my 
 lips were at its coronal, my brow knew the softness of LQC hair. 
 Oh, that hair! That hair of deepest jet, how it sparkled with 
 blackness. How the light, bursting on it, was transmuted into gloss, 
 like the moonlight in a ripple. Her hair was not sleek, as the black 
 bird wears its garb; but drooping very loosely, like the weeping wil 
 low boughs. Lucrezia s hair hung in billows. whole billows of 
 hair. Billows! And out of these billows, two eyes. Those eyes! 
 Those lambent, those haloed, those heavenly orbs; emblozonries of 
 feeling, prismatically colored: palaces of emotion, with love couch- 
 ant at each window! How our inmost beings met and mixed as 1 
 gazed into those eyes Lucrezia s eyes; not like sepulchral lamps, 
 burning low, but glowing with love s gentle lambencies; lit up with 
 a spark from that fire of fires. How they lavished their treasure 
 upon me: poured wine upon my spirit. But gone! 
 
 The heavenly beauty of her face. this was Love s masterpiece, the 
 triumph of all creation. Hers was not a face of serpentining beauty, 
 emblazoned with color, but a face, oh. so very, very sweet. The 
 sparkling black hair left its shadow upon her skin, and gave it the 
 darkness of deep waters. Lucrezia s skin would have been very 
 dark, had not the glow of tumultous feeling transmuted it with 
 color and lighted it with a radiance from within. Twas a delicate 
 beauty that gave joy to my sense; a twilight face, dark but glow 
 ing. Her whole soul was in her face, when she turned it towards 
 me; and wherever it was turned it brought her heart. 
 
 I am haunted with the vision of a soul enwrapped in a face; a 
 roul beaming forth from two eyes Lucrezia s eyes framed in whole 
 billows of jet-black hair. This image moves perennially upon the 
 waste of my dreams, like the spirit of God moving upon the face 
 of the waters. Somtimes I hear the intonation, the soft intonation, 
 of Lucrezia s voice behind me. and feel her breath, the breath of 
 hyacinth, upon my neck, and her gentle hand upon my cheek. Some 
 times she beams upon me with those eyes. Those eyes! And her 
 slender figure steals upon my dreams, enveloped all about with a 
 nimbus, a glory; a tiara of splendor upon her brow; and gleaming 
 from her countenance an aureola of love-light. Which light, oh 
 God. must illuminate for me my narrow grave. 
 
 Clarence Wilbur Miller. 
 Frankfort. 
 
CHRISTMAS JOYS. 
 
 The star that shone o er Palestine, 
 
 In Herod s ancient day, 
 Still to the Babe of Bethlehem, 
 
 As brightly points the way, 
 
 And angels still proclaim with joy, 
 
 The glory of His birth, 
 And herald from the riven sky^ 
 
 "Good-will, and peace on earth." 
 
 The song that filled the sky that night, 
 
 Still floats upon the air, 
 And thrills us with the melody, 
 
 It brought to shepherds there. 
 
 And shall that blessed Star of stars, 
 
 Illume my heart anew? 
 Or will more earthly scenes deflect, 
 
 Its brightness from my view? 
 
 And as His herald comes again, 
 
 Will you receive\this King? 
 And like the Magi, joyfully, 
 
 Your homage to Him bring t 
 
 And will that first grand Christmas hymn, 
 
 Attune our souls to praise, 
 And with the harpers of the sky, 
 
 Our thankful anthems raise? 
 
 Yes, to our hearts this Prince of Peace, 
 
 Shall be a welcome guest, 
 And in our lives His guiding hand, 
 
 Will be made manifest. 
 
 And we will love Him more and more, 
 
 For His atoning grace, 
 Until we know as we are known, 
 
 And see Him face to face. - pnnas 
 
 Eugene G. Regennas. 
 
 Hope. 
 
A LITTLE MORE SUNSHINE. 
 
 In the grand economy of Nature, there is always more of the beau 
 tiful than of the disagreeable; more of pleasure than of pain; more 
 of the warblings of birds than the bellowings of thunders; more 
 of fruitful, flowery hills and fields than of arid wastes or rocky deso 
 lation; more of things useful than of things baneful; more of light 
 than of darkness, more of life than of death. 
 
 Kindness, pity, charity and love are the essentials of revealed 
 religion. Our modern civilization, in all its forms of worship, recog 
 nizes the eternal love of the Godhead. The Sun of Righteousness 
 is ever rising, sending healing and blessing and peace upon all that 
 belip.ve 
 
 The extent of the recognition of this principle of universal love 
 in a community is a measure of its progress, its advancement beyond 
 the heathen world. With them the two principles of good and evil 
 are ever in conflict. Because the evil is feared, it must be propiti 
 ated by sacrifices, and in many and various ways. With us, the 
 conflict is recognized; but the desire for the good is greater than 
 the fear of the evil. The result is the multiplication of all forms 
 of benevolence for the relief of sickness and suffering and want. 
 The lightnings of Sinai are less potent than the simple statements 
 of the Beatitudes. The wish to reform a criminal is, in many cases, 
 greater than the desire to punish him. He is imprisoned, but ne 
 is taught to read right, to live right, to work right. If failure does 
 frequently follow these efforts, the intention, nevertheless, is good, 
 and we can not do otherwise than give it praise. 
 
 And in all our intercourse with our fellowmen, kindness and 
 patience are far more effectual in producing desired results than 
 rudeness and surliness. The sunshine is far more potent than the 
 storm. 
 
 In the schoolroom, that discipline which is born of sunbeams is 
 better, is more effectual, is more commendable, than that which is 
 the result of brutal force, either of will or muscle. 
 
 A little more sunshine few rules, much heart, few clouds, much 
 of the suaviter in modo in front, with the fortiter in re in reserve 
 is what we want in our school-rooms. 
 
 There are teachers who can govern with the full bla.ze of the noon 
 sunshine. Ivy surrounds them; blessings attend their footsteps. 
 They are welcomed when they come, admired and respected when 
 they go. With them and by them is continual sunshine, and teaching 
 and studying alike become pleasures that are long remembered. 
 
 David Marion Geeting. 
 Greensburs. 
 
 10 
 
OUR SOLDIERS GRAVE. 
 
 Sleep, heroes, slumber sweet, no bugle s note or cannon s roar, 
 No rude alarm shall wake thee, half rested from thy bed. 
 
 No weary march, no sentinel s watch with pitiless storms upon thee; 
 No unvoiced longings for thy home no prison life to dread, 
 
 But rest, peaceful rest in honored graves, thy country guard so 
 tenderly. 
 
 Sleep, heroes, sleep, the restless years that come and go, 
 May see proud nations crumble and glorious kingdoms fall, 
 
 Man s thought eclipse the past, this great land peopled vast, 
 In life s quick growth, may cease to pause and fondly gather all 
 
 The glory of historic days, e en these may fail at last 
 To stir the fire of grateful love, as in the olden time. 
 
 But while the eagle on free wing mounts to the upper sky, 
 
 While the stars in silent grandeur roll, held by hand secure, 
 While the stars and stripes o er freemen wave, and floating proud 
 
 and high, 
 
 The meanest subject protection hath in its ample folds so sure, 
 So long will these, oh humble mounds, though all things wear a 
 
 change, 
 
 Be thy people s sacred trust and bending o er each lowly grave 
 With reverent step and gentlest air in the years that lie before. 
 
 We will teach our youth to come, while tenderly we tell why gave 
 Those brave, true hearts their richest blood, and when the story s 
 o er 
 
 We ll proudly point to that blood-bought nag 
 In mid-air floating, neath a calm and beauteous sky, 
 
 Like a guarding spirit watching, while its defenders sleep 
 Bid them by this precious dead learn how to live and nobly die. 
 
 Oh, music, lowly breathe, wail your saddest dirge. 
 And blow, oh, south wind, sweetest, softest sigh; 
 
 And take your garlands, woman true, ever so glad to bear 
 Sweetest frangrance to the tomb tis meet that they should be 
 
 The tribute of your faithful love to those whose angel oft ye were. 
 
 Helen Mar Fawcett. 
 
 New Albany. 
 
LINES TO A FRIEND. 
 (Dedicated to E. J. H.) 
 
 Oh, Eddie, Eddie, friend of mine 
 And friend of all who meet you, 
 
 Today, as in the "Auld Lang Syne," 
 Right heartily I greet you. 
 
 Full twenty years have floated down 
 
 The rapid stream of ages 
 Since we two went from town to town 
 
 And trod the mimic stages. 
 
 And now and then when times were good 
 Came fame and pelf together, 
 
 And now and then Dame Fortune would 
 Send days of stormy weather. 
 
 But if we rode or if we walked 
 The skies were bright above us, 
 
 The heroines smiled, the soubrettes talked, 
 The wenches still would love us. 
 
 Sam Bolter with his turnip feast 
 
 Was not the worst of fellows, 
 With "Millions in it" at the least 
 
 As old Mulberry Sellers. 
 
 Now while your Thespian days are past 
 
 I still make mimic faces ; 
 The Manager of All has casi 
 
 Us for our different places. 
 
 And when we leave our work and play, 
 
 Our love and tears and laughter 
 Upon some perfect, golden day 
 May we two meet hereafter. 
 
 Walter Newton Hammett. 
 
 New Harmony. 
 
 
CHRISTMAS STORIES. 
 
 Now there was old Hunky Ball, a famous character of the Wabash 
 country who claimed that this thing of feeling comfortable was 
 merely a matter of imagination after all. On a Christmas many 
 years ago Hunky went to the county seat on his annual holiday 
 outing. He sported no large variety of clothes, to be sure. Times 
 had been hard with him. The price of corn husking had been 
 reduced about ten per cent, there wasn t much cord wood to chop, 
 and naturally his income had been reduced. But Hunky had an idea 
 that every true patriot should celebrate Christmas, and when he 
 arrived at the county seat he had, beside a pair of shoes and a red 
 flannel shirt, 85 cents in the pockets of his jeans. Hunky was soon 
 in the center of the mad whirl, spending generously of his means 
 and drinking the fiery applejack of that district. 
 
 Along about midnight of Christmas a party returning from a 
 fiance, fell over the prostrate form of a man in the big road. It was 
 Hunky. Tired nature and applejack had done their work, and 
 Hunky lay prone on his back, fast frozen to the ground. They 
 believed him dead, but he wasn t; in fact he wasn t even asleep. 
 He had fallen asleep, true enough, and when, on awakening, he 
 found himself frozen to the ground he just lay still and waited 
 the coming of another day. When the dance party attempted to 
 assist Hunky he protested, saying: 
 
 "Gentlemen, just go and tend to you own business. I m a po 
 man an never ha med eny o you. I need this here shirt; it s all 
 I got, an times is ha d. Do you spose I m gwine to hev the back 
 o that last shirt split by bein tore f om the groun ? No, gents, 
 I m waitin fer the mornin thaw; so you go on an tend to yo 
 business, an I ll tend to this here shirt an try to be comf table 
 an contented." 
 
 Ever since I run across this little episode in the life of Hunky 
 Ball I ve been certain that heat or cold was purely a matter of the 
 imagination. 
 
 And the Christmas tree is disappearing, too, they tell me; not. 
 because it was an unpopular method of entertainment, but there 
 were so many Santa Clauses burned and buried that the demand 
 finally exceeded the supply, and the Christmas tree was forced to 
 go out of business. 
 
 Out West, as we still call that country beyond the Missouri, there 
 was a bad man or two in every town twenty to thirty years ago. 
 Occasionally the good people arose en masse and killed a few dozen 
 bad men; but it always entailed more or less expense, and some 
 times even hard feelings would be engendered by the surviving 
 relatives of the dead man takingexceptions to the manner in which 
 the deceased had been removed. 
 
 So an innovation was introduced. Whenever a town had a baa 
 man he was called upon by a committee of distinguished citizens 
 about December 20th and solicited to act as Santa Glaus at th 
 Christmas tree entertainment. Of course he accepted and 
 another committee, on Christmas Eve, costumed him in about W 
 layers of cotton batting, beautiful spangles, tiny bells and a long 
 beard. Then they turned him loose among the presents and 
 candles, and by 10 p. m. the bad man had been successfully removed 
 with no expense except a slightly soiled carpet. _ Carf Brayfieldi 
 
 Charlestown. 
 
THE TESTING OF OUR BARK. 
 
 The day is dawning o er the eastern hills; 
 
 And with the freshness of the dew drenched flowers, 
 Our sprightly souls awake in morning hours 
 
 To venture on life s sea with hope that fills 
 
 Our youthful breast, leaping as flames, and thrills 
 Us with auspicious views of life that towers 
 In splendor; hemmed by no supernal powers, 
 
 But free as water in the sedgeless rills. 
 
 Anxiously then down to the peaceful shore, 
 (While Heaven s moistening kisses freely fall) 
 Where silvery wavelets lip the sand levee, 
 
 We go as millions that have gone before, 
 
 Feeling, with sanguine temperament that all 
 Is prosperous, and launch our barks at sea. 
 
 At noon no longer blows the valued gales 
 
 That sent us onward in our prosperous way, 
 But blackened tempest s unrelenting sway 
 
 Swoops on our bark and rends the bellied sails; 
 
 And in a peeling thunder scoffs and rails 
 That we have still withal one lonely ray 
 Of hope, and virulently seems to say: 
 
 " Tis of no use, your hopeful voyage fails." 
 
 Full many at the verge of honest fame, 
 
 Ere half their journey oer life s sea is sped, 
 Are gulped in storms and find a low abode, 
 
 There to remain in everlasting shame. 
 
 And now that doom seems sure for us when led 
 
 And basked e en in the favor of our God. 
 
 Tis evening The frightful storms are o er, 
 The western skies are gloriously dight 
 With fleecy clouds and golden liveries bright; 
 
 And neath the sinking sun s low level glore 
 
 Our paths are marked by glistening waves before 
 To shining shores that dazzle in the sight 
 And dance with pure Elysian delight 
 
 Where we ll ere while with welcome step ashore. 
 
 How filled our souls when evening shades grow dim, 
 To know our bark hath o er a dangerous sea 
 Been safely moored; and though laborious 
 
 Hath been the voyage, our constancy and vim 
 Hath made us blessed, and senses fit to see 
 
 The grandeur of the sunset glorious. 
 Daleville. claud Caesar Letter 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 
 
 Summer comes, and the people who have been the life of the 
 city s society during the winter scatter themselves among the 
 various summer resorts. What do they go away for? Certainly 
 not for complete rest and recreation, if we may judge from what 
 a woman of fashion said the other day. Asked if she were going 
 to a summer place she had visited for several seasons, she replied: 
 "No; I do not believe it will be much frequented this year, and I 
 want to go where the people are." This seems to be the sentiment 
 of most society people. Do society people get the recuperation they 
 need after a season s social dissipation in the city from a season s 
 social dissipation at a crowded resort? They may gain physical 
 rest, but they can not conserve energy and build themselves up 
 mentally with their minds continually distracted from serious 
 thought by the gay life with which they are surrounded. If the 
 two seasons did not overlap, if people had time to themselves 
 between seasons, there would be less need for absolute summer 
 rest. 
 
 There is a power to be gained from the independent workings of 
 one s mind in solitude that can be had in no other way. 
 
 Nay, I think 
 
 Merely to bask and ripen is sometimes 
 
 The student s wiser business, 
 
 Lowell says; and not only the student s but every busy person s. 
 De Senancour has said: "He that lives in the world lives in one 
 time; he; that lives in solitude lives in all times." It is no wonder 
 that certain classes of people get the reputation of being vapid, 
 when their members have and want no time to themselvs. Of 
 course, summer resorts have their proper use, but when one is 
 selecting a place for an outing, why not seek a place of retirement? 
 The crowded resort is not for one satiated with social life. Society 
 is necessary, but so is solitude. 
 
 Society needs to have the equilibrium of its members restored by 
 a season each year of undisturbed repose. When they get this 
 repose their perspective will be corrected, and there will be less 
 occasion for the slurs of those who are ever too ready to criticise 
 persons in conspicuous stations. 
 
 William Allen Wood. 
 
 Indianapolis. 
 
SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 See the little snow-flakes flying 
 
 All around our home to-night 
 While the north wind keeps a-sighing 
 
 O er a world all robed in white. 
 
 Little snow-flakes, how they glisten ! 
 
 By my window in the light- 
 Tiny snow-flakes, clear as crystals, 
 
 Shining like the diamonds bright. 
 
 How the little snow-flakes scamper 
 
 As the wind comes whirling by- 
 How they dance in merry fashion 
 Though the winds do moan and sigh. 
 
 Little snow-flakes, how like fairies, 
 Wing their way from worlds above, 
 
 Bringing with them from their palaces 
 Bright and hap w words of love. 
 
 May our lives be like the snow-flakes, 
 Just as pure and just as bright 
 
 Ever happy, ever shining, 
 
 Through the long and dreary night. 
 
 DeWitte Clinton Stroup. 
 
 "River. 
 
BEHOLD, I STAND AT THE DOOR AND KNOCK. 
 
 Behold, I stand at the door and knock, 
 
 The door long closed by sin; 
 I m weary with waiting, and sfill I watch, 
 
 Oh, may I not enter in? 
 
 I ve knocked and I ve waited tis deep in the night, 
 
 My locks with its drops are wet; 
 My garments are dripping with chilling dew, 
 
 And, Soul I am waiting yet! 
 
 But the night of my waiting is nearly past, 
 As I knocked at the door of your heart; 
 
 I stand and I knock, and I knock again, 
 I stand, and must soon depart! 
 
 Behold, I stand at the door and knock, 
 
 You move almost to the door; 
 Take down the barrier, sinful soul, 
 
 For I pass this way no more. 
 
 Tis the voice of Love that calls to you, 
 Tis a Friend, O sinner! who speaks; 
 
 The knocking you hear is the knock cf love, 
 Tis the good of your life it seeks. 
 
 By the journey I ve taken, unbar the door! 
 
 By the dew and the night so drear! 
 Hear, while I call to you tonight, 
 
 Open while I am near! 
 
 These locks that are wet with the drops of night, 
 
 That are wet and dank with dew; 
 Hang over the pale disfigurements, 
 
 Of a brow that was torn for you. 
 
 These feet that stand without and wait 
 
 To pass thru the door to you. 
 Are the feet that bore me to agony; 
 
 They re the feet that the nails passed thru. 
 
 These hands that knock at your hard heart s door, 
 That have knocked, and knocked again, 
 
 Within each palm as I reach them out, 
 Still bear the marks of pain. 
 
 Beneath my raiment all damp and cold. 
 
 Oh, am I still denied? 
 Near to my beating heart of love, 
 
 Is the rent in my pierced side. 
 
 Oh, by these scars and the mighty love 
 
 I bear for the like of you, 
 Open the door and I ll come in 
 
 From the night-damps and t 
 
 Liberty. 
 
, 
 
NATURE S PALACE. 
 
 In the blue, hazy distance the woods may be seen 
 All painted by Nature a beautiful green, 
 Above it the clouds, like gray ships and canoes, 
 Are crossing the sea of cerulean hues. 
 
 That is Nature s fair palace whose dome is the sky, 
 Where at night stars (like candles) "are shining so high;" 
 The pillars and columns are tall, stately trees, 
 On which hang the green curtains that swing in the breeze 
 
 The builders are raindrops and sunlight) and air, 
 With the superintending of God s mighty care 
 God created the earth "and the fulness thereof," 
 As well as the bright, starry region above. 
 
 In the woods fragrant flowers, of many a hue, 
 
 (Such as violet, white, yellow, purple, and blue) 
 
 May be seen on the banks of the murmuring rills 
 
 That are formed by the fountains (or springs) on the hills. 
 
 The musical strains from the throat of each bird 
 
 Are about as entrancing as ear ever heard; 
 
 The song of the sparrow, the finch s sweet voice 
 
 And the mock-bird s strange medley make Nature rejoice. 
 
 "Nature s Palace" suggests pleasant thoughts to the mind 1 
 Here is one: If on earth such an Eden we find, 
 What a beautiful place must that be "over there" 
 The place our dear Savior has gone to prepare. 
 
 And if God in his wisdom sees fit to bestow 
 Such care on the perishing things here below, 
 He surely will care for the purified soul 
 That will live "while the years of eternity roll." 
 
 Charles Willard McClintic. 
 Elkhart. 
 
DE WATEHMILLYUN TIME. 
 
 De watermillyun time am hea , 
 
 De sweetest time ob all the yea , 
 
 An 1 said to Riah, "Don you see 
 
 Dars a good time hea for you and me? 
 Kase ober in de co nfield cross de road. 
 Dah am millyuns growin by de wagon load. * 
 
 I said to Riah Poo Sam in bed 
 
 "Come to de co nfield back ob de shed, 
 
 Take along wif yo dat coffee sack 
 
 An jes wait dar till I cum back, 
 Kase ober in de co nfield cross de road 
 Dar s millyuns growin by de wagon load." 
 
 Den Riah Jonsing jes nod her head, 
 
 An took de sack a.i started fo de shed, 
 
 Den I look an listen no soun I catch. 
 
 Den slowly I creep to de millyun patch, 
 Kase I know d in de co nfield cross de road 
 Dahs millyuns growin by de wagon load. 
 
 I went fru de co n till I cum to de vine, 
 
 An dah laid de millyuns, yum, how fine; 
 
 I thumped a big millyun, thud! thud! thud! 
 
 An I knowed his meat was red as blood. 
 Yes, sah; down in dat co nfield cross de road, 
 Dahs millyuns by de wagon load. 
 
 I pulled dat millyun. I creep fru do co n; 
 I was very still bout it sho s yo s bo n, 
 Kase my heart was thumpin for I heard a soun , 
 An den I drap d down on de dark, dark groun . 
 
 An lissen in de co nfield down by de road 
 
 Whar millyuns grow by de wagon load. 
 
 I toted out dat millyun, but I dun went back, 
 
 An I got a-nudder big un an put in de sack, 
 
 Den Riah an me toted em er long, 
 
 Wif many er laff and many er song, 
 Way from de co nfield down by de road 
 Whar millyuns were layin by de wagon load. 
 
 We spected dem millyuns wid an ole case knife, 
 
 Fur I ze fond ob de co e and so is my wife. 
 
 What was next to de rine we left right thar, 
 
 For Sam an Judy an Hezekiah, 
 So we waked dem chillun an to dem showed 
 What we brot em from de co nfield down de road. 
 
 Now member little chillun what you fodder say, 
 Like him, yo be honest, tis fa de better way. 
 An he will pint yo to de paff and show each one de road, 
 Whar de millyuns am a growin by de wagon load. 
 
 Fremont Garrett. 
 
 Winchester. 
 
MOUNT ST. ELIAS. 
 
 Thy paths are other than the paths of men, 
 
 Thy forehead radiant as the morning star, 
 Oft shrouded in the rolling mist has been 
 
 And long has Winter, in his icy car, 
 With cold benumbed thee; vapors, dense and rare, 
 
 Around thee gather and the tempests blow 
 About thy head; still soaring high in air 
 
 Is dimly seen thy cloud-encircled brow, 
 And hark! the glaciers plunge where Ocean rolls, below. 
 
 When mountain-mists envelope thee and veil, 
 
 When thou art hidden in the tempest s shroud, 
 And when with rising wrath the gathering gale 
 
 Communes with thee or mutters in the cloud, 
 When bursts the storm and thunder crashes loud, 
 
 Lost, then, is that sublimity of sights, 
 Which chained the visipn and the spirit bowed. 
 
 A charm, an awe, each precipice excites 
 That steeply frowns on man from thy dread, matchless heights. 
 
 The Children of the Chase have bowed to thee 
 
 As Prophet of the Storm in ages gone. 
 And still they raise their orisons to thee 
 
 When caverns roar and seething breakers run. 
 The savage spirit worships thee as one, 
 
 O er all the forest tribes, Great Manito! 
 The Sachem of the Mountains and the Sun, 
 
 At whose command the winds of winter blow, 
 The waves of ocean roll and foaming torrents flow. 
 
 But there is One above and over thee, 
 
 The Ruler of the Ocean and the Storm, 
 Whose Mighty Hand in awful majesty 
 
 And beauty reared the mountain s lofty form. 
 The forest and the cloud, the starry swarm 
 
 In splendor, brightly beaming, overhead, 
 The deep and lonely vale s sequestered charm, 
 
 He fashioned forth; the flowing rivers fed 
 And foaming torrents o er the precipices led. 
 
 The mountains are the sentinels of God; 
 
 The vales are His eternal resting place; 
 The towering trees that in the breezes nod 
 
 Beneath the sea of Heaven s placid face, 
 His pillars are; the flowing waters trace 
 
 In liquid lines His name upon the sand; 
 The radiant stars illuminating space. 
 
 The rolling ocean and the smiling land, 
 Bear witness to the power of the Almighty Hand. 
 
 Frank White Harned. 
 Richmond. 
 
PROEM FROM "NARCISSUS." 
 
 Sweet Memory! thou matchless maid and emblem of infinity, 
 Haste thee and cloy my soul with dream wraiths wrapped in misty 
 
 films. 
 
 Bid sullen shades depart, I want no wrinkled wayward thought 
 To tread the hidden labyrinths of my heart. \Vnen thou art nigh 
 The phantom brood of sadness steals away; caresses soft as 
 Thistle-down, do lightly fall and trouble-musings brush aside. 
 Come thou at dawn and with the pale blue cloud, to dip and drown 
 
 me in 
 
 The hours I d buried in the past; to summer days when moments fled 
 Like frightened fledglings to the mother nest; to summer nights 
 
 when 
 
 Weary nature crooned soft lullabies, and fragrant zephyrs whis 
 pered, till 
 The hum of drowsy drones did steep us deep in summer s languor 
 
 soft. 
 
 Oh Memory! thy varied moods and perfect wiles have lingered long; 
 They come in dreams as merry glees of birds and raindrops music 
 
 notes . 
 
 The robins matin lay, the pale nuns even-song thou brightest near. 
 For anxious Care hath never cloaked thy dimpling smile or stilled 
 The low pure intonations of thy passioned voice; so rich in tone 
 That e en the liquid lute or mellow viol might strive to emulate. 
 Though burdened years have flit away, I list as to a chambered shell 
 Remembering words that fill my heart with rapturous music, then 
 
 regret, 
 
 And one long yearn for just the whispered fragrance of thy pres 
 ence. 
 
 Thy dreamy orbs and sun-fringed hair, intoxication lent to 
 The warm coquetry of thy charms; enslaving many a pensive heart 
 That aches with jealous rage at Death who dares to let his finger 
 
 chill 
 Rove o er thy face and blanch thy rosy lips. Oh precious Memory! 
 
 Percy Arthur Parry. 
 Hammond. 
 
THE FIRST SORROW. 
 
 Once there were two happy young people who loved each other. 
 They had been married just a twelve-month when a little girl came 
 to live with them. Such a tiny little girl she was, but small a& 
 was the little lady she had a way of making herself heard and at 
 tended to. She had a peculiar language of her own that the 
 young mother learned to know and understand. 
 
 The young parents looked upon the frail barque that had drifted 
 in to them from an unknown isle of blessedness, in m.utual wonder 
 and delight. It was all so marvelous. They could scarcely realize 
 it at first. Was it their baby really their very own baby? How 
 good of God! How good! But they were so ignorant so helpless. 
 Would He teach them wisdom? Would He show them the way to 
 lead this little girl? 
 
 Day by day the baby thrived. Before the weeks stretched them 
 selves into many months baby looked up into its mother s face and 
 smiled. Oh joy! It knew her. It knew her. Would the father 
 come and see? Quick, oh quick! There look now. Wasn t it 
 beautiful? A little later it began to coo and gurgle and talk in 
 baby fashion. Every day brought out some new phaze in look, 
 tone or manner. The young parents sat through the long happy 
 twilights and talked confidently of the future and dreamed on, un 
 aware of the shadow stealthily approaching. One morning the 
 little girl was not well. The old family physician was called 
 in. He looked wise and said there was nothing wrong. The 
 baby would be all right by night. He left some dark liquid in a 
 bottle and went away. The heart of the young mother was sore 
 troubled. 
 
 The baby slept on till the morning. The door was opened to 
 admit the doctor. He bent down over the little girl. The mother 
 saw his face change. 
 
 The doctor raised his head and shook it gravely. 
 "I can t do anything," he said. "It s too late." 
 
 The young mother sat through the long days that followed strok 
 ing the arm that had made a hollow for the little head and moaned: 
 "I m so hungry for her so hungry!" 
 
 But as time went on and other sturdy boys and girls came to grow 
 up about them, the father and mother learned this: The little 
 barque haa to drift back to the country from whence it came, to 
 give them the very wisdom they had asked of God. 
 
 Minnie Thomas Boyce. 
 Muncie. 
 
I 
 
TWO NATURES. 
 
 Two sisters fair, on a stormy night, 
 
 Sat and talkc- 1 in the flickering light 
 
 Of an old fashioned grate with its embers bright. 
 
 The rain beat down on the panelled door 
 And the night winds blew with a Ceaseless roar 
 Like mighty waves on a rocky shore. 
 
 Then one of the maids uneasy grew 
 
 And nearer and nearer the fireplace drew 
 
 As the rain beat on and the night winds blew. 
 
 "It moans, oh sister, it moans to me 
 
 Of shipwrecked boats on a storm tossed sea, 
 
 Of souls that must enter eternity." 
 
 The other rose from her sister s side 
 And opened the window s curtain wide 
 "Shall we from our Father s presence hide? 
 
 It speaks to me of a King s great might 
 
 Of how His every plan is right ( 
 
 Something, somewhere needs the rain to-night- 
 
 And she watched by the window a long hour 
 
 through, 
 
 But the other nearer the fireplace drew 
 As the rain beat on and the night winds b 
 
 Josephine Page Wright. 
 Ft. Wayne 
 
MY COUNTRY RIGHT OR WRONG. 
 
 Forever let this be my song, 
 
 The thought is good enough for me 
 
 My country right, my country wrong, 
 Where floats her flag oh there I ll be. 
 
 Her cannons never flame nor roar, 
 On heaving sea or verdant sod, 
 
 But belch to bless the distant shore, 
 And break a tyrant s cruel rod. 
 
 It waves in Cuba s tropic air, 
 Bright gem of the silvery seas, 
 
 And o er free Porto Rico fair, 
 
 Floats in the Sandwich Islands breeze. 
 
 z It is the oriflame of God, 
 
 And shining bright across the world, 
 It breaks the proud oppressor s rod, 
 Wheresoever that flag s unfurled. 
 
 Sc o er the oceans broad and wide, 
 
 Our starry flag shall ever be, 
 The Morning Star, across the tide, 
 
 To those oppressed, who would be free. 
 
 The thought is good enough for me, 
 My country right, my counTy wrong, 
 Where floats her flag, oh, there I ll be, 
 Blessed Banner of the Brave and Free. 
 
 Dewitt C. Chipman 
 Anderson. 
 
ft, 
 
AT A TENEMENT WINDOW. 
 
 Sometimes my needle stops with half-drawn thread 
 
 (Not often though, each moment s waste means bread 
 
 And missing stitches leave the little mouths unfed.) 
 
 I look down on the dingy court below : 
 
 A tuft of grass is all it has to show 
 
 A broken pump, where thirsty children go. 
 
 Above, there shines a bit of sky, so small 
 
 That it might be a passing blue-bird s wing. 
 
 One tree leans up against the high brick wall, 
 
 And there the sparrows twitter of the spring, 
 
 Until they waken in my heart a cry 
 
 Of hunger, that no bread can satisfy. 
 
 Always before, when May-time took her way 
 Across the fields, I followed close. Touc._ 
 I can but dream of all her bright array. 
 My work drops down. Across the sill I lean, 
 And long with bitter longing, for unseen 
 Rain-freshened paths, where budding woods gro\\ 
 green. 
 
 The water trickles frcm the pump below 
 Upon the stones. With eyes half shut, I hear 
 It falling in a pool where rushes grow, 
 And feel a cooling presence drawing near. 
 And now the sparrows chirp again. No, hark! 
 A singing as of some far meadow lark. 
 
 It is the same old miracle applied 
 
 Unto myself, that on the mountain-side 
 
 The few small loaves and fishes multiplied. 
 
 Behold, how strange and sweet the mystery. 
 
 The birds, the broken pump, the gnarled tree, 
 
 Have brought the fullness of the spring to me. 
 
 For in the leaves that rustle by the wall 
 
 All forests find a tongue. And so the grass 
 
 Can, with its struggling tuft of green, recall 
 
 Wide, bloom-filled meadows where the cattle pass. 
 
 How it can be, but dimly I divine. 
 
 These crumbs, God given, make the whole loaf mine. 
 
 Annie Fellows Johnston. 
 
 T^VQ 11 QA, T l1 1 P 
 
OUR LITTLE GIRL WHO DIED WITHOUT A 
 
 NAME. 
 
 How brief the stay, as beautiful as fleeting, 
 
 The time that baby came with us to dwell ; 
 Just long enough to give a happy greeting, 
 
 Just long enough to bid us all farewell. 
 Death travels down the thickly-settled highway, 
 
 At shining marks they say he loves to aim ; 
 How did he find, far down the lonely byway, 
 
 Our little girl who died without a name? 
 
 We do not know the fond endearment spoken 
 
 To which she listened when she fell asleep, 
 And so, beside a column that was broken, 
 
 We laid her to her slumber calm and deep. 
 We traced upon the stone with loving fingers, 
 
 These simple words affection s tear to claim: 
 "In dreams, beyond all earthly sorrow, lingers 
 
 Our little girl who died without a name." 
 
 She sleeps serene where fragrant mossy willows 
 
 In sweet and wordless tunes forever wave, 
 And summer seas in long and grassy billows 
 
 Break into bloom around her lonely grave. 
 In memory s hall how many heroes slumber, 
 
 We s^ild their deeds upon the scroll of fame; 
 I treasure far above this mighty number, 
 
 Our little girl who died without a name. 
 
 Alonzo Rice. 
 Waldron. 
 
 12 
 
OUR DARLING TREASURE. 
 
 Though my life is filled with labor, 
 
 Busy days from morn till night, 
 1 have much to cheer me onward, 
 
 One dear thought is my delight, 
 When my busy day is ended 
 
 And my thoughts toward home are drawn, 
 Erom within a sweet voice greets me: 
 
 "Mamma, where have papa gone?" 
 
 When I enter through the doorway, 
 
 Baby faces glad with light, 
 Give to me the grandest welcome, 
 
 In my cottage home at night. 
 Then, when I have bathed for supper, 
 
 And am in my chair for rest, 
 Baby arms reach up and beg me 
 
 For the usual night caress. 
 
 Then with joy I lift my baby 
 To his perch upon my knee, 
 
 And he laughs, and coos, and prattles- 
 Seems as happy as can be. 
 
 How much I love my little prattler 
 Words of mine can scarce express, 
 
 But with tenderest love I fold him 
 In my arms fast to my breast. 
 
 Then his blue eyes looking upward 
 Beam with love he gives to me, 
 
 And his baby prattle tells me: 
 "Nicey papa" this says he. 
 
 By and by he seems to weary, 
 
 But unselfish, thinks of me, 
 
 And in baby whispers asks me : 
 "Papa, papa, is oo seepee. 
 
 When our evening prayer is ended 
 
 And we each retire to rest, ^ 
 Deep within our hearts we feel it, 
 
 We indeed are truly blest. 
 Father, grant Thy richest blessings, 
 
 Without measure, full and free. 
 And we ll try to teach our darlings 
 
 All to love and follow thee. 
 
 Jennie Oliver Appleman. 
 
 Bushy Prairie. 
 
HOMESICK. 
 
 Wisht I could go back again 
 To the old home in the West, 
 Jest to get a glimpse once more 
 Of the things I loved the best. 
 Jest to see the tumble weeds 
 A rollin crost the breakin 
 Jest to see an old sod house 
 Would stop my heart from achin 
 Jest to hear the prairie chickens 
 Drummiir in the hollers, 
 Jest to see a medder lark, 
 I d give a hundred dollars. 
 Jest to see the green of Spring 
 A creepin crost the plain, 
 Would bring the joy of childhood 
 Into my heart again. 
 I d like to hear the summer wind 
 A blowin crost the wheat; 
 I reckon I never will hear again 
 A sound that s half so sweet. 
 
 I d like to be drivin the cows again 
 Or shockin up the wheat, 
 
 With the hot sun nigh about roastin me, 
 
 And the stubble a prickin my feet. 
 
 And I d like to hear, in the Autumn, 
 
 The sound of the reaper s song, 
 
 Or to see a prairie fire 
 
 A crawlin and creepin along. . 
 
 Or even to hear, in the winter, 
 
 The sound of a blizzard s roar, 
 
 Would take me back, through weary years, 
 
 To be a child once more. 
 
 Jest to see the dear old friends 
 
 And to take em by the hand, 
 
 Would seem like I had gone to sleep, 
 
 And waked in the Better Land. 
 
 And so my thoughts keep turniiv 
 
 Back to the golden West ; 
 
 And my heart is longin for jest one glimpse 
 
 Of the things that I loved best. 
 
 Mary Frances Bigelow. 
 
 Elkhart. 
 
Wall, no! I can t tell where he lives, 
 
 Because he don t live, you see; 
 Leastways he s got out of the habit 
 
 Of livin like you and me. 
 Whar have you been for the last three years, 
 
 That you haven t heard folks tell 
 How Jim Bludso passed in his checks, 
 
 The night of the Prairie Bell? 
 He weren t no saint them engineers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike 
 One wife in Natchez-TJnder-the-Hill 
 And another one here in Pike; 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward man in a row. 
 But he never flunked and he never lied 
 
 I reckon he never knowed how. 
 And this was all the religion he had 
 
 To treat his engine well; 
 Never be passed on the river; 
 , To mind the pilot s bell; 
 And if ever the Prairie Bell took firc- 
 
 A thousand times he swore 
 He d hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 All boats has their day on the Mississipp, 
 
 And her day came at last 
 The Movaster was a better boat, 
 
 But the Bell, she wouldn t be passed, 
 And so she come tearin along that night 
 
 The oldest craft on the line 
 With a nigger squat on her safety-valve. 
 
 And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 
 The fire bust out as she cleared the bar, 
 
 And burnt a hole in the night, 
 And quick as a flash she turned, and made 
 
 For that wilier bank on the right. 
 There was runnin and cursin , but Jim yelled out, 
 
 Over all the infernal roar, 
 "I ll hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last galoot s ashore." 
 Through the hot, black breath of the burnin boat 
 
 Jim Bludso s voice was heard, 
 And they all had trust in his cussednes^. 
 
 And know d he would keep his word. 
 And, sure s you r born, they all got off 
 
 Afore the smokestacks fell 
 And Bludso s ghost went up alone 
 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 He weren t no saint but at jedgment 
 
 I d run my chance with Jim, 
 Longside of some pious gentlemen 
 
 That wouldn t shook hands with him. 
 He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing 
 
 And went for it thar and then; 
 And Christ ain t a-going to be too hard 
 
 On a man that died for men. 
 Salem. John Hay. 
 
BOUNTIFUL JUNE. 
 
 O bountiful June ! The golden sun 
 Now bids you welcome your race to run, 
 And hails you a queen this natal day 
 Born of the night divided with May. 
 
 She kissed you awake at midnight hour 
 Full robed and crowned in your silent bower ; 
 Neath the palace dome of the starlit skies 
 You leapt from your couch in quick surprise. 
 
 The broad grain fields that wave in the breeze, 
 Sparkling with crystals wrought of the seas, 
 And greetings from corn-land, valley and lea, 
 All happy and joyous, trusting to thee. 
 
 And down from the mountain, a glow, a gleam 
 Rushes to meet the silvery stream ; 
 From woodland and glen the songbird s note 
 And flowers perfume together afloat. 
 
 All nature is decked in proudest array 
 Her fairest garments she is wearing today , 
 Bringing her richest treasures, a boon 
 To welcome thee queen, O bountiful June. 
 
 Philip Shissler Binkley. 
 East Germantown. 
 
AIR CASTLES. 
 
 Sleeping, I dreamed, and in my dreaming saw 
 Fair in a vale set round with turquoise steeps, 
 Where starry lotus slept upon the deeps 
 Of the still meres, and languor seemed the law, 
 A city, rising in the drowsy light 
 
 Slim minarets above, broad halls below, 
 Carved capitals, wreathed columns, walls of sno\v 
 All cunningly displayed to please the sight. 
 And as I gazer 4 , half doubting that my eyes 
 Saw such a sight, half knowing it was true- 
 As haunting- strains of music wander through 
 The soul, while ancient mem ries ebb and rise 
 "What is the vale, and what the city fair?" 
 I asked, as one who ponders in his heart 
 Some question ; then I heard without a start 
 A voice that, seeming, spoke from empty air: 
 "Mark well the sight ; all that thoti seest here- 
 Minaret, dome and wall, and garden sweet, 
 Frondage of palms that guard each silent street- 
 All thou hast known and, knowing, held them de? 1 
 Once more I looked, and knew that it was so, 
 And halting mem ry told me then the tale: 
 Once more I saw, as through a filmy veil, 
 Castles my heart had builded, long ago- 
 
 Frank Glover Heaton. 
 "Marion. 
 
GOD S BREATH. 
 
 He passed this way ; 
 
 I heard the rustling of His garments fair, 
 And called it night-wind in the tree tops bare , 
 Saw but a glorious hem with silver gleam, 
 
 And thought it moon-light s beam. 
 
 He passed this way, 
 
 Pausing with love beside my casement lone 
 To look upon His sleeping little one, 
 And breathed upon the pane through the chill ; 
 
 A page of beauty rare. 
 
 And since His breath 
 
 Is beauty s soul arrayed beyond compare, 
 I would that He, who stood outside so fan- 
 Would enter where no hindering casement >e, 
 
 And breathe on me. 
 
 Alice Warren Milligan. 
 
 Spencer. 
 
 air 
 
LIFE S SCHOOLDAY. 
 
 Tis said that all this life of ours 
 
 Where prick the thorns and smile the flowers 
 
 Is one vast school. 
 And in the dew-lit dawn of youth, 
 Begins the search for hidden truth ; 
 
 While sunbeams strew their roseate ray 
 Across the first proud, happy day. 
 
 Neath teacher s rule. 
 With far-off prophecy, is filled 
 Our young ambition, doubt is stilled 
 
 In vision bright 
 
 Of effort crowned. There are no fears 
 That through the surging tide of years, 
 The ship that bears most precious freight, 
 Must sail thwart rock-girt coast of fate, 
 
 Toward summit white. 
 Like land receding from the sea, 
 When stalely ships, all silently 
 
 Drop from the shore ; 
 So swiftly morn glides into noon, 
 And Time s hour-glass, ah, me ! how soon 
 W 7 ill scatter through its ceasless flow, 
 The sands of youthful hopes, aglow 
 
 With childhood s lore. 
 Conies afternoon : The lessons learned 
 Grow deeper as each page is turned 
 
 In life s great Book. 
 Each mastered task a stepping-stone 
 To higher grade, where mystic zone 
 Girds aspiration s dizzy hight, 
 Toward which through whirl of Time s swift 
 flight 
 
 We ever look. 
 
 Serenely, now, the sun has dipped 
 Into the West; and stars have slipped 
 
 Back to their place. 
 From matin song to vesper bell, 
 We ve studied long recited well. 
 And soon a volume new we ll hold. 
 Where, with their shining pens of gold 
 
 The angels trace. 
 
 Adelia Pope Branham. 
 Greenfield. 
 
INDIANA. 
 
 Fair Indiana, our native land ! 
 
 A poet s song for thee ; 
 A song that will through ages stand, 
 
 To immortality. 
 
 A song of home, of humble strain, 
 
 Thy far off sons to cheer ; 
 With love for thee in every vein, 
 
 A song of rev rence dear. 
 
 No purer land the earth contains, 
 
 Here burns the patriot s fire ; 
 Here Christian hope forever reigns, 
 
 And tunes the sacred lyre. 
 
 Though winter s frost has nipped thy green, 
 
 Yet soon will smiling spring 
 In beauty look upon the scene, 
 
 And bid all nature sing. 
 
 Long may you boast the great and good, 
 
 Thy peers be men of worth, 
 Thy motto : Freedom, Brotherhood, 
 
 To gild thy name on earth. 
 
 May peace and plenty be thy store, 
 
 With joy and sweet content ; 
 May never tyrants rule thy shore, 
 
 Thy greatness ne er be rent. 
 
 Lucy Ellyat Hoggatt. 
 Petersburg. 
 
THE PERFECT DAY. 
 
 God of life, and truth, and love- 
 God around, beneath, above 
 Clear the dust of earth away : 
 Let us have the perfect day 
 
 Day without the dark of sin ; 
 Day with Christ the life within. 
 Doubts must vanish, flee away : 
 Let us have the perfect day. 
 
 Morning, evening, day and night 
 All in God, alike, are right; 
 Joy and sorrow tis His way: 
 Let us have the perfect day ; 
 
 Day without a doubt of good, 
 Faith in human brotherhood ; 
 Christ the life, the truth, the way: 
 This will bring the perfect day. 
 
 Esther Strattan Wallace. 
 Richmond. 
 
BATTLE SONG OF YOUTH. 
 
 In gloom or mirth 
 
 The cloud-wrapped earth 
 Doth swing in sun and rain ; 
 
 But be the future dark or clear, 
 
 I ll falter not in doubt or fear, 
 Nor reck the joy or pain. 
 
 Thro daring deed 
 
 My path shall lead 
 Where heroes strive and die ; 
 
 But spite of ills that lurk and wait, 
 
 My life shall claim its high estate, 
 And baffling foes defy. 
 
 If friends be true, 
 
 Or friends be few ; 
 My valor twill but prime ; 
 
 I ll meet the dragons of my fate, 
 
 And force allegiance soon or late, 
 Nor stay a march sublime. 
 
 Let stars burn clear, 
 Or cease to cheer, 
 The upward path I climb ; 
 
 Yet with the might of soul desire, 
 I ll write my name in^ living fire. 
 Beyond the storms of Time! 
 
 Elizebeth Ellen Eoulke. 
 Richmond. 
 
SING, MAMMA, SING. 
 
 "Sing, mamma, sing, and the curly head 
 
 Tossed to and fro on the little bed, 
 
 Unable quite to go to rest, 
 
 Unsung, unhushed and uncaressed ; 
 
 And with the wakeful, asking eyes 
 
 Looked out in wond ring, grieved surprise 
 
 That mamma sat so still and sad, 
 
 With hushed voice, which e er so glad 
 
 Sang lullaby so soft and mild 
 
 To her sleepy, sleeping, dreaming child. 
 
 And mamma tried to raise her voice, 
 To sing the song, her baby s choice, 
 But ere she could voice forth a note 
 It trembled, died in her swelling throat, 
 For her heart was sad and full of grief, 
 And mourned in sorrow, whose relief 
 Was only tears ; for on that day 
 Had Death stole one loved one away ; 
 A song, how could she ever start 
 With trembling lips and sorrowing heart? 
 
 The lisping lips pled once again, 
 
 The mother woke and stifled pain, 
 
 The lonely living claimed no less 
 
 Than loved dead her tenderness. 
 
 O baby, what a mission sweet, 
 
 To keep the mother-heart replete 
 
 With song! No matter what the mood, 
 
 Nor the heart-ache which she would 
 
 Nurse in silence and in tears, 
 
 She must lay aside all cares. 
 
 And sing to baby, sing and sing, 
 
 Till the song itself shall sweet peace bring. 
 
 Viola Parks Edwards. 
 Bedford. 
 
I WONDER WHY. 
 
 O dawning day, so fair to see, 
 
 O youthful life, how bright it be, 
 
 O noon-tide hour, O life-time s prime, 
 O sun of day, O sun of time, 
 
 O sun descending in the west 
 
 O life, thou rt passing, fleeting fast, 
 
 day, thy work so grandly done 
 
 At close, 
 
 Ours scarcely 
 Has begun ! 
 
 In deepest thought my mind I turn, 
 
 To study oft, but never learn- 
 Why we our life-course may not run 
 With perfect close, as setting sun. 
 
 1 wonder why, at diwn of light, 
 When pass away the shades of night ; 
 
 I wonder why, at noon-tide hour, 
 
 When earth s great lamp displays her 
 
 power ; 
 I wonder why, at twilight hour, 
 
 Wlien dew is resting on the flower ; 
 I wonder why, at still of night, 
 
 When shine the stars, so clear, so bright, 
 I wonder why, when sets life s sun, 
 Our work, 
 
 We cannot say, 
 Is done. 
 
 Pearl Augusta Williams. 
 Greensburg. 
 
A PICTURESQUE WATER-WAY. 
 
 If you desire to take a row, I would say go 
 in the early morning-, when the sun first shakes the 
 rays of light from his tangled meshes ; turn the prow 
 of your boat toward the city of W . Let the gleam 
 ing oars bear you swiftly, pausing only as you pas: 
 a bed of sleeping lilies. There you want to steer your 
 boat in and out the cushions of moss and weed, plunge 
 your arm into the shining depths and pluck the lily- 
 stem from its secure moorings. After stowing away 
 your treasures in a corner of your boat where the sun 
 will kiss their petals until they open into cups of 
 creamy gold, you hasten a /ay soon reaching the 
 mouth of this sequestered channel. 
 
 Now linger lazily under the shadows of the trees. 
 The sunlight is waking bird and blossom ; the mid 
 summer insect is humming his sleepy monotone ; tfu 
 dew is sparkling on bramble and fern. Instinctively 
 you think of Tennyson s Brook, but instead of gliding 
 over a pebbly bottom, the water is sleeping quietly on 
 its couch of dark mosses. On either side the delicate 
 green ferns bend low, the crimson wild flower nods to 
 her image in the water and the golden-rod braids hei 
 yellow tresses by the same mirror. 
 
 The banks are aglow with flower color. The thorny 
 blackberry thrusts its fruit to the water s edge, you 
 push your boat close and pluck and eat your fill of the 
 fresh luscious fruit. A tangled mass farther in of dew 
 berry and huckleberry, of shrub and flower attracts 
 your attention. The morning dew and freshness over 
 all, and quietness about you, causes you to thank your 
 Heavenly Father for a world so beautiful and 1VTE 
 for showing you the way to my quiet lagoon. 
 
 Sue N. Barr Grouse. 
 LaFayette. 
 
THE PSALMS IX THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 (By Courtesy of the Century Magazine.) 
 
 In the great ocean s thunder 
 
 I heard the old songs ring; 
 I heard them in the prairies 
 
 Above the glad corn sing; 
 The murmur of the pinewood 
 
 With Israel s plaint was sweet, 
 And through the little hills I heard 
 
 Its solemn rhythm beat. 
 
 But oh, twas in the mountains, 
 
 The great hymns held me thrall! 
 Where the four winds of heaven 
 
 Set forth their challenge call, 
 With martial trumpet thrilling 
 
 The rough-hewn brawny range, 
 And through dark canons chanting 
 
 The spirit of all change. 
 
 The cattle of the foothills 
 
 In o-athering snow stood deep ; 
 The shepherds, through white meadows, 
 
 Went stumbling for their sheep, 
 And where the lonely hamlet 
 
 Slept neath stern mountain walls, 
 The winds across the midnight 
 
 Sang hoarse antiphonals. 
 
 Twas Israel s heart melodious 
 
 That from the lone hight sang, 
 Till loud the ancient hymnal 
 
 O er plain and desert rang, 
 Far-sounding notes of triumph 
 
 To grief and wailing ran, 
 As Nature s voices uttered 
 
 The cry of God to man. 
 
 Meredith Nicholson. 
 
 Indianapolis. 
 
HER SIN 
 
 "What Madeline, after these four years of separation have I 
 returned only to find you grown cold and haughty, have you no 
 word of welcome for me? Heaven! what does your silence mean, 
 are you trifling, playing a part, only trying to test me? Ah, Madeline, 
 my soul has thirsted for your presence, my heart has hungered for 
 one word from you, for one kiss from your lips. How I have 
 longed for this hour but come, girl, are you not satisjied? Come to 
 me and tell me you love me as you used to, long ago." With one 
 bound Madeline was in his arms. She had become a wife and mother 
 since they parted, but of this he knew nothing. All thoughts of 
 the dispised husband were gone, the frail little babe was also forgot 
 ten and she knew nothing beyond the present moment. 
 
 She lay in his arms intoxicated by the passion of his words, his 
 lips upon hers and his breath upon her cheek. With a husband 
 who cared nothing for her, who left her weeks at a time to the 
 despair of her own thoughts, what wonder that all the old love for 
 this man, the love of her youth, surged up in her heart with renewed 
 strength and she forgot the ties that should have held her aloof. 
 
 "Your mother does not favor me now, more than she used to, 1 
 expect, though I have earned the fortune she demanded. Madeline, 
 sweetheart, I cannot wait for my bride, let us go to your mother and 
 get her consent to an immediate marriage." 
 
 "No, no, she would never consent, and you promised to take me 
 away from here dearest, I am not happy here, let us go to New 
 York, it is but six hours ride, and I can get my dress and be married 
 there." He did not think this strange, so complete was his confi 
 dence and in a few minutes they parted. 
 
 Madeline went to her room, wrote a note to her mother imploring 
 her to watch over her child and care for it as her own then a 
 note to her husband simply, coldly bidding him farewell. 
 
 At eight o clock she quietly left the house and walked quickly 
 toward the station and purchased a ticket for New York. A few 
 minutes later Lloyd Armour joined her. "My darling, I knew you 
 would not fail me" he murmured, tenderly taking her arm within 
 his own. "No," the woman s face was pale and determined, "I 
 would( be here, or dead!" Scarcely had the words passed her lips 
 when the report of a pistol was heard and with a cry Madeline 
 threw up her arms and fell backward into the supporting arms of 
 her lover. She was still conscious when they laid her on a bed in 
 the hospital. She looked up at the white anguished face above her. 
 "Lloyd, love, forgive." "My darling, oh Madeline, who could harm 
 you?" 
 
 "My oh Lloyd you will still love? he was my husband!" "Your 
 husband, my God! she must be raving though." "No. no Lloyd, 
 but they forced me to marry him Lloyd, T have always loved 
 you only you forgive me now?" Her strength was ebbing fast 
 every word caused severest suffering. She had only a few minutes 
 to live. Her appealing eyes were fastened upon his face. He bent 
 over her. "Forgive you my love, yes, fully I know how it was, new. 
 And Madeline darling, does it comfort you to know I have never 
 thought of any woman but you? You were my life, my hope, my 
 thoughts by day and my dreams by night. Oh, my God! how can 
 I give her up?" Here he buried his head in his hands while the 
 bitterest thoughts the ever swept a human heart made him sick 
 almost unto death. 
 
 Then he felt two soft arms about his neck and Madeline whispered, 
 "If I could but stay with you. If you could but come with me. 
 Oh love see I die for you kiss me ." Lloyd pressed his lips to 
 hers once, twice, thrice, then he became conscious that there was no 
 answering pressure of her lips. He raised himself and looked at 
 her he felt her pulse he chafed her hands; he became excited almost 
 beyond endurance. "Doctor! help my God, she is dead!" and witfo 
 a terrible cry of unutterable anguish he fell across the bed. When 
 the Doctor entered it was a lifeless form which he raised. The dead 
 woman s last wish had been gratified and she did take him with her 
 to the other world. 
 
 Lizzie Jeanee Weithoff. 
 Seymour. 
 
BEAUTY. 
 
 A form like the swaying willow, 
 
 With grace in every motion 
 A bosom like the stirring billow 
 
 Of the gently swelling ocean. 
 
 Tresses like the sunshine straying 
 
 O er leaves all auburn turning, 
 Which the zephyr s gentle playing 
 
 Fans into a hazy burning. 
 
 Eyes, where neath the dusky lashes, 
 
 Drooped with languid, graceful sweeping, 
 
 The lightning s brilliant dazzling flashes 
 In the darkness must be sleeping. 
 
 Lips like a rose with dewdrops dripping, 
 Crimsoned by the sun s warm kisses, 
 
 From whose sweet moisture love is sipping 
 The thrilling nectar of life s blisses. 
 
 Teeth which gleam with pearly splendor 
 
 When bright smiles the lips are wreathing 
 
 And in communion sweet and tender 
 The soul its love is softly breathing. 
 
 A brow like the lily s whiteness, 
 
 A throat of curving marble, 
 Cheeks of carnation brightness, 
 
 A voice like the nightingale s warble. 
 
 And then ah, lovely creature, 
 
 If goodness be thy duty, 
 And virtue shines from ev ry feature, 
 
 I will truly call thee Beauty." 
 
 Rose Cave Gould. 
 F.vansville. 
 
SOLDIERS AND SAILORS MONUMENT. 
 
 What means this mighty tribute carved with shapes 
 
 in garb of War? 
 What means this pile of stone high heaped? What 
 
 is it builded for? 
 Does if typify a Union from the depths of chaos 
 
 wrought, 
 
 And the lives splashed out in crimson in the awful bat 
 tles fought? 
 Does it speak alone of lives dashed out on sunny 
 
 southern fens ; 
 Of souls cramped sickened starved that fled from 
 
 reeking prison pens? 
 Is it only to the victors furloughed to their last sweet 
 
 sleep, 
 In camp in God s own country where the angels 
 
 sentry keep? 
 
 Rather let it tell the loved ones who are left to mourn 
 
 the loss, 
 They shall meet them at the river they are waiting 
 
 just across. 
 In a bivouac of slumber on the bright and shining 
 
 shore, 
 Where the muskets spiteful rattle breaks the echoes 
 
 nevermore ; 
 \Vhere the flags of truce are flying and the war-drum 
 
 is at rest, 
 Where gaping wounds by angel hands have tenderly 
 
 been dressed ; 
 Where the long forced-march is ended, and where 
 
 wars have ceased to be, 
 
 And the men who marched with Sherman are en 
 camped with those of Lee. 
 
 Carl Anderson. 
 
 Spencer. 
 
PEACE WHERE IT RESTETH. 
 
 In the wild untrampled forest, where no human foot 
 
 yet strayed, 
 
 No desecrating hand, its blasting touch hath laid ; 
 Where quairt trees stand as they ever stood, 
 A home to endless birds and yield their fruit as food, 
 The fret-work of the branches, aloft anent the sky 
 Gives glimpses of the heavens and the radiant light 
 
 on high, 
 
 And noble, dauntless brute life in absence of all fear, 
 In soothing words it whispers, "God s peace, it 
 
 resteth here." 
 
 Percy Henry Clifford. 
 Elwood, 
 
HEAVENLY VOICES. 
 
 I jest sorter like to hear 
 
 Young people at their singin , 
 
 It makes me feel so good and queer 
 My blood comes up a springin . 
 
 Those tender voices low and sweet, 
 So chaste and pure a soundin , 
 
 Filled with love and joy complete, 
 Sets the echoes reboundin. 
 
 I once, well sorter jis for fun, 
 A country school went a visitin/ 
 
 I soon found out, as they begun, 
 The music worth the listening 
 
 Then let us sing, oh let us sing, 
 Nor want to change our station, 
 
 And from our hearts our voices ring, 
 Tis songs that make our nation. 
 
 Oh youthful voice, I yearn for thee, 
 
 With melodies so lovin , 
 Oh youthful voice come back to me 
 
 Sweet voice, so near like heaven. 
 
 Lawrence Ashby. 
 Oakland City. 
 
SPRING LOVE SONG. 
 
 There s a gay little spring song ringing, 
 And ring, little warbling song! 
 
 For my heart is the whole day singing; 
 Is singing the whole day long. 
 
 By the beauty of each wee flower, 
 The flowers that hide in the dell, 
 
 By the rustling of leaves in my bower, 
 The harmonious rise and swell ! 
 
 In the dancing and sparkling sunshine, 
 In the twitter of each young bird, 
 
 In the tiny voices of spring time, 
 Are melodies myriad heard ! 
 
 To my love, to my love I m clinging; 
 
 And ring, little warbling song! 
 For my heart is the whole day singing, 
 
 Is singing the whole day long! 
 
 Florence Riddick Boys. 
 South Bend. 
 
STARS OF 1902. 
 
 Ye stars of nineteen two, 
 Bright gems of the ocean sky. 
 Gleams of light ; that shine by night, 
 To gladden the cheerless eye. 
 
 Ye stars of nineteen two! 
 
 So old and yet so new, 
 
 Long have ye shown and blessing known 
 
 In the azure home of blue. 
 
 Ye stars of nineteen two, 
 
 All set in lineless space, 
 
 Moving sublime, and moving in time, 
 
 And running the boundless race. 
 
 Ye gentle kindlv stars! 
 Who placed these jewels there? 
 Why do they stay, nor move away? 
 Such diamonds rich and rare. 
 
 Ye gentle lovely stars ! 
 A wise hand fixed thy stay, 
 Circling round, so thou are bound, 
 To move both night and day. 
 
 Ye gentle, beautiful stars! 
 In thee we see the hand, 
 Filling our cup, and leading us up, 
 To a fairer, brighter land. 
 
 Francis Walker. 
 
 New Albany. 
 
REFORMATION. 
 
 If all mankind would be content 
 And stop this sordid greed for gain, 
 
 The world would lose its discontent 
 And peace once more would reign. 
 
 No more, with searching inquisition, 
 
 Should friend greet friend in silent scorn, 
 
 But in the form of higher recognition, 
 The faith of all good will be born. 
 
 No more with features grim and solemn 
 Might warriors wear the belt of gold, 
 
 Nor step with measured tread in column 
 To fife and drum s fierce music-rolled. 
 
 Why ! oft the moon hath turned her sight 
 From earth s great store of human woe, 
 
 Caused by the living fount of right 
 Being trampled under foot so low. 
 
 The high apex of man s ambition 
 Should be to aid the human race. 
 To check each thought of gross temptation 
 And to let the good roll on apace. 
 
 And happy be that distant day, 
 
 AY hen friend to friend united 
 Shall roll greed s barrier from the way 
 
 And have these dark wrongs righted. 
 
 So let us fight for freedom s right, 
 Until the black flag s down, 
 And he, that first discerns the light, 
 May wear the victor s crown. 
 
 Berton Ditzcnberger. 
 Whitestown. 
 
IN THE MOON-LIGHT. 
 
 In the moon-light, balmy moon-light, 
 Spring-time breezes sighing low, 
 
 It was then I first beheld you 
 And I loved you then, I know. 
 
 In the moon-light, glorious moon-light, 
 Mid the roses sweet with dew, 
 
 It was then you said you loved me ; 
 Then I pledged my life to you. 
 
 In the moon-light, winter moon-light, 
 As the Christmas fire-sides glow, 
 
 Sparkles on the glitt ring jewel 
 
 That sealed our vow six months ago. 
 
 Sit I waiting for your coming, 
 On our happy marriage day ; 
 
 Waiting, yes, your bride is waiting ; 
 Haste, oh, absent one, I pray. 
 
 In the moon-light, cruel moon-light, 
 How it pierces thro and thro 
 
 Shining on your death-still figure, 
 On your marble face so true. 
 
 Oh, my heart is broken, broken, 
 Yet yon moon shines calmly on, 
 
 And its cold rays seem to mock me 
 For the joys forever gone. 
 
 In the moon-light, lonely moon-light, 
 
 Winter winds are wailing low, 
 By your grave I bow in anguish, 
 Bitter tears in torrents flow ; 
 In mv loneliness I m wond ring, 
 Wond ring why God willed it so. 
 
 Varina. Rstellr Miller. 
 Rising Sun. 
 
DISSOLUTION. 
 
 The soul has left its house of clay 
 And o er it hovers in farewell ; 
 The lips so often wont to pray 
 Are mutely silent neath the spell 
 Which Death casts over mortal life. 
 The eyes that once were quick to ste 
 The glories of the earth and sky, 
 Are darkened with the mystery 
 Of what it is to live and die. 
 The hands, once active in the strife, 
 And never closed to human needs, 
 Are folded on the peaceful breast. 
 The heart so thrilled with noble deeds 
 And truest love, is lulled to rest. 
 The weary feet which forward trod 
 The path where sins and sorrows met, 
 Are still at last such calm repose; 
 And stilled are joy and all regret ; 
 The silent heart no passion knows 
 The earth-five soul returns to God. 
 
 M. Winifred Hamlin 
 
 Warsaw. 
 
 15 
 
"HE IS RISEN." 
 
 The silver clouds on high are parting, 
 And sunshine from the sky is darting; 
 
 We hear the joyous ring of voices, 
 For in this thought the world rejoices 
 He is Risen ! 
 
 In the darkened grave His garments lie 
 
 And are viewed by the mourners passing by 
 
 Yet the Crucified now reigns on high, 
 And angels voices echo the cry : 
 He is Risen ! 
 
 And still we hear this glad acclaim. 
 
 For praise to Him is our great aim ; 
 Then ring, ye bells of Easter, ring, 
 
 And gladly with thee we will sing: 
 He is Risen ! 
 
 The lillies white and pure and sweet, 
 This joyous Easter morn we greet 
 
 Upon the altar where as tis meet, 
 Our Lord for mercy we entreat 
 He is Risen ! 
 
 And years, like clouds, may o er us roll, 
 These bells life s parting hour may toll, 
 
 But like unto that Savior dear 
 The robes of death we need not fear : 
 He is Risen ! 
 
 Gertrude May Malmesbury. 
 Washington. 
 
AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 Sakes alive! if I had my way 
 When the leaves of autumn fall, 
 You bet I d just let em all lay, 
 Wouldn t rake em up at all. 
 
 Where s the man who don 1 1 remember, 
 How he used to romp and run 
 Barefoot way up in November, 
 Hunting nuts and having fun. 
 
 Leaves knee deep and still a fallin , 
 As the frosty mornings came, 
 Crows a cawin and a callin , 
 Almost speak a feller s name. 
 
 I can almost hear the gruntin 
 Of the hogs a rootin round, 
 Underneath the trees a huntin 
 For the mast upon the ground. 
 
 There s a somethin bout the rustle 
 Of the fall leaves float-in down, 
 That brings back the boyhood hustle, 
 When the woods were rich and brown. 
 
 Makes me blush to think of burnin 
 Colors from the Master hand, 
 Some bright crimson, some just turnin 
 Leavin streaks of green there, and 
 
 Others there are clear bright yellow 
 With the golden sunset hue, 
 Like the ripening fruit whose mellow, 
 Tints are shining through and through. 
 
 Yes, I d leave em where they re fallin 
 From the frost, I d let em lie f 
 
 Soft and loose like, where they re callin 
 For such boys as you and I. 
 
 Francis Marion Van Pelt. 
 Anderson. 
 
CAN I ENJOY A JOKE? 
 
 You ask me, can I stand a joke? 
 
 You should have tried me, and not broke 
 
 The subject so abrupt. 
 Enjoy a joke? indeed I do 
 Yes, maybe just as well as you ; 
 
 Please now, don t give it up. 
 
 Let s hear your joke, why do you hold 
 It back from me? come now, be bold 
 
 I m anxious now to hear. 
 You should not hold it back from me 
 I m full of curiosity ; 
 
 You ve nothing more to fear. 
 
 I think a joke, when it is pure 
 No other kind you d make, I m sure 
 
 Is oil upon the waves 
 Of any life, that s full of woe. 
 Now, tell me, friend, is that not so? 
 
 My soul for this thing craves. 
 
 A joke, when full of jolly wit, 
 
 Is always sure to make a hit. 
 I can hear that laugh 
 
 It always makes and when they part, 
 
 With pleasant smiles and happy heart- 
 Each his or her own path. 
 
 It vexes me to see a man 
 
 Or woman, who, that never can 
 
 Make or enjoy a joke. 
 God pity them, there s something wrong 
 About their natures if they re strong. 
 With such I will not joke. 
 
 John Zach Macdonald. 
 Brazil. 
 
LOOKING BACKWARD. 
 
 Oh, where are the scenes of my childhood? 
 
 Oh, where are the visions ot old? 
 The fancies in colors of rainbows 
 
 The castles all burnished with gold? 
 
 Oh, where are the streams that in childhood 
 Ran laughing and gay through the mead, 
 
 By which I have lingered at sunset, 
 
 And watched the bright waves whirling speed ? 
 
 Oh, where is the old rustic park-seat, 
 
 And the sweet-scented air and the flowers, 
 
 Where wild birds and bees and companions 
 Have whiled away many bright hours? 
 
 Oh, where are the riches I ve dreamed of, 
 The gold which was hoarded away? 
 
 Child s fancy had made me King Midas, 
 Who s stolen youth s yellow display? 
 
 Alas, the bright bubble is bursted ; 
 
 The nectar of childhood is spilt; 
 The sword of cold-blooded reality 
 
 Has been thrust in my heart to the hilt. 
 
 But why should we grieve at such fancies, 
 
 For childhood s the play time of life? 
 Man s pleasure is found but in action, 
 And contentment reposes in strife. 
 
 Pius Lankford 
 Martz. 
 
Hope, 
 
 CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. 
 
 Go back to the dim grey dawn, 
 
 Of the earthly past and see 
 How God in dealing then with men 
 
 Had different ways than thcc. 
 
 He never thought that mortal man 
 As judge would seek his shrine, 
 
 Or doubt the words he wisely used 
 That vengeance shall be mine. 
 
 I know he said "Life for life," 
 
 And kill not for my sake. 
 And of the breath that great God gave, 
 
 No other one shall take. 
 
 If this applies to those who kill, 
 
 With maligned hearts untrue, 
 It means as well their punishment 
 
 By a higher power than you. 
 
 If God meant that Cain should live 
 And for his brother s death go free, 
 
 Why would he change the plan since then, 
 By killing you and me? 
 
 For near the Garden of Eden 
 
 Where the flowers bloom and grow, 
 
 The seeds of crime were first sown there, 
 With Abel s blood you know. 
 
 The past has said, the assassin craves, 
 More than the world can give, ^ 
 
 And when he steeps his hand in crime, 
 Would rather die than live. 
 
 Ollie Spaugn, 
 
DISPOSTION. 
 
 As we all know there is a theory abroad in the world 
 that a person s disposition cannot be changed. This 
 theory is partly false, and partly true. I never knew 
 a person, nor one never lived who by the force of res 
 olution could change their disposition. But, by God s 
 assistance a person s disposition can be changed. I 
 know people, yes the pages of history are teeming 
 with them, who after their conversion were exactly 
 the opposite in disposition to what they were before. 
 The fact then is apparent, that by faith in God and 
 a willingness to observe His ordinances and obey His 
 commands we may have the dispositon of Satan taken 
 out of onr hearts ami that of Jesus Christ planted 
 therein. Believe this or not, it is true, and if this 
 is not done we will never see heaven. I wish to ask 
 you what is more desirable that a pleasant disposition. 
 Without it we can neither be happy ourselves, nor 
 make others happy. I have heard people who are im 
 pulsive and quick tempered say : "I know I have a very 
 bad disposition. At times my temper appears to be 
 almost uncontrollable; but I try to govern it, and I 
 think within the course of a few years time I will 
 be able to govern it perfectly." All persons holding 
 such views are greatly deceived, and will in the end 
 of the battle awaken to the sad realization that their 
 temper has come out more than conqueror and that 
 all efforts to control it have been of no avail. A dis 
 position which is not corrected by the grace of God 
 will gradually grow worse instead of better as the 
 years roll by. But if Christ implants within us a new 
 disposition we shall gradually grow better and better 
 each succeeding day of our life. 
 
 William Arthur Berlin. 
 Veedersburg. 
 
THE UNFINISHED SCULPTURE OF MICHAEL 
 ANGELO. 
 
 Above the wrecks of time, these figures stand 
 In San Lorenzo s sacristy and wait 
 
 The final strokes of an impetuous hand 
 That toils no more against a cruel fate. 
 
 Upon these images, reclining here, 
 
 (As weary for the master s tardy feet) 
 
 A world of faces gaze from year to year 
 And feel the sadness of the incomplete. 
 
 Here where the crisp Carrara clings and hides 
 The perfect outline of th emerging limb, 
 
 The imprint of the chisel s stroke abides ; 
 
 And shall when flickering altar lights grow dim. 
 
 Unfinished? Nay, had we but eyes to see 
 With his keen eyes, the image cased in stone, 
 
 We might, as he his Moses, strike that knee 
 And bid the marble turn to flesh and bone. 
 
 But we are the unfinished and, behold, 
 
 Stand here with dross unpurged from soul and 
 heart ; 
 
 We wait the touches of a hand to mold 
 And model us to forms of perfect art. 
 
 As fair Vittoria to great Angelo, 
 
 Came with that touch of love ineffable, 
 
 That drew sweet sonnets from those lips aglow, 
 And shaped th unfinished statue to the full. 
 
 There is a power sent from the Infinite, 
 Be t love or sorrow, dark adversity, 
 
 Or some vague shadowy hand we know not quite, 
 Can fill the cup of life and satisfy. 
 
 And so I love to think, some aeons hence, 
 
 These, our soul-statues here, shall be complete, 
 And what to us was but a crude offence 
 Will be made perfect, head and hands and i 
 
 Frank Ingold Walker. 
 Colorado Springs, Colorado. 
 
THE BLOWING UP OF PENELOPE. 
 
 J?rgZxr*&3- 
 
 *7~fe^3~<<|i32 
 
 16 
 
WOODLANDS. 
 
 Golden gleams the summer days 
 
 In field and woodlands fair, 
 Golden beams the buttercups 
 
 In the corner over there. 
 
 Shady streamlet flowing 
 
 Gently through the dell, 
 Woodland flowers bending 
 
 Where a gleam of sunshine fell. 
 
 Mossy banks and water cresses, 
 
 Ferns and pussy-willow, 
 Cool and fresh and soft and nice, 
 
 Would make a downy pillow. 
 
 Clean and white the pebbles 
 
 Washed by the waters flow, 
 Of the clear and shady streamlet, 
 
 Where the shadows come and go. 
 
 Minnows sleek and shiny 
 
 Darting to and fro, 
 In nature s real aquarium 
 
 Noiselessly they go. 
 
 Cunning little creatures 
 
 Gliding side by side, 
 Full of quick surprises, 
 
 For soon away they ll hide. 
 
 Birds all singing gaily, 
 Violets at your feet, 
 Make a perfect woodland 
 
 Which could be no more complete. 
 
 Flora Williams Wood. 
 Elkhart. 
 
"JOHN SCREWTON S DREAM/ 1 
 
 "Everything is wrong! Margins, next to nothing. 
 Rates of interest, beggarly. Hours of labpr shrinking. 
 More pay ! Robbed from morning to night to sup 
 port half the world in idleness ! What is capital to 
 do?" and with a sigh that sounds through the elegant 
 room like a wail, the troubled rich man sinks back into 
 the cushions of his easy chair and lowers with a look 
 that is not resignation on the stolid carvings of furni 
 ture and mantel that leer back at him through the sub 
 dued lamp light. 
 
 Mr. John Screwton, ladies and gentlement, allow me. 
 Self-made man is John. Prides himself on it. "Old 
 Screw" they call him down where the furnace roars 
 and the wheels hum. Practical man of business is 
 John. Knows a good thing when he sees it. No hum 
 bug about him. Bank account bloated like a London 
 Alderman. Name worth a million on the street. And 
 now on this Christmas eve, when all the world, from 
 King to beggar, stands tip-toe in anticipation ready 
 to find all good in the day of days, John s mind is 
 troubled and his heart hardened, that everything is 
 going wrong. 
 
 Bless your shriveled, flinty old heart, John Screw- 
 ton ! the world is all right better, happier, wiser, each 
 succeeding Christmas. You are all wrong, John, but 
 nothing short of a miracle can lift the scales from 
 your eyes. 
 
 There he goes again, this discontented Midas. Hear 
 him ! while the wind whistles around the street corners 
 and sends the eddying snow driving into rosy happy 
 faces that bend to the blast and hurry on, flying from 
 shop to shop, perching here and there like belated 
 snow birds and at last loaded down with suggestive 
 packages, home to roost in a twitter of delight and 
 mystery. Hear "Old Screw," I say, surrounded with 
 all that can make life worth living except content. 
 
 "All wrong," says Screw. "The world is out of 
 joint." He does not know he has quoted an old master 
 or he would take it back, for John Screwton, "self- 
 made man," is original or nothing. "All wrong and 
 all unjust ; but I have always dealt justly, however, 1 
 have been dealt by" (the hoary old sinner is lying to 
 himself in the privacy of his own chamber.) "Ah well ! 
 the cross for the crown heig-h-ho !" 
 
 James Sargent Ostrander. 
 Richmond. 
 
THE GOOD SHIPS AT SEA. 
 
 Each soul has a ship on the ocean s wide breast, 
 
 With freight from a wonderful store ; 
 But no one can say if this ship of the blest 
 
 Shall ever furl sail at the shore. 
 We watch from the shore of the sea s mystic side 
 And hope that some light as a beacon may guide 
 This cargo from evils that often betide. 
 
 To some who have hoped the long nightwatches 
 through, 
 
 When dawn breaks and lulls the ebb-tide 
 And over the waters, against the dark blue, 
 
 Their vessels to anchor shall ride, 
 May come a reward for the vigils of night, 
 The shadow of evil be turned into light, 
 And wrongs of oppression give way to the right. 
 
 But often a mist veils hope s beautiful star, 
 And breakers beat wild on the strand, 
 
 And bear in their bosom that breaks on the bar 
 And lashes the golden sea sand 
 
 The wreck of a vessel. Some heart will ah me! 
 
 Look again nevermore o er a mystical sea 
 
 Where others may view shining sails floating free. 
 
 Frank Oskin. 
 Gentivville, 
 
THE HIDDEN WAY. 
 
 So much that goes to make life pure and grand 
 Lies close within the reach of every hand, 
 
 If we but seek to find the hidden key 
 
 Which ope s the door to life s great mystery. 
 
 Seeking we find and finding grope the way, 
 Till noontide s glint obliterates the gray. 
 
 Tis but a span across the hidden way. 
 
 Tis only darkest near the dawn of day, 
 And once night s gate upon its hinges swings 
 
 And morning brings us hope of better things 
 We look not back at sorrows left behind, 
 
 The hidden way across, new joy we find. 
 
 Tis only just a rustic bridge to cross 
 
 "Or stream embedded in a bank of moss," 
 
 A tottering pair of bars to lay aside, 
 To vanish envy, selfishness and pride. 
 
 The hidden way beyond, our cross laid down ; 
 The key of Love our scepter, peace, our crown. 
 
 Mary Haynes Richey. 
 Elwood. 
 
THREE CONQUERORS. 
 
 Awake ! the beautiful dawn 
 
 Comes with the sun s golden rays, 
 And night retires with banners worn, 
 
 Mid all her hosts of stars ; 
 From tree and shrub the shadows fly, 
 
 While quietly the moon has tied 
 Before the conqueror. 
 
 The herald of the day 
 
 Above the hills appears, 
 And joyous birds begin their song 
 
 While dew drops disappear; 
 And man awoke to daily task, 
 
 Goes forth to till the soil 
 And he is conqueror. 
 
 Truth chases error s night 
 
 And drives the gloom away, ^ ^ 
 And whispers, "let there now be light, 
 
 The dawn of righteous day. 
 And slaves arise and fetters break. 
 
 While cowering tyrants fearful shake, 
 For truth is conqueror. 
 
 Ben Ed Doane, 
 
 Jasper. 
 
MY RICHEST GRACE. 
 
 When first I gave my heart to God, 
 With all resigned unto his care ; 
 
 I felt the persecuting rod, 
 
 My Saviour s sufferings to share. 
 
 Yet thus I found the richest grace, 
 
 A richer thing I never knew ; 
 Twas perfect love for Adam s race, 
 
 It seemed a wonder yet twas true. 
 
 My foes prepared a dreadful storm, 
 We stood before it face to face; 
 
 They tried to fill us with alarm, 
 
 But weakened soon before this grace. 
 
 Ah ! richest grace ; thou lovely one, 
 Thy sister s fair but none like thee. 
 
 While Faith may conque- thou wilt crown 
 And oil each act with grace for me. 
 
 My actions rough without thine oil. 
 May hinder souls, destroy them, too. 
 
 And thus for want of thee may spoil 
 The work my Lord designed to do. 
 
 But when my heart is full of thee, 
 
 How near and dear each soul will seem. 
 
 Twill make me love my enemy- 
 Love them will be my leading theme. 
 
 Twill make me kind to friend or foe. 
 I ll honor them with due respect. 
 But should I fail pure love to show, 
 Then sad the fruits of my neglect. 
 
 David Burke Moore, 
 Winslow. 
 
TRANSITION. 
 
 Where is the dashing youth who for a season 
 Surveyed the world with mirthful, laughing eye, 
 
 Scorning the sage advice of hoary Reason, 
 As with unheeding feet he hurried by? 
 
 Ah ! here his semblance, here his form and features, 
 Here the same eye, but how subdued the glance! 
 
 Here the rash feet, how slow the pace he teaches 
 Those members once so nimble in the dance ! 
 
 Just through the open door of sober Manhood, 
 He stops with faltering feet and failing heart, 
 
 Gazing, appalled, as sudden breaks upon him, 
 The broken pathway where his feet must start. 
 
 As on the flowery path of Youth he lingered, 
 How distant seemed that fateful portal then, 
 
 How bright the baubles that he idly fingered, 
 How far his pathway lay from that of Men, 
 
 The glittering joys that once his steps attracted, 
 Where has their golden luster vanished now? 
 
 The laurel wreath that Maiden s fingers twined, 
 Falls faded and unfelt upon his brow. 
 
 He feels no more the sweet intoxication, 
 
 Which thoughtless follies once were wont to bring, 
 
 He sees, uncovered by the downy billows, 
 
 The rocks, discovered, where the sirens sing. 
 
 As, backward gazing from the brazen threshold, 
 He tracks the wavering pathway once so bright, 
 
 He views the hidden pitfalls close beside it, 
 
 And, shuddering, turns his vision from the sight. 
 
 One quick regret, a pang for but a moment, 
 A forward glance that does the future scan, 
 
 With laughter changed to firm determination, 
 The dashing, fiery youth becomes a MAN. 
 
 Clayton Ray Wise. 
 Chesterton. 
 
THE TRIUNE GOD. 
 
 God, thrice holy, throned in glory, 
 
 Robed in threefold mystery, 
 Open to our hearts the story 
 Of Redemption s history. 
 
 God the Father, who created 
 
 Man upon the earth to be 
 Image to Himself related, 
 
 Lead him on from self to Thee. 
 
 God the Son, man s only Savior, 
 
 Thou hast brought salvation near, 
 
 Make us daily in behavior 
 
 Like Thee while we tarry here, 
 
 God the Spirit, life and power, 
 New create within our heart, 
 
 Comfort us in death s dark hour, 
 And prepare us to depart. 
 
 God thrice holy be the glory, 
 Father, Son and Holy Ghost, 
 
 For redemption s wondrous story, 
 Sung by Saint and Angel host. 
 
 Jacob Dyke. 
 Remington. 
 
"AFTERMATH." 
 
 Twas a song that I caught for a moment ; 
 
 1 heard it but once, and was thrilled ; 
 The song and the singer have vanished, 
 
 But my heart with one strain yet, is filled. 
 One strain of that song seems to haunt me ; 
 
 I m humming it o er and again ; 
 Unconsciously tunning a fragment 
 
 Of melody from that refrain. 
 
 The flower that I gathered soon withered; 
 
 I could not but cast it away ; 
 I prized it fulwelj, but twas fragile; 
 
 A life that could last but a day. 
 But tho fading and passing so quickly, 
 
 Its presence remains, for my room 
 Is filled with a joy it has left me, 
 
 Its delicate, subtile perfume. 
 
 So, Honore, like the song and the flower. 
 
 Came into my life for a day, 
 And thrilled me with tenderest pleasure, 
 
 Then like them, she hastened away. 
 And all that remains of her passing 
 
 Are perfume and fragment of song, 
 That haunt me, and thrill me with joy, tho 
 
 The flower and singer are gone- 
 
 Chester Lee Fidlar. 
 Terre Haute. 
 
TO A WHIPPOORWILL. 
 
 O spirit with the plaintive, wailing song, 
 
 Come, lead me to the light, a higher path; 
 I m weary, and I sob for cruel wrong: 
 
 My love outlives the stroke and curse of wrath. 
 Sweet harmony is sweeter as it dies ; 
 
 Our tenderest thoughts lie mute upon the tongue; 
 Angelic Pity speaks with pleac ing eyes, 
 
 And themes of holiest truth remain unsung. 
 But grief is best interpreted in tone: 
 
 The pang that searches deep demands a cry ; 
 The suffering soul s expression is a moan, 
 
 And Sorrow s saddest off-spring is a sigh. 
 Among the countless spheres is there one place 
 
 Unknown to greed and pride and pain? 
 Where goodness glorifies each faultless face, 
 
 And tenderness and mercy ever reign? 
 Man is a dual mystery matter, mind 
 
 Creation s failure, yet a work sublime ; 
 A mental monarch, crowned with light, but blind ; 
 
 In virtue g/eat, but greater still in crime. 
 Mankind needs faith to meet each social shock 
 
 A mighty faith, like mountains mid the storm; 
 Then love would lead and fold us as a flock, 
 
 With strong humanity repelling harm. 
 The force that forms the lilies of the field, 
 
 That swings the world and holds the deathless 
 
 spheres, 
 Builds up in beauty souls that softly yield 
 
 Like Christ they rise from agony and tears. 
 Our dreams are mental dramas thought is sight 
 
 And thought survives though countless ages roll ; 
 And sleep lets in the spiritual light, 
 
 Which numbs the body, but awakes the soul. 
 In nature s heart a holy lesson lies 
 
 Tis taught to them that ask with fervent breath- 
 It moves in silent splendor through the skies, 
 
 And blooms and breathes, defying time and death. 
 O melancholy Minstrel of the Night, 
 
 I ll leave your cloister in the mournful vale ; 
 I ll seek the smile and loveliness of light, 
 
 And thus forget your loud and piercing wail. 
 
 Richard Rawlings Waters. 
 Laurel. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE ROBIN. 
 
 A brown bird with red-winged breast, 
 Sitting quietly in its nest, 
 Build where, its swaying to and fro, 
 Twigs of apple-blossoms blow. 
 
 Nature s sweetest rhymes are made, 
 In the pleasant orchard shade, 
 As white petals fluttering fall, 
 Rhyming with the robin s call. 
 
 When Christ, the legends say, 
 
 Bore the woe of that last day, 
 
 And forgot with anguish great, 
 
 And none His dying thirst would sate, 
 
 Then the silent air was stirred, 
 By the flight of a brown bird, 
 As in Olive garden nigh, 
 It had caught His broken cry. 
 
 And from Bethel pool, 
 
 One sweet drop of water cool, 
 
 In its bill the bird had caught, 
 
 And with pitying love had brought. 
 
 Down it settled, softly down, 
 Past the bitter thorny crown, 
 And to ease the fevered drouth, 
 Laid the cool drop in His mouth. 
 
 On its flight the robin s breast, 
 Against the wounded hands were prest, 
 Ever since, the red-breast stain, 
 Over its tender heart has lain. 
 
 And when the apple-blossoms stir. 
 Swift we hear the brown wings whir, 
 And the bird with red-stained oreast, 
 Builds in all our hearts its nest. 
 
 Joseph Frank Honecker. 
 Oak Forest. 
 
THE OLD HOME. 
 
 The house stands as it always did, 
 It brings me memories, sweet. 
 
 The strange face though that greets me 
 Is not the one I longed to meet. 
 
 The grass upon the lawn is tall, 
 
 There, running wild the rose, 
 With the orange blossoms an unkept bush, 
 
 Such sights my eyes disclose. 
 
 The arbor, once sweet-scented and cool, 
 
 Is suffering from decay. 
 The place smells foul of odious weeds, 
 
 That drive sweet memories away. 
 
 The garden path, so neat and clean, 
 Is now with weeds overgrown; 
 
 While the garden I cannot recognize 
 As the garden, once my own. 
 
 Oh, dear old home, so long so sweet, 
 
 Swept from me at a breath, 
 With everything that I held dear, 
 Upon sweet mother s death. 
 
 Clarence Adrian Joliff. 
 East Germantown. 
 
ADAM. 
 
 Adam was a majestic being, the lord of the earth and the master 
 to whose commands all creatures pay homage, a godlike being, 
 justly so called the offspring of the skies. He was truly the 
 handiwork of an omnipotent Architect, for only an heavenly Archi 
 tect could form those stout and well-knit limbs that move with bold 
 majestic step, those skillful hands that fulfill the mandates of his 
 royal mind which thrones in his lofty mien, that beautiful oval 
 face, high forehead, flowing flaxen hair hanging down over his 
 shoulders, that subtile, sacred, heavenly soul flashing like sparKs 
 of lightning in his wonderful steelblue eyes, the iridescent gems 
 through which are seen the sparkling emanations of the mind, faith, 
 hope, love, pride, and despair, that terrible yet musical voice wnicn 
 like the lion s rolls in rumbling tones down the valley in bold defi 
 ance of the Great Unknown, who had dared to dally with Adam s 
 own, the creature of his bone and smew, the heavenly borne mate, 
 of whom the Master had said: "This is thy mate, perish all who 
 dare to touch her." 
 
 Like the lion at bay Adamf seemed to plead to Heaven s offended 
 Deity to point out to him the Dastard on whom to quench his ire 
 and thus blot out the stain on Adam s honor and pride. The 
 slender cords, from head to feet, quiver with wrath and hate; the 
 raddy flood bounds through the body and flushes his manly face 
 with eternal hate against the Dastard; the heart, that type of love, 
 thumps and flutters with balked ambition; the clenched fists pound 
 the air as if threatening the unseen foe, terrible only because 
 unseen. 
 
 Stifling the terrible passion within his soul, Adam approached 
 Eve in a tender and soothing manner, and taking her hand in a 
 lover-like way. he spake in a soft caressing voice: "How can I 
 live without thee, O, my Eve! What is power, what is happiness, 
 what is life without thee! This great Eden would be but a solitude, 
 a longing misery without my sweet companion. Each floral charm, 
 the golden fruit, the clinging vine, fair emblem of our love, all 
 would but remind me of thy fair and lovely form. Nay, it cannot 
 be. I defy not the Master, I dare not the Unknown, but this I say, 
 against all the powers of all the worlds I will stand by thee to 
 the last in my feeble way, whilst there is but a spark left to defend 
 thee." 
 
 And drawing Eve to his sobbing bosom in fond embrace, Adam 
 continued: "O woman; made out of my flesh and bone nearest my 
 heart, with thee, my wife, I live or I die. With thee I welcome 
 grim Death, if thou, my Eve, must die! There are no terrors in 
 store for me except to be parted from thee! To stay with thee is 
 the hope of Man s once cheering morn, and of the eve of Man s sad 
 dreary life. The dark and dismal grave ends thus the strife, but 
 it will not come to thee alone!" 
 
 Thus Adam spake, then from Eve s outstretched hand he takes 
 the fruit and eats in spite of God s command, welcoming cruel fate 
 with all the dire misery it has in store for him, caring naught, fear 
 ing nothing. Like the lion at bay Adam defies all. 
 
 Edward James Kempf. 
 Jasper. 
 
MY PICTURE. 
 
 O artist, true, come paint for me, 
 A living dream of long ago ; 
 A mother, fair, and sinless babe, 
 With curling locks and brow of snow. 
 
 O stretch thy spotless canvas wide, 
 Upon thy easel s gilded frame, 
 Where first the tinge of morning light, 
 Will cast her beams of quick ning flame. 
 
 Upon thy pallet mix thy paint, 
 And let it catch the virgin hue 
 Of morning s fresh and holy light, 
 That dances on the sparkling dew. 
 
 And then with brush of finest make, 
 O draw my image of the pair ; 
 Upon their lips and cheek and brow, 
 Just paint the breath of angels there. 
 
 Around the whole a halo draw, 
 
 The penciled sign of God above ; 
 
 To show that those beneath its light, 
 
 Were subjects of his choicest love. 
 
 And in the mist of golden light, 
 You paint an angel with a wreath ; 
 Who took his flight from home above, 
 To crown with love the two beneath. 
 
 For God has shown in many ways, 
 And may this truth be undefiled ; 
 The noblest thing upon the earth, 
 Is a mother, pure, and infant child. 
 
 -Will Earl Dodson, 
 Covington. 
 
MEMORIAL HYMN. 
 
 To one and all by Fate s decree 
 
 There cometh days of sorrow ; 
 Twas ever thus and e er shall be 
 
 Until th eternal morrow. 
 Our friends in life, our hopes, our strife, 
 
 Go down before time s certain law ; 
 We stand aghast, before the blast, 
 
 And view the scene in rev rent awe. 
 
 We bid our friends a last adieu, 
 
 As each one fords the river, 
 Then fondly hope and pray anew, 
 
 That God will keep us ever 
 In the paths of right, till faith and sight 
 
 Shall solve our doubts and calm our fears ; 
 When Friendship, Love, and Truth above 
 
 Shall reign thro never ending years. 
 
 O bond of Love that binds us fast 
 
 And links to life eternal ; 
 O Truth of God by naught surpassed, 
 
 Reign in our hearts supernal. 
 By these we rise and lift our eyes 
 
 To faith s eternal summit grand, 
 Where we can see, eternally. 
 
 The guiding of the Master s hand. 
 
 William Thomas Giffe. 
 Logansport. 
 
Off* 
 
THE GARDEN OF MY HEART. 
 
 Tis spring in the old, old country, 
 
 And the leaves are fresh and green, 
 And where once we play d as children, 
 
 There are cowslips to be seen. 
 But your little hands will never 
 
 Cull flowers on earth again, 
 And I ll hear your voice no longer, 
 
 Like the silver sound of rain. 
 
 You were weary with the winter, 
 
 Very weary, so you said, 
 And we laid you down to slumber, 
 
 Where the bluebirds watch your bed. 
 In the country that s far distant, 
 
 O er the tearful, tossing sea, 
 There you re sleeping still my darling, 
 
 Far awav from home and me. 
 
 Winds steal by you very gently, 
 
 Leave no footprints on the grass, 
 And the birds will sing all summer, 
 
 And the golden leaves will pass. 
 But I love to dream, my darling, 
 
 Since the day we had to part, 
 That you re sleeping till G^d wakes you 
 
 In the garden of my heart. 
 
 Theresia Honecker. 
 Oak Forest. 
 
MEDITATION. 
 
 Silent, all silent about my room, 
 
 And I alone am thinking, 
 While the rays from the little moon 
 
 Through the window shade is creeping. 
 
 The inmates in their beds are sleeping, 
 
 But I m in the room above, 
 Thinking of that richest blessing, 
 
 That T have friends to love. 
 
 One dear friend I cannot see. 
 
 She would not answer if I should call ! 
 In heaven she rests ready to meet me ; 
 
 My friend, my mother, my all. 
 
 Ah yes, father, I think of thee, 
 More than ever when far apart ; 
 
 You and sister and I make three, 
 But the fourth is my sweetheart. 
 
 Martin Louis Boughncr. 
 Foster. 
 
LIFE S TOMORROW. 
 
 Toil and rest, defeat and triumph, moments bringing 
 joy or pain, 
 
 Walking now through gloomy lowlands, then along a 
 brighter way, 
 
 Senses thrilled by hope s glad anthem or by sorrow s 
 sad refrain, 
 
 Fraught w r ith deep, half-hidden meaning, thus is pas 
 sing life s today. 
 
 Earthly scenes grow dim and distant in the evening s 
 
 fading light. 
 Pallid brow and pulseless bosom touched by Azrael s 
 
 icy hand, 
 While the twilight shadows deepen to the denser 
 
 shades of night, 
 Then the flight of a freed spirit to the far-off deathless 
 
 land. 
 
 Glorious dawn of life s tomorrow morning of eternal 
 
 day! 
 Radiance no cloud shall darken while the endless ages 
 
 roll, 
 Visions of supernal splendor that no language can 
 
 portray, 
 Swelling strains of angel music welcoming a ransomed 
 
 soul. 
 
 Safe within the pearly portals, past for age the storms 
 
 of time, 
 Nevermore earth s tearful partings, nevermore griefs 
 
 cross to bear ; 
 Cherished dreams of blissful meetings realized on 
 
 heights sublime, 
 Evermore God s holy presence, evermore joy s crown 
 
 to wear. 
 
 Weary one, worn with the conflicts and the cares of 
 
 life s today, 
 Look with faith s entrancing vision to the city of the 
 
 blest ; 
 Soon the glad tomorrow s glory will gleam bright 
 
 upon your way 
 And in that fair light your soul will enter heaven, 
 
 home and rest. 
 
 Tennie Wilson. 
 South Whitlev. 
 
NATURE S AWAKENING. 
 
 The trees will soon, 
 
 Be in full bloom, 
 And nature be at her best; 
 
 The April showers, 
 
 Will bring the flowers, 
 And wake them from their rest. 
 
 Oh, can we find, 
 
 Any one so blind, 
 This beauty they cannot see; 
 
 For as I pass, 
 
 Each blade of grass, 
 It speaks of God to me. 
 
 I wonder why, 
 
 Some fain would die, 
 And leave this all behind: 
 
 Our spirits may 
 
 Come back some say, 
 And death they do not mind. 
 
 Can this be so, 
 
 Or do any know, 
 Time alone will make the test ; 
 
 When from the gloom, 
 
 Of the silent tomb, 
 We too, shall wake from rest. 
 
 Elnora Emery Frain 
 Rochester. 
 
MOTHER STILL PRAYS FOR YOU. 
 
 "Mother still waits for you, Jack," I heard the sweet 
 
 refrain, 
 
 Wafted on and onward in the clear wintry night, 
 And it brought back a scene of the days gone by, 
 
 A picture of my sunny, southern home, 
 An old mother, aged, grey and bent, in the twilight, 
 Sits and waits for her wandering, wayward boy. 
 Why does he tarry, why does he roam? 
 
 Does mother still wait for me to-night; 
 
 Does my mother still sit in the gathering twilight, 
 Waiting for her wandering child to come home ; 
 
 Does she wonder why I tarry, why I roam? 
 
 "Mother still looks for you, Jack," again it came, 
 Sweet and clear in the softly falling shadows. 
 
 How long has she stood there and watched, 
 
 Watched for that truant son, out in the wintry rain, 
 
 Watched till her aching eyes are bleared and dim. 
 Still that mother waits and looks for him. 
 
 Does my mother still wait and look for me to-night 7 
 Are my mother s poor eyes bleared and dim, 
 
 Does my mother still wait and sit in the twilight 
 As that poor mother did for him ? 
 
 "Mother still prays for you, Jack," the song 
 In that sweet dream-like cadence rose, 
 
 Each night before she seeks repose, 
 She bows that head so old and grey. 
 
 Your mother still prays for you, Jack, oh, so long. 
 Your mother still prays for you to-day. 
 
 Does my mother still pray for me (to-day) to-night ? 
 
 Is my mother s head so old and grey? 
 Yes, poor mother still prays for me to-day, 
 
 Mother still prays and waits to-night. 
 
 Arleigh Mathews. 
 Monticello. 
 
AMARANTHUS. 
 
 How the years roll on ! 
 
 Down the steep slope of time they pass away 
 From mortal sight to lands what tongue can say, 
 
 To what bright dawn? 
 Yet ever onward, skyward sweeping they 
 
 Roll on and on. 
 
 Wnat light hath streamed along 
 The eternal wake which they have trailed behind? 
 What flowers, what amaranths have they resigned 
 
 To grow our weeds among? 
 O, yet we trust that somehow we shall find 
 
 The music for our song. 
 
 How the years roll on ! 
 
 The bud blooms into leaf and the leaf falls 
 With other leaves to lie, while a voice calls 
 
 To Amaranthus gone. 
 
 No answer echoes mid the lone gray walls 
 Where the tree grew and the leaves lie, 
 But Amaranthus did not die 
 And the years roll on. 
 
 Clyde Byron Beck. 
 
 Richmond. 
 
AN EVENING REVERIE. 
 
 Tis the cool of a summer evening, and I m sitting all alone; 
 With the birds still gay about me, and the moments all my own. 
 I think of the hours departed, of the duties laid aside, 
 And I wonder if the Master my poor works can abide. 
 
 All through the hours so busy, I ve toiled with brain and hand, 
 And now a host accusing j in calm review they stand. 
 And the question comes unbidden, what was the motive power, 
 And is my work acceptable to Him who rules the hour? 
 
 He tells us we must honor Him in all things that we do, 
 To keep His name untarnished, His glory first in view. 
 And so, careworn and weary, I sit with doubtful mind, 
 No bright and clear solution to the question can I find. 
 
 A faint, sweet sound of music, from the church across the way, 
 With a> soft and soothing influence, doth all my senses sway; 
 The dear, dear name of Jesus, is borne on the evening air; 
 And o er my dreaming senses, comes a vision sweet and fair. 
 
 Alone, all alone, I m standing, on the shore of Galilee; 
 
 A faint, sweet scent of Eastern flowers, is wafted o er the lea. 
 
 I hear the hum of voices, the tread of many feet; 
 
 I look, and lo, a company, my wondering glances meet. 
 
 But one of all that company, arrests my eager eyes; 
 His calm and lordly bearing claim kinship with the skies. 
 In sweet and thrilling accents He teaches as He walks; 
 And eager crowd the company, to hear Him as He talks. 
 
 From His lips the words are falling that are balm to my troubled 
 
 heart ; 
 
 "Come all that are heavy laden, in my life ye have a part. 
 Although ye are weak and sinful and halting by the way, 
 I give my life to save you, I am your help and stay, 
 
 And in my strength your weakness shall become as a mighty tree; 
 And in my death your life complete becometh full and free. 
 As a father pitieth his children, so God doth pity His own; 
 Though faulty, weak and sinful, they shall not walk alone." 
 
 And now the vision fadeth, the gloaming is all around; 
 But in that sight so heavenly, a calm has my spirit found. 
 Strength for tomorrow s duties, faith for the days to come; 
 Till over the sea of Jasper, I reach the heavenly home. 
 
 Harriet Newell Filer. 
 Liberty. 
 
WHO WOULD BE A DREAMY f OET. 
 
 Who would be a dreamy poet 
 
 With his airy visions red ; 
 Who would join the singing seraphs 
 
 That are soaring over head? 
 
 Who would drink the mellow sweetness 
 
 That is coming from on high ; 
 Who would se^k the precious sunshine 
 
 Which adorns a poet s eye? 
 
 Sacred are these Holy visions 
 
 That are only faintly seen 
 Gleaming like a precious opal 
 
 Where a mystic light is seen. 
 
 In his lonely chamber musing, 
 Some kind minstrel sings for you ; 
 
 Like the songs of ancient poets 
 Come sweet anthems fresh and new. 
 
 From the gleaming stars of Heaven 
 
 And the crescent silver moon, 
 Come the joys of bards in silence 
 
 As their splendor lights the gloom. 
 
 Gems of thought are soaring upward 
 Where the clouds are rift for thee, 
 
 They behold the throne of Glory 
 Where the Lamb will make you free. 
 
 These are scenes of golden twilight; 
 
 That must close the dying day; 
 All would be Angelic Poets 
 
 With a life as pure as they. 
 
 James Buchanan Elmore. 
 Alamo. 
 
 19 
 
THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. 
 
 Full nineteen hundred years ago, 
 
 The Angels came to sing, 
 They came to sing a song below, 
 Of Christ the Babe ana King. 
 
 And as they settled down to earth, 
 
 So quiet and so still, 
 They came to men of humble birth, 
 
 With flocks upon the hill. 
 
 In concert sang the heavenly host, 
 
 Their tones so deep and clear, 
 That song which interests us mcst, 
 That song of hope and cheer. 
 
 I hear them, hark ! they are singing, Ah ! 
 
 Accenting every word, 
 In Bethlehem is born this day, 
 
 A Savior, Christ the Lord. 
 
 Was born an infant like the rest, 
 
 So far as men could see, 
 But there was hidden in His breast, 
 The power to calm the sea. 
 
 Yes, power to make the winds obey, 
 To make the sun stand still, 
 
 With power in Heaven to prevail, 
 With God who rpigns at will. 
 
 With power to conquer death and hell, 
 
 With power to set me free, 
 With power to say that all is well, 
 
 Between my Lord and me. 
 
 William O Neall Mendenhall. 
 Richmond. 
 
LIFE S MELODY. 
 
 As the sun in splendor sinks to sleep at twilight s lonely hour, 
 - Mid oft-repeated lullabys of mother s queenly power. 
 The crickets join the merry lay, as they dance about the room, 
 While the cheerful joyous melody dispels the somber gloom, 
 And we gaily watch the burning of the light so full of mirth, 
 As we hear the cracking music of the cinders on the hearth. 
 When the gorgeous veil has parted that divides the night from day, 
 And the sunbeams kiss the dew drops as they sparkle by the way- 
 Then the birds begin the chirping of their happy morning song, 
 And the nightingales from eventide the melodies prolong, 
 There is music in so much of life that nature has to spare. 
 If we would but catch the beauties as they re wafted through the air. 
 The king of day has enter d, closing the misty haze of night, 
 And the jewel d skies have fled before the cheerful morning light, 
 We hear the songs of nature while their echoing melody, 
 Drives away the darkened clouds by their enchanting rhapsody 
 In life some skies are clouded by discouragements repining, 
 In nature, back of darkest clouds, the sun is ever shining. 
 There is music in the forest as the wind goes whistling through, 
 There is music in the fellowship of friends, who ve tried and true, 
 It s not alone the wealthy, who the strains of joy may hear, 
 For diamonds in the rough, we re told, may be better than the clear, 
 And the sweetest scented roses, though they* neither spin nor toil, 
 Yet are always found best nourished in the darkest of the soil. 
 There s happiness in our living if we cherish but the good, 
 While the shadows are made darker by the melancholy mood, 
 All the world is more resplendent for the happy cheerful face, 
 And the trials we encounter are made lighter by its grace, 
 Then give to the world your sunshine and brighten as you build, 
 While the golden cup of life with melodious joy is filled. 
 
 Tiffin James Shackelford. 
 Warsaw. 
 
IT S DECORATION DAY I LOVE. 
 
 It s Decoration Day I love, for then I get to see 
 
 The brave old soldiers marching, like they did in sixty-three 
 
 And it almost makes me feel like I d been a soldier too, 
 
 And marched for country s sake, neath the Old Red, White and Blue. 
 
 One can have a faint idea how the soldiers used to do, 
 When they see real soldier vet rans dressed in their navy blue, 
 With their musketry of wartime, that poured forth flames of rea 
 While the Old Red, White and Blue floated in the air o erhead. 
 
 When the brave old soldiers drop a flower and a tear 
 On the grave of their loved comrade, while the old flag waves in air, 
 Their thoughts are then of Him, who preserves and spares each life 
 And they stand uncovered listening to the drum and warbling fife. 
 
 Ah! many are they who have fallen on a bloody, shot-mown field 
 Who fought to a breast of bullets, but had, at last, to yield. 
 Honor should praise such warriors, for with musket and with sword 
 They fought for flag and country, and we trust they re with their 
 Lord. 
 
 O! many is the unmarked grave, not even by a flower, 
 
 Although the soldier, with true heart, fought bravely in his last 
 
 hour; 
 Were they not just as truly great, who were buried plain and 
 
 simple, 
 As those who, clad in robes, were buried in a temple? 
 
 Yea, soldiers who now lay neath where the country s flag doth 
 
 wave z 
 
 Tis the same for which you fought, for which you died to save, 
 The honor shall be yours and you shall march again 
 And greet again your captain and be a man of men. 
 
 Sleep on, oh silent sleepers, who have heard the cannon s roar, 
 Who fought and gave your lives, but who shall fight no more, 
 Sleep on in sweet repose, till the Judgment Day shall come, 
 When again you ll march in column and hear the fife and drum. 
 
 It s Decoration Day I love, for then I get to see 
 
 The brave old soldiers marching like they did in sixty-three, 
 
 And I sometimes almost wish. I d been a soldier too, 
 
 So I could say "I ve fought for the Old Red, White and Blue. 
 
 Vallie Gilbert Hedge. 
 Max. 
 
OCTOBER IN THE OHIO RIVER VALLEY. 
 
 October came over mountains where Summer lately trod; 
 
 She left the spruce pines sighing, and the titled laurel proud, 
 
 Her queently, gracious bearing was pity glorified, 
 
 When she walked the hills and valleys where Summer lived and 
 
 died. 
 Her locks were brown as the cornsilk that hangs from the ripened 
 
 ears; 
 
 Her eyes held shadowed mysteries with pathos of unshed tears. 
 Now sad, now mirthful her tender smile among fast falling leaves; 
 With her breath she blew the thistle-down, and meshes the spider 
 
 waves ; 
 
 Pausing to deck in her favorite hues, with graceful fingers deft, 
 The desolate, sorrowing offspring of Summer s love bereft. 
 From her throat unwound the necklace, and jewels from her arms, 
 To hang on bush and vine forlorn, the gold and coral charms. 
 O er the nest that rocked on a swinging branch, so empty, lone and 
 
 bare, 
 
 She spread a quilt of the rarest dyes and tied it fast with her hair. 
 She gathered a sheaf of goldenrod and asters from heath and wold, 
 On brow and hair hung purple stars and the nodding plumes of 
 
 gold. 
 
 The weed that bears on stately wands right royal purple shields 
 Saluted as she passed along the highways and the fields. 
 Shy brooks and wandering streamlets were dimpled by her feet; 
 They laughed a low, sweet laughter, when eddying waters fleet, 
 Unpinned the stems, and loosed the leaves, and the current floated 
 
 down 
 Scarlet and russet, green and gold, from her broidered trailing 
 
 gown; 
 
 Like many a life-bark sailing, heedless of chart or of guide, 
 They stranded on a rocky beach or were lost on trackless tide. 
 The soul of song was in her voice a tender tremulo: 
 Pausing to hear, the south-bound birds on fluttering wings hung 
 
 low; 
 
 The songster-wren with swelling throat, and eyes to heaven turned, 
 The passion of all seasons from October s voice has learned. 
 Down twilight slope she saw her form, less, and still less, had 
 
 grown ; 
 
 And over her frail shoulder cast a look so wierdly wan, 
 The flowers paled upon her brow and shook with sudden chill, 
 For glitter of the frost she saw upon a dark-browed hill. 
 Over the dim horizon s brim, from sky all shred and fray, 
 The figure of November loomed hooded and cloaked in greyl; 
 Then from her breast the last flower dropt the blossom she had 
 
 kissed; 
 
 In her hair she vailed her streaming eyes and fled away in mist. 
 
 Mathilde Christine Hutchings. 
 Madison. 
 
THE LOVELY BEND OF TIP. 
 
 There is one place and maybe more, 
 
 On this green earth or mundane sphere, 
 Where memory s dwelt so oft before, 
 
 On lovely scenes which we revere. 
 From youth to manhood as we grow, 
 
 Our life is full of scenes so bright; 
 And thoughts and deeds we re proud to know 
 
 Our conscience sees and says are right. 
 We see in all the earth s bright scenes, 
 
 In all the worthy lives of men, 
 The hand of God, a vivid means, 
 
 To teach us rev rence now and then. 
 But turn we now to life s bright spots, 
 
 The place of all to us most dear, 
 We trace the lines on map to dots, 
 
 On banks Ind ana s river clear. 
 The, Tippecanoe, we mean and say, 
 
 In winding course through wood and vale, 
 Dashes o er rocks and leaps in spray, 
 
 Runs fast through wood^ and Indian trail. 
 In all our rivers there s a trend 
 
 A winding course the waters flow. 
 In this a graceful "horse shoe" bend, 
 
 And on its banks green cedars grow. 
 See on one side banks high and steep, 
 
 The other, low and studded with trees. 
 We pass "big rocks" and waters deep, 
 
 And Nature s lovely prospects please- 
 For luck and pleasure, tis the place 
 
 To dwell in tent in summer time, 
 And watch the fish join in the chase, 
 
 For bug or worm in joy sublime. 
 The meet in picnic on the banks, 
 
 With class, with friends or Sunday school, 
 And watch the children play their pranks, 
 
 But keep in mind the golden rule. 
 To glide adown in boat so new 
 
 Clear round the bend, with borders green, 
 Of our classic Tippecanoe, 
 
 In ecstatic joy o er the scene. 
 
 Chester Clark French. 
 Brookston. 
 
LIFE S SACRED CHAIN. 
 
 The Journey of Life is a trio, 
 
 Of three sacred parts, known to be, 
 
 And we are the trunk and the branches 
 Of Eternity s beautiful tree. 
 
 Love, Faith and Hope, we all see them 
 
 As the links of the human heart s chain ; 
 We cherish and kindly adore them, 
 And feel that each one means the same. 
 
 Should we strike out the discords in either, 
 
 Its musical rhythm would spoil, 
 But we carefully bind them together 
 
 And herald their tidings to all. 
 
 Love is a scene not uncommon, 
 
 But forever and aye is divine ; 
 An admirable emblem to harbor 
 
 And worship at Liberty s shrine. 
 
 Faith is the gift oT God s goodness, 
 
 And mercy we cheerfully seek 
 Without which our life is but sadness. 
 
 Forget not the lowly and meek. 
 
 But the tie that unites all these treasures 
 That is viewed through the weird telescope, 
 
 Is the one, although scattered, yet the sweetest, 
 The beauteous ideals of hope. 
 
 Then with flowers let these be adorned, 
 Of richness and pureness so rare; 
 
 In that blessed of homes over yonder 
 In God s record our names will be there. 
 
 Nellie Olive Brown. 
 Brookston. 
 
SPRING. 
 
 Unloose thy mantle, Gentle Spring, 
 Strew thy flowers o er mead and vale 
 Let the wild wood with music ring, 
 Rout stern Winter with balm-like gale. 
 
 Closed, the doors have been too long; 
 Let us scent thy sweet perfume, 
 Give us gladness, mirth and song ; 
 Seal drear Winter s icy gloom. 
 
 Let the peach-bloom thy blushes be ; 
 Gently touch the orchards with thy wand, 
 That when thy youth away doth flee 
 A golden harvest will fill the land. 
 
 Spread thy wings of peace o er all, 
 Gently soothe the hearts of strife, 
 Stay the war-cry, with peace enthrall ; 
 Calm the tempestuous tide of life. 
 
 Open nature s book of flowers; 
 (Hands of Time, will the pages turn,) 
 As swiftly glide the sunny hours 
 We will each a lesson learn. 
 
 List ! I hear your gentle whispers 
 
 From a blue-bird s yellow throat. 
 
 Sing on sweet bird, sing Winter s vespers; 
 
 Welcome Spring with silvery note. 
 
 Balmy Soring, before thy shrine, 
 I bow low, and adore thy grace. 
 W r ords add not to beauty, such as thine, 
 Nor sleep, thy loveliness efface. 
 
 We crown your brow with lovely flowers 
 And now, make you queen of Earth. 
 May sun-shine, with gentle showers, 
 Spread broad-cast, thy joy and mirth. 
 
 Miranda French Rizor. 
 
 Peru, 
 
NATURE EVER BUSY. 
 
 In fertile valley and on the hill, 
 In ocean deep, in shallow rill, 
 In forest dense and on the plain, 
 Around the hovel, in wealth s domain, 
 Where er we go, \vhere er we stay, 
 Nature is working by night and by day. 
 
 Neath clouded dome and sunny skies, 
 Mid sweetest calm and the wind s deep sighs, 
 In winter s chill and summer s heat, 
 Whether the morn or even we greet, 
 Where er we go, where er we stay, 
 Nature is working by night and by day. 
 
 In the time when hearts most thrill with joy, 
 When naught doth trouble and naught annoy, 
 Or when the heart heaves sighs of pain 
 And we hear but sorrow s old refrain, 
 Whate er may fill the heart of man, 
 Nature s at work on God s perfect plan. 
 
 It may be a people has poured out its praise 
 Above millions of names, one name it doth raise, 
 And some heart is throbbing with high exalta 
 tion, 
 
 One stops to recline under the praise of a nation, 
 Whate er man s mind, whate er his will, 
 Nature is busy working still. 
 
 Though tumults arise and wars lay their waste, 
 Though lines of remembrance may be erased, 
 Though nations rise, decline and fall, 
 And troubles come as a crushing mall, 
 Ne er sleeping nor waking but ceaselessly still, 
 Nature works in touch with the heavenly will. 
 
 Nellie Almira SmitTi. 
 Elkhart. 
 
LITTLE SWEETHEART BROWN EYES. 
 
 Dear little brown eyes, 
 Is studying hard tonight, 
 Sitting by the table, 
 Learning how to write. 
 Every day he reads his lesson 
 And studies it as well. 
 He knows the multiplication table 
 And has learned how to spell. 
 
 Dear little brown head 
 Over paper bending low, 
 Stowing up for the future, 
 Everything he wants to know. 
 Little sister is the teacher, 
 And at work she keeps him late 
 Writing copies and adding 
 Sums upon his little slate. 
 
 Little brown fingers, 
 They are busy all the day 
 Doing many errands, 
 Helping in so many ways, 
 Doing little deeds of kindness, 
 That helps us on our way, 
 Giving loving little messages, 
 That he knows just how to say. 
 
 Little sweetheart brown eyes, 
 Long days are before you yet, 
 Gray may grow your auburn locks, 
 And dim your eyes of jet. 
 Days of happiness and prosperity, 
 May await you ere long, 
 But now your life is pleasure 
 Like a sweet happy song. 
 
 Alberta Mahan Stanley. 
 Centreville. 
 
CORN SHUCKIN TIME. 
 
 Dear old summer s a biddin adieu ; 
 An nature s a puttin on a golden hue ; 
 
 An by the rooster s crowin , the hen s cackle ; 
 
 The bleatin o the sheep, the lowin o the cattle ; 
 The barkin o the dog, the gruntin o the swine ; 
 You can tell that its corn shuckin time. 
 
 Hunt the file an whetstone, sharpen up the pins; 
 Get the saw an hammer, straighten out the bins ; 
 
 Buy a box o axle grease, dob it on the trucks ; 
 
 Patch out the "end gates," put the "side-boards" up. 
 Call in the mules an drive em "down the line," 
 Don t you hear em brayin ? "Its corn shuckin time." 
 
 Get out an hustle, boys, never mind the frost ; 
 Keep up the "down row," let not an ear be lost ; 
 
 Sail em in the wagon, pile em way up high ; 
 
 You ll drive in with your "forty" bye an bye ; 
 Hollow "hoo-a-hoo-a-hoo" ! yell it out sublime, 
 Let the country know that its corn shuckin time. 
 
 Now I m in my glory, feelin best of all ; 
 
 Never feel that way, ceptin of a fall ; 
 
 When the table s laden with fruits the summer bore, 
 An a feller feels like eatin more an more an more. 
 
 You fellers in the city, your lot s nothin side o mine, 
 
 Down here in the country when its corn shuckin time. 
 
 William John Burtscher. 
 Evansville. 
 
THE FATAL MILK CAN. 
 
 It occurred upon a Christmas day, when I witnessed my "first 
 performance on any stage." 
 
 The* play was "The Octoroon." It was a good, old-time comedy- 
 farce, well-sprinkled with pathos spots. I saw it in Valentine 
 Butsch s theater, "the Old Met," away back in the last century, so 
 long ago that it frightens me to recall the date. 
 
 It was in the last days of the best stock company ever brought 
 together in this country, and "Old White," the funniest man who 
 ever lived, was in the cast. His talent for comedy amounted to 
 genius of high order, but he died broken-hearted because he had 
 never had an opportunity to show the world that he was a great 
 tragedian. 
 
 At the time of which I speak, away back in the last century, my 
 father lived at the edge of Indianapolis, and I drove to school every 
 morning with him as he went to his office. My eldest brother and 
 his new wife lived in the city and were joint proprietors of a new 
 baby, over which my mother also exercised proprietary rights. She, 
 for example, decreed that dairy milk was not good for the child, 
 who, in one respect, at least, resembled the immortal "Pip." So 
 1 was delegated to carry milk to that infant every morning when 
 I drove to school. 
 
 Upon "The Octoroon" Christmas day my youngest brother, who 
 was seven and very fat, went to the city with me I was nine and 
 the milk can, who was about a gallon and a half, and we three 
 attended the matinee. I, being full of false pride, wanted to leave 
 the can in a store under the theater, but my brother, whom we called 
 "Brigadier," was of a strenuous turn of mind, looked upon the can 
 as a thing of great value, if not of beauty, and insisted upon taking 
 it with us to the play. 
 
 "Me ll tarry it," he said, "and me ll hold it, too." 
 
 How "me" held it when "The Octoroon" warmed tip you will soon 
 learn. 
 
 The Brigadier sat in the chair next to the aiple and carefully 
 held the can in his chubby little arms as if it were a baby. 
 
 The play progressed beautifully, thrillingly, and the Brigadier 
 clung to the milk can with a grip worthy of a mother s love. 
 His eyes were almost out of his head with excitement. The 
 fun of the play was furious, the interest was intense, 
 the pathos was sweet and tear-inspiring. Alas! there was 
 one touch of pathos too many. Some one was dying on the stage, 
 perhaps it was the beautiful "Octoroon." 
 
 The interest was at its highest, the tear-charged hush was at 
 its deepest, when suddenly the silence was broken by a terrific 
 bang! bang! bang! The fatal can, overcome no doubt by the pathos 
 of the play, had fallen from the Brigadier s lap and started down the 
 steps, bumpity bump! bang! bang! bang; toward the stage with 
 *he evident intent to save the beautiful "Octoroon" if possible. With 
 each succeeding step in the isle the noise that milk can made grew 
 louder and deeper till to me its frightful din seemed superfluous 
 for any occasion short of the general resu?~rection. On it went, bang! 
 bang! bang! till by one triumphal bound it sprang from the last 
 step and landed squarely upon the sacred person of the bass fiddler. 
 
 The Brigadier looked at me in wild consternation and then, regard 
 less of the "Octoroon" and her sorrows, started down the aisle in 
 pursuit of the precious milk can. The Brigadier s legs were so short 
 and fat that he stumbled and, following the can s example, roller! 
 down the steps and rested placidly by its side, close to that mar 
 velous instrument, the bass viol. 
 
 Well, the audience simply rose up as one man and howled. "Old 
 White" howled, the villain howled; even the dying woman howled, 
 and the curtain came down in the middle of the act upon the 
 wildest applause ever witnessed in the "Old Met." 
 
 A big Irish policeman, who looked to be about twenty-two times 
 the size of the Brigadier, walked down the aisle, lifted the little 
 fellow from under the bass fiddle by his ear and said: 
 
 "Take that d d can out of here/ 
 
 His request was complied with. 
 
 The Brigadier came back to his seat, the curtain rose and the 
 play began again. 
 
 When the dying scene was reached the audience began to titter 
 and soon it was evident the Brigadier s milk can had knocked all 
 pathos out of the "Octoroon." While the woman was dying the laugh 
 increased and the scene would have been a great deal worse than 
 a failure had not White said lugubriously: 
 
 "Alas! she has gone." Then, aside to the audience: "I wish some 
 body would give that boy with the can a dog." 
 
 Charles Major. 
 Shelbyville. 
 

 
DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 I went to my childhood s clear old home 
 
 In the golden days of fall ; 
 
 I sought the paths where I used to roam 
 
 And the grounds where I played at ball ; 
 
 But the haunts were choked with saplings, tall , 
 
 That had sprung from the earthly loam, 
 
 And the pleasure grounds I sought were all 
 
 Lost neath the wooded dome. 
 
 I went to the house where my mother dwelled 
 
 In her children s happy love ; 
 
 Where her voice, in supplication, welled 
 
 To the throne of her God above ; 
 
 No voice now to soothe, like a gentle dove, 
 
 The pain that my bosom swelled 
 
 No kiss fondly given in rapture to prove 
 
 The wealth of affection she held. 
 
 The piano still sat in the parlor, unused, 
 
 While near was a vacant chair ; 
 
 And the walls were adorned with beauty, confused, 
 
 Set by hands that were nimble and fair; 
 
 But no childish voices cadenced the air 
 
 Of the dim old hall, now abused 
 
 By the hand of Time, who everywhere, 
 
 Leaves the mark of his march, though refused. 
 
 As I stood enwrapt in reverted thought, 
 
 My childhood swept by in a train ; 
 
 A moment I lived in the joys it brought, 
 
 But they vanished like dust in the rain ; 
 
 And as I went forth to the world again, 
 
 Its value seemed equal to naught 
 
 While the dead leaves were falling, my heart cried in 
 
 pain, 
 "What is earth-life, by man to be sought?" 
 
 John Willard Sappenfield. 
 Evansville. 
 
THE OLD BRICK HOUSE ON THE HILL. 
 
 When the moon breaks forth in gladness, 
 
 And our muse in fancy plays. 
 When our hearts are touched with sadness, 
 
 As we think of other days; 
 Then awakes fond recollection, 
 
 And our memories catch a thrill, 
 As we turn with sweet reflection, 
 
 To the old Brick on the hill. 
 
 It was there we spent our morning, 
 
 In the sunlight s silvery gleam, 
 Where we heard no notes of warning 
 
 To disturb our golden dream ; 
 
 It was then a world of glory, 
 
 Even yet it sends a thrill, 
 As we wake the olden story 
 
 Of the brick house on the hill. 
 
 When I think of things so weird, 
 
 Of the sunshine and the shade, 
 Of the favorite flowrets reared, 
 
 Which were born to bloom and fade, 
 Of the morning songsters singing, 
 
 And the lonesome whip-poor-will, 
 Oh, I find my heart still clinging 
 
 To that mansion on the hill. 
 
 But the mansion s now deserted ; 
 
 "It has had its day," they say; 
 And the family have departed 
 
 To a mansion far away. 
 And though you say that I am frantic, 
 
 I should have a stronger will ; 
 Yet there s no place so romantic 
 
 As the old Brick on the hill. 
 
 Alfred El more. 
 Covington. 
 
PAST AND FUTURE. 
 
 In reviewing the past and the present, 
 
 The future I think I can see, 
 At best life has been so unpleasant, 
 My spirit now longs to be free. 
 
 Sometimes I have hopes full of gladness. 
 
 But soon do they vanish away, 
 For lo, the next moment comes sadness, 
 
 This lasting for many a day. 
 
 When time with its changes unceasing 
 Brings one gleam of joy to my heart, 
 
 The sorrow and care all releasing, 
 And bidding the gloom to depart. 
 
 Bright hope comes again all-sustaining, 
 
 If I could but trust all the way, 
 While spiritual strength I m regaining 
 
 Clouds again darken my day. 
 
 Thus sunshine and shadows are chasing 
 Each other through life as we go, 
 
 But the kind hand of time is erasing 
 A part of the sorrow and woe. 
 
 Although there are wounds time can heal not ; 
 
 And scars that are deeply set, 
 Our lives should be such that we ll feel not 
 
 A deep and lasting regret. 
 
 When we hear death s cold dark river surging, 
 And feel the cold waves sweeping o er, 
 
 Then, from the last trial emerging 
 We ll dwell on a happier shore. 
 
 Ada Ellen Rice. 
 Spencer. 
 
ART IS DIVINE. 
 
 The slanting beams of the setting sun were softened 
 into a ruddy glow as they streamed through the win 
 dow panes of the art gallery. 
 
 The throng of fashionable people had come, ad- 
 imired, and remarked upon the beauty of the paintings, 
 and then had departed to their luxurious homes. But no 
 one had noticed the shabby, sad-faced little woman 
 who had passed slowly by the pictures, gazing intently 
 at each one as though to find some comfort therein. 
 Remaining long after the others had gone, she at last 
 gazed up to where the sun s rays fell upon the eastern 
 wall. She stood transfixed at what she beheld. 
 Across her memory rushed the panorama of her sad 
 past life the bright dreams of her girlhood which 
 had been dispelled by stern realities which had come 
 later. The one to whom she had given her truest 
 love a part of her very being had proved unworthy, 
 and she had not possessed the power to save him from 
 his downward course. 
 
 Then the sorrow that had eaten so deeply into her 
 heart, seemed also to destroy her vitality, so for several 
 years she could not join the world s workers. Next 
 the death of those nearest and dearest and then stern 
 poverty in all its horrors faced her unflinchingly ; and 
 now unknown and uncared for she was compelled to 
 earn her daily bread by sew r ing in an establishment 
 whose motto was, "hard work, little wages." 
 
 She felt that God had been very cruel to her and her 
 set, hard mouth and sorrowful eyes had not invited the 
 confidence of her fellow-workers. 
 
 The setting sun seemed to produce a halo around the 
 picture, for he face was that of the Man of Sorrows." 
 It seemed to the watcher as though the cruel thorns 
 were pressing her bleeding temples. 
 
 "He is despised and rejected of men, a man of sor 
 rows and acquainted v/ith grief/ Oh, HE understands 
 her grief. Are not His up-lifted eyes praying for 
 those whom He so loves in this world? And her sor 
 rows are so insignificant when compared to those of 
 the Man of Galilee. 
 
 Her long-dwarfed soul arose from its slumber and in 
 anguished prayer cried out, then that for which so 
 many years she had unhundered, filled her being with 
 light. For "Peace, sweet peace" had illumined her 
 countenance and serenely she passed out again into 
 the world. 
 
 Ethel Harris Case. 
 Marion. 
 
THE PHILANTHROPIST. 
 The kings who reared the pyramids, the people there 
 
 who wrought, 
 Have left their monuments, alone, the builders are 
 
 forgot ; 
 No good results now live by them, those massive piles 
 
 of stone, 
 From them mankind can reap no good, no good by 
 
 them is sown ; 
 
 The only lesson they set forth, and it s a cruel thing, 
 Is of the servitude of man, the power of a king. 
 And thus it is with most of men, they satisfy their 
 
 greed, 
 The present life is all they see, for all they e er take 
 
 heed ; 
 Though massive millions be acquired they give no 
 
 serious thought 
 To great mankind beyond this life, they die and are 
 
 forgot. 
 They pass and leave their massive wealth to legal 
 
 battles fought, 
 And mankind reaps no lasting good, no lasting good 
 
 was sought. 
 
 I have in mind a nobler man, a man of broader scope, 
 A man who lives for future years, the future is his 
 
 hope ; 
 And a thousand cities in our land, will bless his name 
 
 and say, 
 That he, though a millionaire, has built for future 
 
 day ; 
 Has built a thousand monuments, that will proclaim 
 
 his fame, 
 
 And millions of posterity will learn to lisp his name. 
 Yet some, alas, will rail at him, this is a great man s 
 
 fate, 
 But come it will, for come it must, philanthropy can 
 
 wait. 
 Yes, wait for fame, for it is his, to sober minds tis 
 
 known, 
 His name will be a household word, he ll reap as 
 
 he has sown ; 
 Then sing his praise, exalt his name, that all the world 
 
 may hear, 
 For Carnegie, philanthropist, stands out without a 
 
 peer. 
 Hartford City. John Alexander Slater. 
 
PARTING AND MEETING. 
 
 If I must leave thce, sweetheart, let it be 
 When saddened twilight sinks to dismal night, 
 When wailing winds bemoan the sighing flight 
 Of day s dead spirit in a rhapsody 
 Pitched shrill and hoarse in melancholy key. 
 I cannot bear that nature s heart be light, 
 Or Earth rejoice, or twinkling star shine bright, 
 While thy dear heart and mine weep wretchedly 
 But when I may return and clasp again 
 Thy loving heart to mine, let Earth be clad 
 In gala dress of green, or yet of white, 
 Let love-life all the world with flowers enchain, 
 Or jeweled ermine sparkle gleaming-glad, 
 While nature shares our rapturous delight. 
 
 Albert Charlton Andrews. 
 Brookville. 
 
A VISION. 
 
 Last night ere the twilight 
 
 Had long passed into the great beyond 
 
 While sitting in my study thinking, 
 
 Suddenly I felt myself sinking, sinking, 
 
 And all was white. 
 
 And night was there no more 
 
 The door opened and on the floor 
 
 I heard the silent tread of spirit feet 
 
 Invincible forms were entering 
 
 And around me were centering 
 
 The clock struck five, 
 
 And life from me seemed to ebb. 
 
 How fast the time flew past! 
 
 I heard the spirits, one by one depart. 
 
 Half-unconsciously I sat ther? seeing 
 
 My spirit guests withdraw time was fleeing- 
 
 I heard them close the door, 
 
 And before me all grew dark. 
 
 Suddenly I saw a light, and an angel in white 
 
 Appeared sitting in my study chair. 
 
 He looked at me smiling, 
 
 And his right hand was lying 
 
 On the page of an open book 
 
 I looked and saw there my name. 
 
 The date and my fate 
 
 Was there written in golden letters. 
 
 I heard the angel explaining 
 
 But could not catch his meaning. 
 
 He finished and smiled 
 
 And, while I looked, vanished. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin Woorlcox. 
 Millersburg. 
 
THE RIVER OE TEARS. 
 
 A wonderful stream is the River of Tears, 
 That ran since the dawn of mortality s years ; 
 Its mouth is indefinite space neath the skies ; 
 Its sources are tender humanity s eyes. 
 
 The physical forces like weight, heat and cold, 
 Are reasons why other great rivers have rolled ; 
 But passion induces this river to flow, 
 Whereon to float feelings of pleasure and woe. 
 
 The tears of friends bidding each other good bye, 
 To meet nevermoie till they gather on High; 
 And other sad scenes among men upon Earth, 
 Grant unto this river renewal of birth. 
 
 The eyes of devotion oft bathe in that stream 
 To rinse out a probable mote or a beam, 
 Induing their vision with adequate sight 
 To see Love s real beauty in "Let there be Light." 
 
 Tis ebbing and flowing around the sick bed, 
 And washing the shores where we bury the dead, 
 Subsiding no sooner than mourning departs, 
 The cloud of the funeral awing friend s hearts. 
 
 It nourishes scenery that is sublime. 
 Though here and there gone in a moment of time. 
 The waves roll along the pure linen banks white. 
 Then percolate through and are hidden from sight. 
 
 A mother in bed, near the River of Tears, 
 Is covered with soil to sleep thousands of years, 
 Aroused on the morn of the Infinite Day, 
 May learn that such rivers have all rolled away. 
 
 When mountains of sorrow are pressing the heart 
 And feelings through language are failing to start 
 And even your vision is tarnished with grief, 
 Go plunge in the River of Tears for relief. 
 
 Aaron Spencer Zook. 
 Goshen, 
 
A PAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 As o er I turn a page of life, 
 Its lessons to renew, 
 I find this first, 
 That in the strife, 
 Be ever kind and true. 
 
 Be true as sun is o the day, 
 Then cheer the lonely heart. 
 Oh! lull to rest, 
 Old hate and wrong, 
 And teach the nobler part. 
 
 Let not the anchor cast its weight 
 
 With frowns upon your brow. 
 
 Oh Lord, help those 
 
 That cannot see 
 
 The pangs their thrusting now. 
 
 Speak kind, let not thy words be thor .11 
 
 To pierce the aching heart, 
 
 Which throngs the human 
 
 Mind with guile 
 
 Oft times, will tear drops start. 
 
 Scorn not the fallen on their way, 
 Help them to rise again, 
 That they may live 
 In joy and peace, 
 Unto eternals end. 
 
 Direct our footsteps for the right 
 W 7 hile in this world below, 
 Praise unto Him 
 Who sends the light, 
 And guides us by its glow. 
 
 Elizabeth Kruse. 
 
 Ft Wa*rne. 
 
THE LITTLE LEAVES. 
 
 A little leaf softly said 
 
 To the leaves by its side 
 
 "Soon we all must die, 
 
 For the north wind is blowing cold 
 
 And that is why I cry." 
 
 Its brothers and sisters all laughed, 
 
 And said, "I don t see why!" 
 
 "Nor I ! nor I !" 
 
 The mother tree shook her head and sighed, 
 
 As she looked upon her childrens heads, 
 
 And said, "Alas, dear ones, it is true, 
 
 The north wind will soon call you 
 
 To your death beds." 
 
 " I know the north wind s cruel songs ; 
 
 He leaves you with me 
 
 But a brief summer s day, 
 
 Then hastens along and takes my children 
 
 away, 
 
 Covers them at my feet quite snug and warm, 
 And they never again hear his cruel song." 
 
 Clara Puckett. 
 Winchester. 
 
GOD GIVE US PEACE! 
 
 Emblem of Liberty, 
 Uncle Sam s flag we see 
 
 Gloriously high. 
 Planted by Jasper s hand 
 Honored in every land ; 
 By thee our boys will stand, 
 
 Will win or die. 
 
 Millions of able men 
 Will do the best they can, 
 
 Forget it not. 
 These our beloved ones, 
 Noblest of mother s sons 
 Fear neither death nor Dons ; 
 
 Love and fear God. 
 
 Here are still Washingtons, 
 Hobsons and Jeffersons; 
 
 Heroes, not small, 
 Who will do every bit 
 As Schley and Dewey did, 
 Who will aim, shoot and hit, 
 
 Who ll win or fall- 
 
 "Author of Liberty," 
 King of humanity ! 
 
 Let bloodshed cease ! 
 Mid groans and cannons noise, 
 Hear this most humble voice : 
 God bless our Flag and Boys ; 
 
 God give us peace ! 
 
 Joseph Reckers. 
 Richmond. 
 
A SONG OF BROKEN RANKS. 
 
 The summer feast is over, 
 The cypress groves repine; 
 
 The bee has quit the clover 
 For stores of golden wine. 
 
 The roses with the fragrance, 
 Like phantoms stole away : 
 
 And leaves, like dusky vagrants, 
 Forsook their palsied spray. 
 
 The moonbeams in their splendor 
 
 On quiet hills disclose 
 Through stillness, lone and tender, 
 
 The turret s stern repose. 
 
 I ll leave my shield and sabre, 
 While battling hosts shall tread ; 
 
 To cease with thought and labor, 
 And fall among the dead ! 
 
 Harvey Porter Layton. 
 Dresser. 
 
GO, WINTER, GO! 
 
 Go, begrimed old winter, go. 
 Take with thee the ice and snow. 
 Already you have tarried long 
 To catch the sweet enchanting song 
 Of the blushing verdant spring, 
 And do not go to let her in. 
 But like the bee that honey sips, 
 You steal the nectar from her lips. 
 Go, frigid King, you horrid thing, 
 Make way for lovely Queen of Spring. 
 
 Go, grizzled monster, bleak and cold ; 
 You are getting most too bold 
 To flirt with such a lovely Queen, 
 Who would come and spread her sheen 
 Of brightest garlands, and would stay, 
 If you would only go your way! 
 Then take her not in your cold arms, 
 And rob her of her sweetest charms, 
 Or lure her more within thy trap 
 To linger longer in her lap. 
 
 So go, grim winter, speed thy way, 
 
 Don t prolong thy blighting stay. 
 
 But hold ! you are not to blame, 
 
 For we poor mortals are the same ! 
 
 We, too, linger for the hours 
 
 That brings the sunshine and the flowers 
 
 Lingering, longing for sweet spring 
 
 And all the joys it ushers in. 
 
 But go, grim winter, bless thy way ; 
 
 I do not wonder at thy stay. 
 
 Robert Irwin Patterson. 
 Muncie. 
 
WHITEWATER IN THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Its music was sweet in life s early morn, 
 While gaily it laughed each barrier to scorn. 
 The sun kissed its face and it sparkled in glee 
 And danced o er the pebbles abundant and free. 
 
 O River ! sweet River ! my childhood s delight ! 
 Thy music s the same in the moonlight tonight ! 
 The grasses grow soft and darken the shade 
 Where willows bend gently and shadows are laid . 
 
 The moonbeams are filtering through the tops of 
 
 the trees, 
 They quiver and dance with the leaves in the 
 
 breeze. 
 
 O River! sw r eet River! my childhood s delight! 
 Thy beauty s the same in the moonlight tonight. 
 
 The voice of our master in its music is heard ; 
 Its beauty transcendant our spirits have stirred. 
 We feel a sweet peace like Galilee stilled 
 Life s tranquil sea with His presence is filled. 
 
 O River! sweet River! thy beauty so bright 
 
 Is the shadow of love in the moonlight tonight ! 
 
 Mary Alice Hoffman. 
 Metamora. 
 
THE BLOOM WAS ON THE LILAC. 
 
 I opened up my window to the balmy air of spring, 
 The bloom was on the lilac and the swallow on the 
 
 wing, 
 The dewy grass like diamonds was sparkling in the 
 
 sun, 
 
 And in a world of ecstacy a spring day had begun. 
 I stood and gazed with tranquil bliss upon a scene so 
 
 fair, 
 I heard the red bird s piping voice and the robins 
 
 sweetly sing, 
 
 How plainly it did speak to me that God is everywhere. 
 And the bloom was on the lilac and the swallow on the 
 
 wing. 
 And as I stood in pensive mood, and looked upon the 
 
 scene, 
 
 1 thought of loved ones gone before into that land un 
 seen, 
 How some beneath the sod were laid to rest in early 
 
 spring, 
 When the bloom was on the lilac and the swallow on 
 
 the wing. 
 Oh ! we miss them ever, always, and the years have 
 
 grown so long 
 Since they left us here so lonely, since they joined us 
 
 in our song. 
 But when earth is smiling gladly, Oh ! we miss them 
 
 In the spring, 
 When the bloom is on the lilac and the swallow on 
 
 the wing. 
 
 Ah ! how I ve seen the years go by, how soon the gold 
 en hours 
 
 Have passed into eternity, but still we have the flowers. 
 .And now upon this lovely morn, I stand in early spring 
 The bloom is on the lilac and the swallow on the wing. 
 I know not when the hour s at hand that I am called 
 
 to go, 
 
 How many seasons I will see, nor do I care to know, 
 But only this, T hope twill be some time in early 
 
 spring, 
 When the bloom is on the lilac and the swallow on the 
 
 Alquina. 
 
 wing. 
 
 Joseph Morris Widdows. 
 
THE ROOSTER SCHOOLMASTER, 
 
 Oft have I wandered in days now old, 
 
 Along the quaint and quiet road, 
 To the little school house on the hill 
 
 My soul with merriment to fill. 
 
 When to my summons the master came, 
 His face aglow with a perpetual flame 
 
 For with his many troubles and rare 
 A patron was always welcome there. 
 
 Day in, day out, from morn till night, 
 The master tells of wrong and right, 
 
 Expounds the principles of endurance and strife 
 And prepares his boys and girls for future life. 
 
 Ever in highest hopes and aspirations abiding, 
 Through the live-long day planning and con 
 triving 
 
 That his pupils may accomplish more 
 On the morrow than the day before. 
 
 Grave is the look the master wears, 
 
 With wrinkled forehead from worrying cares ; 
 
 A life so ideal and sublime 
 
 Has passed along the river of Time. 
 
 The master speaks with stern command, 
 And every pupil yields at his demand ; 
 
 Yet not too irksome is his rule 
 For he was once a boy at school. 
 
 "Get an education while you can," 
 
 Was the advise of the courageous old man ; 
 
 "For in after years you ll always regret 
 If ignorance" and privations should be met." 
 
 O, may the lessons he has taught, 
 In highest aspirations be wrought ; 
 
 And when he goes to meet his Lord, 
 May he receive his just reward. 
 
 Chester Arthur McCormick. 
 
 Knox, 
 
TRANSITION. 
 
 Sunlight retreating ; 
 Shadows reaching far ; 
 One moment s waiting, 
 And I will cross the bar. 
 
 Hopes in me burning; 
 Friends left to fear. 
 Though, no returning, 
 Shed not a tear. 
 
 Life has its shadows ; , 
 Death has its sting; 
 What seems but sorrow, 
 Comfort will bring. 
 
 Daylight is darkness; 
 Death but a sleep; 
 Transition follows ; 
 Never never weep. 
 
 Sunset surrounds me. 
 Moving from coast, 
 I see Him beckon. 
 Adrift ! But not lost. 
 
 Sunlight approaching; 
 Waned the midnight star ; 
 Earth, care and sorrow, 
 Seen from afar. 
 
 Thomas M. Agnew. 
 Logansport. 
 
THE SONGS OF YESTERDAY. 
 
 "The songs of yesterday!" What meaning to that 
 
 term 
 
 That falls with .eixler cadence on the ear! 
 Their memory is ever pregnant germ 
 That blooms forth instant with a joy or tear- 
 
 At cradle s snowy depths those songs were heard ; 
 At knee of loving mother, and at play ; 
 At courtship s sunny hours their notes have stirred ; 
 Those lilting melodies of yesterday. 
 
 Not all the wealth of Ormus or of Ind, 
 
 Not all the joys that linger in Cathay, 
 
 Could take from me those words in mem ry limned 
 
 Those loved, those treasured songs of yesterday. 
 
 An urn unpillaged be the lot to me 
 A sacred urn for song, for joyous lay 
 Sang on life s varied paths, on troubled yea 
 By those who sang "the songs of yesterday." 
 
 Charles Albert McDonald. 
 South Bend. 
 
A SPRING OUTING. 
 
 Sitting on the bank of old Arnold s Creek, a mean 
 dering stream flowing a mile back of the "Blue Jeans" 
 town (Rising Sun, Ind.) I re-baited my fish hook and 
 thinking little of the rebate plan I left behind me 
 down in town, with a swish threw my line far out 
 in mid-stream where a moment before I had seen a 
 "yaller cat" snap at a water-skipper. 
 
 For a few moments I anxiously waited for the fish 
 to jerk the dodler under, but slowly it drifted off down 
 stream, then caught by an eddy lazily swinging toward 
 shore and back up stream. Splash ! went a muskrat 
 on the opposite side of the creek and started across 
 toward me. 
 
 Meeting a large turtle which had just come to the 
 surface and mistaking it for a chunk or a minute mud 
 island Mr. Rat proceeded to climb on top of his turtle- 
 ship s back, when snap! he was taken by a hind leg; 
 then such a jumping, jerking, diving fight for freedom 
 which made the water boil until the wavelets set my 
 dodler dancing like a buoy on the ocean. 
 
 Soon all was calm again, rat and turtle having sunk 
 out of sight, my dodler was again floating out in mid 
 stream. 
 
 I lazily turned and rested my elbow on the grassy 
 plat and viewed the "Johnny- jump-lips," daisies and 
 puccoon that everywhere about me smiled and exhaled 
 their fragrance. 
 
 Then my eyes closed and soon I felt that pleasant 
 sensation of slumbering warmth settle over my body 
 as the sun came from under a fleecy cloud, when all 
 at once jerk, jerk, went my fishing rod almost from my 
 sleepy grasp. 
 
 Fully aroused, I jumped to my feet. The dodler 
 was out of sight. I jerked at the rod and slowly and 
 heavily my "what-ever-it-was" came toward shore. 
 Excitedly I grabbed the line and pulled in. To my 
 astonishment, up to the surface came the musk-rat, 
 turtle and the "yellow cat" all tangled together. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin Buchanan. 
 Rising Sun. 
 
QUIS EST MAGNUS? 
 
 How calm, how sweet the hallowed rest, 
 When death hath claimed its own, 
 
 Of Him who gave the world the best, 
 And claims a fair renown. 
 
 Who held in life one purpose true, 
 
 His all to duty given, 
 And hearing with the faithful few, 
 
 The sacred call from heaven. 
 
 W T ent forth to do for human-kind, 
 
 When others stood aside, 
 The little acts whose blessings bind 
 The good, the pure, the tried. 
 
 Of man s into one peaceful lay, 
 
 Wherein the whole day long 
 Soft music scatters night away, 
 
 And life is one sweet song. 
 
 Not he is great who with vain greed 
 Hoards up the nation s dross, 
 
 But he who takes the living creed 
 Of Him on Calvary s cross. 
 
 And to mankind about him strown 
 Gi es joy, and strength, and aid. 
 
 Points to the sad the pathway grown 
 With flowers that never fade. 
 
 Ah ! sweet, methinks, when life is o er, 
 
 And dark within the tomb 
 The body sleeps to toil no more, 
 
 Amid encircling gloom, 
 
 Will be the peace of that great soul, 
 
 In truth s own valor dressed, 
 Which found inscribed on life s hard goal: 
 "In all he did his best!" 
 
 -Winfield Scott Hiigel, 
 Covington. 
 
A MERRY XMAS. 
 
 (To My Mother.) 
 
 It s merry Xmas, mother, I hold no joys from you, 
 1 count the gray hairs in your head as joys that you ve 
 
 passed thro . 
 
 Though you re as old as I am young, 
 Lome s tenderness has three-fold tongue. 
 For fragrant o er your latter days 
 Tis sunshine of my childhood days. 
 Your face the same I always knew, 
 Your patient smile the good and true, 
 But here I am with that passed thro 
 An it s merry Xmas, mother, I hold no joys from you. 
 
 Hangin them stockings a thing of the past 
 
 Has faded away with "Old Santa" at last. 
 
 And the sunbeams that you gave me 
 
 Was a song for days to be, 
 
 For sweet as kisses ling ring long, 
 
 Was melody of my childhood s song; 
 
 An that welcome face of yours has deep furrows in 
 
 your brow, 
 But I see that smile a comin an they re all vanished 
 
 now 
 
 There, there I know what you ve passed thro 
 So it s merry Xmas, mother, I hold no joys from you. 
 
 An sickness may come and ketch us a livin here in 
 
 town, 
 
 An prices may go up and wages may go down, 
 But as long as I m a livin/ and got airy a dime, 
 We ll have a little Xmas and blessings shall be thine ; 
 For God is watchin , mother, an we ll keep the Xmas 
 
 true, 
 vSo smile away your sorrows an think as you used to 
 
 do, 
 When Xmas was a baby for I hold no joys from you. 
 
 Gail Fielder. 
 Winchester. 
 

TAT PLOWING CORN. 
 
 "Whoa haw ! whoa haw ! Gee-ee-ee-e ! 
 Thun er and nation, Bill, can t you see 
 Where you re goin ! Clear out gee^ee ! 
 
 You re breakin down the corn. 
 Confound you ! Just look what you ve spiled. 
 I guess restin s makin you wild 
 You d better not been born." 
 
 Poor Pat, who thoroughly loved his ale, 
 Was plowing corn within a vale 
 Hard by the town of Bloomingdale. 
 
 At once, he leaves his plow 
 To meet his friend Jim Carr up town, 
 And to the dram-shop go to drown 
 
 Those cares that cloud the brow. 
 
 Jim set the first drink up to him 
 And then he "set em up" to Jim; 
 Both roaring with their merry din 
 
 Till noon-time reached the plain. 
 Then reeling down the stony hill, 
 Pat reached the plow and braying Bill, 
 
 And turned to plow again. 
 
 When halfway down along the row, 
 A distant dinner horn did blow 
 Which old Bill heeded with a go, 
 A race course wouldn t scorn. 
 
 Sf ******** 
 
 "Aw-ee, aw-ee, aw-ee ee e! 
 
 Thun er an nation, man, can t you see? 
 
 With legs all tangled up aw-ee, 
 
 You re breakin down your corn- 
 Look at that row ; see what you ve sp iled. 
 I g ess drinkin s makin you wild ; 
 
 You d better not been born." 
 
 John Gregory Reidelbach. 
 Winamac. 
 
> 
 
 
 \ 
 
 ,~ 
 
 
WHEN BAD LUCK COMES. 
 
 When bad luck comes yer way 
 
 An everything goes wrong 
 Don t spend yer time frettin 
 
 But sing some happy song. 
 
 Jest wear a patient, cheerful smile 
 
 An to yer neighbors say, 
 Though bad luck s comin fer a while, 
 
 The good 11 come some day. 
 
 Keep the lamp of hope a-burnin 
 
 Through misfortune s darkest night, 
 
 Then in yer path-way will be strewn 
 Rich gems of pure delight. 
 
 Homer Winfield Smith. 
 Rainesville. 
 
MY MOTHER S GRAVE. 
 
 In a country churchyard, brown and sere, 
 Where violets in spring are peeping 
 
 There s a sacred spot, to me so dear, 
 Tis the grave where mother s sleeping. 
 
 In our childhood s day, God called her home, 
 
 And left us sadly weeping. 
 Yet, to me, oft His solace comes 
 
 By the grave where mother s sleeping. 
 
 Naught now can harm that lifeless breast, 
 Tho o er it storms be sweeping, 
 
 For angels guard that place of rest, 
 The grave where mother s sleeping. 
 
 In yonder courts at Jesus side 
 
 Her angel watch she s keeping, 
 Lest any harm should those betide 
 
 Near the grave where mother s sleeping. 
 
 O, Father, when sowing here is o er, 
 And has come the time of reaping, 
 
 May we meet then beyond the shore 
 Yond the graves where we lay sleeping. 
 
 Fred Robert Farnair 
 Chesterton. 
 
TO ALL WRITERS. 
 
 If with his pen 
 
 One shall indite 
 Be he Hoosier, or alien of foreign domain 
 
 A truth or a thought, 
 
 By which good may be wrought 
 
 To children of men 
 
 Who seek after light, 
 That writer, though humble, has not lived in vain. 
 
 Ned Thatcher. 
 Anderson. 
 
WHEN I PLAYED THE PART OF SANTA GLAUS. 
 
 The most memorable and most utterly unforgetable Christmas in 
 my life was the one on which I essayed to do the part of Santa 
 Glaus in a Sunday-school entertainment. The committee on ar 
 rangements in the church which I attended (because some one else 
 attended regularly with her parents) selected me to play Santa 
 tor the one and particular reason that I knew a man from whom I 
 could borrow a white fur overcoat and a set of elongated whiskers 
 of the same hue. This all happened years ago, and I was at that 
 age when I thought playing Santa would be as easy as I afterward 
 admitted myself to have been. 
 
 Christmas night came and the ladies of the church pasted on 
 my whiskers and tucked me in my fur shroud. The church was 
 packed and it was 110 in the shade of the gas lights. A lot of little 
 tots came forward and said things that nobody heard beyond the 
 third row; then the superintendent of the Sunday-school announced 
 that Santa Glaus had stopped off on his way from Lapland to 
 South Pole, and that he was waiting outside the chimney pot with 
 his reindeer and a corps of able and sprighty assistants. 
 
 That was the signal tor me to pop out of a monstrous fireplace at 
 the rear of the platform. I may have looked cold enough to start 
 people to shivering, but I observed that nobody stopped fanning. 
 The children said "Oo-oo-oo" and crimped their toes with excite 
 ment. The old people laughed, and some miserable wretch asked 
 in a loud and malicious tore of voice if I didn t want to come over 
 and sit by the register awhile, till I got my patent leathers warm? 
 1 was so warm that I imagined I was about to slip out of my 
 coat of fur on account of the perspiration. My first duty was to tell 
 the children that they had to be good a whole year or I wouldn t 
 give them a speck. They all said they d be as good as possible, and 
 I began to dole out the presents to my assistants. The presents hung 
 on a. tree and they had a stepladder for me to mount in my efforts 
 to do the right thing by the little ones. 
 
 I began at the top because I thought it would be easier and 
 safer to come down than to go up. There is where I displayed great 
 foresight. It was much easier to come down. Just as I was getting 
 down to good, hard work and was mispronouncing the badly written 
 names of the children, one of my capable and over-assiduous gnomes 
 bumped into the stepladder. I was at the tip-top and on tip-toe 
 when the catastrophe occurred. There was nothing for me to 
 clutch but a string of popcorn, and that did not seem to bear the 
 wear and tear of concussion. 
 
 I fell into the tree-top, and down came Baby Bunting and all. 
 In my descent I stripped that glorious tree of all that was worth 
 coveting, but I left my whiskers hanging on the topmost branch. 
 The tree eventually upset and the ladder caromed off the superin 
 tendent s head, and there was nothing left but a fur coat, some 
 evergreen mayonaise and a crestfallen atmosphere. The worst of 
 it was that the tree fell across the mouth of the fireplace and 1 
 had to stay inside the church and say the things under my breath 
 that I wanted to say to the stars. Aside from this particular occa 
 sion all other Christmases have looked alike to me. 
 
 George Barr McCutcheon. 
 La Fayette. 
 
TWO BLOSSOMS. 
 
 "Among the pit-falls in our way 
 The most of us walk blindly; 
 So, men, be wary, watch and pray, 
 And judge your brother kindly." 
 
 An old gentleman mused in the glorious May sunshine. His 
 grey eyes, dimmed by age, rested lovingly on the huge magnolia 
 tree that, with the tall lilac bush, cast a long shadow on the 
 geranium bordered park walk. He inhaled the perfume of the 
 blossoms deeply, as he sat lost in thought. Around him scampered 
 a cortege of merry children, playing hide and seek, quite heedless 
 of the sign: "Keep off the Grass." Attracted by their joyous 
 laughter he looked at them just in time to see a prankisome Miss, 
 who had been hiding behind the trunk of the magnolia tree, reach 
 
up and touch a delicate petal of one of the tender blossoms. Soon 
 after the youngsters had skipped away, some women sauntered to 
 the same tree, and took some of the flowers, examining the bud 
 the child had touched, but it was not plucked. More people went to 
 the tree; more blossoms were gathered; still the flower was left 
 caressed by the breeze. 
 
 The Old Gentleman resting heavily on his hickory cane hobbled 
 to the tree to ascertain the reason for the bud still being there. 
 Carefully his shrivelled hands raised the exquisitely white bud; 
 thoughtfully he inspected it. As he broke the slender stem the 
 iragrance of the magnolia was almost stifling. Examining the 
 bud closely he found running along the edge of one of the graceful 
 petals a slight discoloration caused by the mischievous finger? 
 of the child. Thus, in an innocent way, the beauty of the bud 
 had been marred. To the people it was imperfect and by them 
 cast aside. But the Old Gentleman had been attracted by its 
 sweetness, and to him it had not defect. 
 
 While thinking of the bud, which he listlessly held in his hand. 
 the Old Gentleman looked steadily at a handsome, young woman, 
 from whom a group of youths and maidens were standing aloof. 
 To his mind she was infinitely fairer than those casting scornful 
 glances at her. She seemed as far removed from the others as 
 the bud in his hand was removed from the blossoms on the 
 trees. 
 
 The Old Gentleman knit his bristling brow when he recalled the 
 unsavory reports current about this young woman; for he knew 
 their falsity. He wondered if they had ever learned the parable 
 of the mote: It certainly was applicable to them. 
 
 Indeed this young woman s numerous acts of kindness and charity 
 had repeatedly manifested the nobility of her character, which alas, 
 was hidden by the reputation she bore. Ah! had not her many 
 good deeds been sent into the world unnoticed, just as the frag 
 rance of the bud had been? But he smiled at this thought, for he 
 remembered that she had been appreciated by one person. A child 
 reared in poverty; whose environments were the worst; whose 
 father was a dissipated, evil man; whose mother was dead fully 
 appreciated the sterling qualities of that young woman. To this 
 unfortunate little girl the woman went and fearlessly snatched 
 her from the fathomless abyss into which she was about to be 
 plunged, guided her along the path of righteousness, from which the 
 young woman herself had never strayed. The Old Gentleman 
 asked himself: "How many of the young people, who are now shun 
 ning her, would have done likewise?" The answer came back: 
 "Possibly none." 
 
 The young woman turned to leave the park. She caught the 
 friendly twinkle in the Old Gentleman s eyes and, hesitatingly ven 
 tured to smile. He graciously returned it. The young woman 
 walked on happily. The smile was a balm to her troubled heart it 
 made her forget the frowns she had been receiving. The Old Gen 
 tleman s eyes brightened as he watched her disappear. To him her 
 beautiful face, blooming with the rosy coloring of youth, was as 
 sweet as the blossom on his knee. The magnolia was to him, a 
 symbol of her blighted name and he considered her to be as pure 
 as the perfume of the blossom he was holding. 
 
 Blanche Clothilde Johnson. 
 Evansville. 
 
AT CURTAIN-FALL. 
 
 Soon, I think, will fall the curtain on life s tragi-comedy, 
 Though I wait her all unknowing what my few last lines shall be. 
 i, long since, my plot unraveled, heedless how the critics caviled, 
 And my part is now so little there s no longer need of me. 
 
 In the far, fair days behind me when I first was on the stage, 
 I thought I should be the hero; to the world I flung my gage. 
 Ne er a heart than mine beat gladder, fame seemed as a smooth- 
 
 runged ladder, 
 Ardent, glowing heart of boyhood, how it chills and fails with ago. 
 
 Then the Master of the drama gave an ancient role to play 
 Lover in the old, yet ever-new and ever-wondrous way, 
 Ah, the shine and shade of living, hasty quarrels, sweet forgiving! 
 Oh, the marvel of the moonlight! Oh, the miracle of day! 
 
 All our speech was set to music, mut- c our two glad hearts made; 
 I no more craved fame and fortune, loved the minor parts we played. 
 But the joy-dial s flying finger would not let her further linger; 
 Done her sweet part in the drama, from my clasping arms she 
 strayed. 
 
 Always earth is glad, nor cares she what of loss men s hearts may 
 
 hold; 
 Still the red-bird called his sweetheart, still the autumn leaves 
 
 turned gold, 
 Still came winter s dazzling glory, still the spring-tide s flow r- 
 
 writ story, 
 Lyric winds sang through the tree tops crooning dear old songs 
 
 of old. 
 
 And soft-sandaled years strewed heart s-ease and white poppies 
 
 in their flight 
 Naught is left me from that love-dream, save sometime a sob at 
 
 night, 
 And a heart thrilled through its sadness, oftentimes by other s 
 
 gladness, 
 And a sweet hope ever present that somewhere twill all come 
 
 right. 
 
 Yes. the play is almost over, soon the curtain-bell will call; 
 Would I d said my speeches better! Ah, well! He who wrote it all 
 Knows how hard it was to render; He can be but kind and tender 
 "Well done, child, you did your best," I think He ll say at curtain 
 fall. 
 
 Ethel Bowman Ronald. 
 Marion. 
 
EVOLUTION. 
 
 I will take my ancient lyre in my weak and trembling hand, 
 Though the song I find within it may be hard to understand. 
 Tis the song that Nature s singing; listen to the whispering leaves, 
 Read its notes in vale and mountain and in history s garnered 
 sheaves. 
 
 You have often felt its music, with its solemn undertone 
 As in silence you were musing on the mystical unknown, 
 Or have thrilled unto its cadence, in a night of dread and woe, 
 As you breathed the sulphur vapor of the passion-fires below. 
 
 Have you comprehended, fully, its sweet music, as a whole, 
 As it sings the evolution of the spark into the soul? 
 Nothing is that is not changing, filled with palpitating power, 
 From the march of solar systems to the perfume of a flower. 
 
 From the mire and dust beneath us, from the filthy, crawling thing 
 To the poor and cringing menial and the proud, empurpled king, 
 All creation s marching onward, not a step is made in vain, 
 Death is better birth and wiser, knowledge finds its root in pain. 
 
 We are part of all beneath us, we are part of all beyond, 
 
 And the tiger in our being greets the angel, pure and fond, 
 
 And the angel once was tiger, learned the lessons, crude and 
 
 strange, 
 Climbed to higher grades knowing through the spiral route of 
 
 change. 
 
 Do not murmur o er a sorrow, do not trouble at a crime 
 Or lament the slow progression up the rugged hills of Time; 
 Nothing is that is not needed to evolve a grander birth, 
 Nothing is but builds the wisdom of the graduating earth. 
 
 Edwin Elmore Parker. 
 Ft. Wayne. 
 
HOW TO MAINTAIN THE SOIL. 
 
 In the study of the question of fertility of the soil we have belie! 
 that there is not one atom more or less of anything in this world 
 today than there was when it first came from the hand of the 
 Creator. 
 
 Nature has constantly kept two opposite forces at work, the one 
 tearing down, and the other building up. It is to this tearing down 
 force that the earth owes its fertility; and to it we must look 
 for its continuance. No difference what the component elements 
 are that operate to tear down or change the hard dry minerals in 
 the earth into food for plants, it is enough to know that sunshine, 
 moisture and fair air are three of the main agents in the process, 
 and that the deeper and freer these three agents are permitted to 
 penetrate the ground the deeper and more abundant will be ine 
 available plant food. If viou paint an iron bar and expose it to the 
 open air the decay would be slow; put another out without the 
 paint and the scales of rust upon it will soon give evidence of 
 decay. 
 
 In like manner the finer you pulverize the soil, the faster will you 
 liberate plant food. 
 
 If by long continued crops, removing the entire crop without 
 returning anything in the way of vegetation you have used up, in 
 crops removed, the original vegetable matter, no difference how 
 fine you have pulverized the soil it will pack so closely that the air 
 and sunshine can only penetrate a few inches deep, which depth 
 will mark the depth of your available plant food. And it will not 
 take many years more to so impoverish the soil that it will not 
 respond even to the use of commercial fertilizers because your treat 
 ment has sealed the ground against the entrance of the agents 
 that change minerals into food for plants as completely as fruit 
 is preserved from similar agents when sealed im in a jar. 
 
 Roots of any kind, allow the air to follow them deep into the 
 ground, and when they decay they add humus to the ground, with 
 out which crops can no more grow than light bread can be made 
 without yeast. 
 
 If crops have been properly cultivated through the season when 
 they cease growing there will be considerable plant food that was 
 released by continued pulverizing the soil, and not used up by the 
 crop, which if left alone would leak away and be lost. But if 
 some catch crop be turned under while in a green and tender state, 
 will not only hand over to the succeeding crop what would other- 
 lise have been lost, but benefit the ground in the way previously 
 indicated. 
 
 Leander Chapman Fish. 
 
 Shoals. 
 
OUR COUNTRY. 
 
 Dear country, the hope of the valiant and free, 
 Thy exiles afar are dreaming of thee, 
 
 No fields of the earth so enchantingly shine, 
 
 No air breathes such incense, such music as thine. 
 
 Oh union of state, Oh union of souls, 
 Thy promise awaits, thy future unfolds, 
 
 And earth at the dawning is hailing the sun, 
 That rises where people and ruler are one. 
 
 The greatest, the grandest, the home of the free, 
 
 The echoes of justice and true liberty 
 Are heralded from ocean to east and to west, 
 
 In our own native country, the home of the blest. 
 
 Sing loud our hosannas, our country proclaim, 
 No other excels it in hope, love, or name. 
 
 The essence of glory in thy banner of peace, 
 May its influence grow, its power increase. 
 
 Oh freedom of life, Oh freedom of soul, 
 
 Our nation s our hope, our Christ is our goal, 
 
 No tyrant to govern where freedom has trod, 
 Our ruler s the people, our ruler is God. 
 
 Oh union of truth, Oh unicn of love, 
 
 Thy insignia was given by one from above, 
 
 Thy stars shall e er shine as a pure beacon light, 
 And guide every nation to justice and right. 
 
 J. Filmore Laird. 
 Tippecanoe. 
 
A SUMMER GIRL. 
 
 O amber evening, O Suzanne ! 
 The high Kentucky hill is lit 
 With gracious glory where the sun 
 
 Points level to the top of it ; 
 The river-breezes rise and sigh, 
 
 The mists go up, the dark comes down, 
 And faint and fainter, blue and high, 
 
 The smoke hangs over yonder town. 
 
 O waves, O willows, O Suzanne ! 
 
 The waves are laughing at the prow ; 
 The willow? reach their slender leaves 
 
 To touch the curls above your brow ; 
 The waves are laughing at the prow, 
 
 The waves are weeping on the sand ; 
 The light curves up, the dark creeps down 
 
 Upon us, sitting hand in hand. 
 
 And O my darling, O Suzanne, 
 
 We ll tie the boat and go ashore, 
 We ll tie the boat and touch the land; 
 
 But first, ah, kiss me one time more, 
 And one lime more, before we part 
 
 The daylight s gone, the breezes sigh, 
 The waters grieve upon their way 
 
 As I on mine, Suzanne ! Good bye. 
 
 Olive Sanxay. 
 Madison. 
 
APRIL SHOWERS. 
 
 Capricious, fanciful and ever changing is old mother earth, yet 
 in all her moods we love her still, in each of her whims she is more 
 irresistible than the last. Today she is spoiling her bright eyes 
 with tears, but artful creature, she is hiding her face only to re 
 appear smilingly, coaxing, teasing, more fascinating than ever. And 
 the tears? They have a purpose, it is accomplished. They have 
 fallen on her breast like messengers to unknown lands bidding the 
 flowers to awaken in their bright colors and breathe their sweetest 
 breaths and beautify their mistress. 
 
 I opened my window and leaned far out to catch the delicious 
 air that the fresh April shower had shaken from the folds of itb 
 waterproof, and as I sat saturating myself with its freshness a 
 brown coated friend perched himself in the topmost branch of a 
 tree near by and from under his wet coat he drew out his little 
 old violin. With a happy little toss of his head and a merry wink 
 from his brown eye he looked at me as to say: "You think my violin 
 out of tune or a string broken because I ve carried it in the rain, 
 but listen." And from the strings he brought heart songs songs 
 without words the sweetest ones of all. 
 
 Ella Schnee Bennett. 
 New Harmony. 
 
TOMORROW. 
 
 (From "Starsbine and Dew.") 
 
 We live too much in our To-morrow 
 
 The day that never comes 
 We reap in it, we beg, we borrow, 
 We pay our tax on joy and sorrow, 
 And long and long for that To-morrow 
 
 To-morrow never comes: ! 
 
 To-morrow s flowers, To-morrow s singing, 
 
 Sweet laughter runs to tears, 
 To-morrow, think wha f it is bringing! 
 To-morrow, hope is ever springing 
 Up just to hear To-morrow s singing; 
 When laughter runs to tears. 
 
 We hope the hope dies out in fever 
 
 The Wide Eyes look in ours, 
 W r e pray, and then we hear forever 
 The wings of sighs Ah, God! deliver, 
 And make us fearless by that fever 
 To face those Eyes in ours ! 
 
 To-morrow s dawn is never given 
 
 To break upon us all ; 
 We wake before To-morrow s heaven 
 Wakes for us, and our lives are riven 
 Though we implore the Light is given 
 Never unto us all ! 
 
 Remington Allen Johnston, 
 Ossian. 
 
HER WORDS. 
 
 If you will follow I will shed 
 Purest roses where you tread. 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 No sweeter language ever fell 
 From mortal tongue or pen. 
 
 The sacred and enchanting spell 
 Awakens love s bright ken. 
 
 For who would choose a thorny path 
 Where goading frowns prevail, 
 
 And where for kindness tempered wrath 
 The quietude assail. 
 
 But where friendship s flowers bloom 
 And kissed by zephyrs bland, 
 
 The soul is led above life s gloom 
 By inspiration s hand. 
 
 I will follow where you go, 
 
 If roses bloom for me, 
 It makes a paradise below 
 
 Of Eden purity. 
 
 Then strew the flowers along my way, 
 
 Life s vista dark to cheer. 
 Not wait, them on my casket lay, 
 
 When this poor clay is sear. 
 
 \Vhat would I care, my spirit fled, 
 
 For wreaths to decorate 
 This form, dressed for its lowly bed; 
 
 Ah, that would be too late. 
 
 Then strew the flowers while I live 
 
 Mv lonely path above, 
 For them pure friendship I will give, 
 That hand will ever love. 
 
 Edward Danville Wright. 
 Coatesville. 
 
J 
 
LULLABY TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Lullaby, hushaby, flowers go to sleep, 
 Mother is coming with the white sheet, 
 .She will tuck you all snug in your beds, 
 While she is covering the rest of our heads. 
 Lullaby, hushaby, flowers go to sleep, 
 Mother is coming with the white sheet. 
 
 Lullaby, hushaby, the flowers are asleep, 
 Mother is here with the white sheet, 
 Now she is tucking them all snug in their beds 
 Now she is covering the rest of our heads. 
 Lullaby, hushaby, the flowers are asleep, 
 Mother is here with the white sheet. 
 
 Wake up ! Wake up ! Spring calls out, 
 Wake up, little flowers, the birdies are here 
 Singing their songs and flying about, 
 Waiting patiently for you to appear. 
 Wake up, little flowers, the birdies are here 
 Waiting patiently for you to appear. 
 
 Why should we linger, the flowers said 
 Come, let us be on our feet, 
 For every sign of winter has fled, 
 But this "one, our mother s white sheet. 
 Why should we linger, the flowers said, 
 For every sign of winter has fled. 
 
 Hurrah! Hurrah! cried the birds all together, 
 For mother is gone and now we are free, 
 Oh ! how we love this bright summer weather, 
 And the flowers are here too, you see. 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! cried the birds all together, 
 Oh ! how we love this bright summer weather. 
 
 Athol Biggs. 
 Warsaw. 
 
THE MISSION OF LIFE. 
 
 One summer, a beautiful morning 
 Crept in with the passing time, 
 And invited the life of the valley 
 To weigh with a theme sublime. 
 
 The oak, and the rose, and the thistle 
 Were first to engage in the strife, 
 As to which best fulfilled its mission, 
 And what was its mission in life. 
 
 The oak claimed the throne of the forest 
 Because of his strength and his age, 
 And maintained that he sheltered the weary 
 From the sun, and the storm in its rage. 
 
 The rose made a bow to the breezes, 
 Thus showing her humble care, 
 And said that she clothed all sorrow 
 With her petals bright and fair. 
 
 The thistle lamented her treatment, 
 And gave as the reason why, 
 That she never once gave battle 
 Till she heard the battle cry. 
 
 Let the world, then, be consistent, 
 And attribute all that s good 
 To the one who made of his chances 
 The best of life that .he could. 
 
 Walton F. Stover. 
 Linton. 
 
O AMERICA, WHAT A BURNING SHAME IS 
 
 THIS! 
 
 The nineteen centuries that have gone by 
 
 Hath seen no peace. "War!" "War!" has been 
 
 the cry 
 
 And still is heard. All nations of the earth 
 With war-like armor on belie the birth 
 Of Mary s Son. The good He came to do 
 Must stand aside and never will be true 
 Until the nations of the earth shall pause 
 And sheathe their swords, and listen to His laws. 
 But, then, ah me, I see a poor Boer die, 
 Across the Veldt I hear a mother s cry, 
 And yet the nations stand and see it all ; 
 Let greed, and lust, and might the brave enthrall, 
 Brave Kruger and De Wet must stand aside 
 And hear the Lion roar until his Hide 
 Contains their Lamb. My eyes are full of tears, 
 My heart beats fast, my soul is full of fears. 
 Beneath our own bright flag I see a sight 
 That startles me. We know it is not right; 
 Across the sea our boys have died in vain, 
 We sought to free a land from cruel Spain. 
 The peace we give is of no better brand, 
 A Stain is on our Flag, Blood is on our Hand. 
 Is there no hope, no beckoning ray of light 
 Must we go down in darkness of the night ? 
 Is a Phil pino of so little worth 
 That we must shed his blood and stain the earth 
 Until it cries to heaven and brings us shame 
 And they shall hate our flag, our very name? 
 For shame ! for shame ! let us at least be just. 
 Give them their freedom, or their honor trust. 
 
 Samuel Janes. 
 Pittsboro. 
 
THE POSTMAN. 
 
 How welcome the omul of the postman s knock- 
 As he goes from street to street, 
 No steps more welcome upon the walk 
 Than those of his busy feet. 
 
 The tidings of cheer and happy thoughts 
 Have found their various ways, 
 And friends tho afar, near are brought 
 To brighten our weary days. 
 
 From youthful heart and the tiny hand 
 Come the lines as precious as gems, 
 Like flowers in May that brighten the land 
 And in memory live till life ends. 
 
 The hopeful missive from youth and maid, 
 His bundles ne er fail to disclose, 
 The \vriting, if humble, no word will be said, 
 The theme s as fresh as a rose. 
 
 Thrice welcome the sound of the postman s step, 
 As he journeys from door to door, 
 Brings joy for today, and hope for us yet, 
 And love for the wealthy and poor. 
 
 Priscilla Ainge- 
 Elkhart. 
 
MY DESIRE. 
 
 I want my life to be the humble means 
 
 Of bringing sunshine where the clouds of sorrow roll ; 
 
 To help the helpless in their hours of need ; 
 
 And save some dying soul. 
 
 I want to cheer some one along life s way, 
 
 To wipe away the tears from weary, weeping eyes 
 
 To bear some weaker brother s heavy load ; 
 
 And help the fallen rise. 
 
 If by some deed of mine, or word of love 
 
 I comfort some sad life now filled with aching pain, 
 
 Bring healing to some bleeding heart, 
 
 My life is not in vain. 
 
 If I can cause hope to spring up anew 
 
 In some despairing soul where hope and taith nave 
 
 died* 
 Or often sorrow in some saddened heart 
 
 I shall be satisfied. 
 
 Robert Blunt. 
 
 Austin. 
 
FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 When I was young and the world seemed bright 
 And flowers were my chief delight 
 I planted in a favorite spot, 
 The little flower, Forget Me Not. 
 
 The plant was given me by a friend 
 Who said his friendship ne er would end, 
 It shed its fragrant sweet perfume 
 Each night and morning thro my room. 
 
 I left my plant in other s care 
 
 My fate the blossom could not share, 
 
 I left it with the faithful friend 
 
 Who said his friendship ne er would end. 
 
 Today across the deep blue sea 
 
 A dainty missive came to me ; 
 
 It said, Tho you dear friend are gone 
 
 Forget Me Not It still blooms on. 
 
 And when in other lands you see 
 This little flower so dear to me 
 Keep in your heart one tender spot 
 For the little flower Forget Me Not. 
 
 Jane Smyth Edwards Jones. 
 Washington. 
 
THE NEW YEAR S GREETING AT RED CROSS 
 PARK . 
 
 The year is dead, I saw him die ; 
 I heard his last expiring sigh ; 
 He breathed his last in midnight gloom, 
 And Time conveyed him to the tomb. 
 His grave, I saw no mourners hem ; 
 As night-winds sighed his requiem. 
 No eye dropped one regretful tear, 
 A tribute to the buried year. 
 
 The year is dead ! Faults great and small 
 Are gone with him, beyond recall ; 
 Then let oblivion s waters hide 
 Them, all profound, beneath the tide. 
 "Good lord what fools we mortals be!" 
 We spend our lives in revelry ; 
 Till time and death, with fixed decree 
 Submerge us in oblivion s sea. 
 
 Dear God, with loving hand restrain 
 From mad conceits and fables vain, 
 Our childish ways ; mid mirth and pain, 
 Till death, or new years comes again ! 
 
 Joseph Gardner. 
 Bedford. 
 
* 
 
 
MY NEIGHBOR S BOY AND MINE. 
 
 The high-school had a show last night, 
 
 And of all the stars to snine; 
 None surpassed in briliancy, 
 
 My neighbor s boy and mine. 
 
 They were stationed at the entrance. 
 
 Inside the swinging door; 
 And took up tickets right and left, 
 
 Like they d been there before. 
 
 They took no part with the darkey crowd, 
 
 That did the minstrel act ; 
 But when the railroad farce came on, 
 
 They got right on the track. 
 
 My neighbor s boy had an easy part, 
 
 Jist walked in the depo ; 
 And sot down there till some one said, 
 
 Twas time for him to go. 
 
 My boy played the "komical" role, 
 
 The country Jake, and farmer; 
 With whiskers red, and stogy boots, 
 
 Now wasn t he a charmer. 
 
 He sat down on a bench and looked, 
 
 Jist like a country dunce ; 
 He hadn t a word to say in the play, 
 
 And they didn t prompt him once. 
 
 When he got up to cross the stage, 
 
 With a real farmer stride ; 
 The audience seemed to be so pleased, 
 
 My bosom swelled with pride. 
 
 They encored him all over the house, 
 
 His mother was wild with joy ; 
 We never dreamed such honors wouM fall, 
 
 Upon our darling boy. 
 
 John Emery Troutman. 
 Rochester. 
 
AN ACHING HEART. 
 
 My sad-worn heart is slowly breaking, 
 While time onward wings its way, 
 
 The endless monotony of constant aching 
 Will finally reach its goal some day. 
 
 I view the past tis filled with gloom, 
 The present is daily burthen bearing; 
 
 I realize meeting my eternity and doom 
 Where life ceases, and I m done caring. 
 
 Welcome hope, come bring me cheer ; 
 
 Though your presence only lasts the while 
 I rest knowing your strength is near; 
 
 In peace, I ll let my sad heart smile. 
 
 Your powerful balm can stay the pain 
 Lull the aching void with peaceful art; 
 
 Your heavenly mission won t be in vain, 
 But, quickly, you ll heal my broken heart, 
 
 With inspiration s life-giving embrace, 
 
 You ll peacefully calm and still my breast, 
 
 Worldl/ tempests you ll help me face 
 And my aching heart soothe to rest. 
 
 Rest, rest from trouble, sorrow and grief; 
 
 My soul with rapturous joy you ll fill ; 
 My pathway lighten across rocks and reef, 
 
 Till in triumph I ll anchor, by God s will. 
 
 O ! blessed hope, o er life s surging sea 
 Waft me never, never from me part, 
 
 Or, my aim and efforts will useless be, 
 While sojourning here with an aching heart. 
 
 Mary Elizabeth Fiscus. 
 Coal City. 
 
THE SPANISH FLEET. 
 
 Silently there steamed into 
 
 Manila s treacherous bay, 
 The commodore whom fate had named 
 
 To stand in front some day. 
 
 Self was not predominant, 
 
 But there was work to do ; 
 Each one was at his post 
 
 They bade the world adieu. 
 
 There lay the Spanish fleet. 
 
 Stubborn as an angry bull ; 
 But Dewey calmly swept the coast- 
 
 The man who s always mindful. 
 
 Ah, what a calm ! tis always so 
 
 Before a fearful storm ; 
 Then came the simple order 
 
 As words were ever born. 
 
 The constant roar of shot and shell 
 
 Played upon the fleet 
 Leaped and ground like a nether stone.. 
 
 And crushed like weighty sleet. 
 
 Round upon round was poured 
 By brave boys behind the guns; 
 
 Twas an awful hour of death 
 For Spain s defiant sons. 
 
 Burning, sinking, bursting, 
 
 One by one the ships were dying, 
 
 While the Stars and Stripes were waving 
 And Dewey s missiles flying. 
 
 "Cease firing!" The mists have cleared 
 
 Where once was living breath, 
 Now wrapped in folds of water, 
 
 The foe asleep in death. 
 
 Twas a glorious victory 
 
 For Dewey and his men ; 
 
 Till the Earth shall melt with fervent heat, 
 The glory will last till then. 
 
 George Edward Smith 
 Flovds Knob. 
 
 26 
 
SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 The dreamy night again is come ; 
 
 The moon and stars to make it fair 
 Shine from the heaven s azure dome, 
 
 And with soft radiance fill the air. 
 Tis royal summer ! Crown her queen 
 
 With gems her own warm heart has bro t, 
 Sweet Mowers, fairest earth has seen, 
 
 With golden, shining wheat inwrought. 
 
 We sit within the vine-wreathed door 
 
 Where roses breathe their odors sweet ; 
 The leaves that bend the portal o er 
 
 Cast dancing shadows at our feet. 
 These leaves that through the sunny day 
 
 "Clapped all their little hands in glee," 
 As night s fantastic shadows play, 
 
 Still in their dreams wave merrily. 
 
 O night, thy glories to unfold, 
 
 How slowly did the day decline, 
 And close its gates of burnished gold 
 
 To leave these realms of beauty thine f 
 We waited for thy dewy wings, 
 
 Thy silent feet, thy cooling hands ; 
 Thy softened light new pleasure brings. 
 
 And care aloof in shadow stands. 
 
 Thou bringest blessings silent night ! 
 
 Then let thy moments slowly wane, 
 To brinp" another morning s light, 
 
 To bring the hours of care again. 
 
 Eliza LaBoiteaux Brown, 
 Liberty. 
 
"INDIANA." 
 
 As o er our country proudly floats 
 Our glorious "star-spangled banner/ 
 
 We wonder sometimes which one of the stars 
 Represents our own Indiana. 
 
 There should ever be one shining star, 
 In this beautiful bright constellation, 
 
 Whose effulgent rays, should dazzle the rest 
 As it peacefully waves o er the nation. 
 
 This single star we will cherish and love, 
 We have christened it "Grand Indiana." 
 
 May its brilliancy never fade or be dimmed, 
 For its people are gentle of manner. 
 
 Our prairies stretch far away to the north, 
 Pearly lakes fitly jewel the land, 
 
 Our forests are noted far over the world, 
 And our caverns are famous and grand. 
 
 Indiana is justly proud of its schools, 
 Its churches, and culture and art; 
 
 And proud of its cities, and pleasant homes, 
 Where all are welcomed with generous hea-.t, 
 
 Indiana is famed for her natural gas, 
 And her valuable quarries of stone. 
 
 She is equally proud of her mines of coal, 
 For her minerals are second to none. 
 
 Indiana s fair girls and brave boys, 
 Are scattered all over the earth ; 
 
 But in whatever clime they may be, 
 They still boast of their Hoosier birth. 
 
 From the esthetic east, to the rugged west, 
 From the great lakes to mild Louisiana, 
 
 Where er we go, let us never forget 
 To love and respect Indiana. 
 
 Oscar Canada Salyards. 
 Shoals. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM "THE SULTAN S LAST 
 RACE-" 
 
 I longed for, yet dreaded, the message, 
 
 That my pathway in life would decide ; 
 Was Death, that grim monster, the victor? 
 
 Was she at that moment his bride? 
 Yet Hope, oft delusive, still lingered, 
 
 Though with ruin the ranches were gray; 
 On the brink of despair, I remembered, 
 
 It was SULTAN that bore her away. 
 
 The fire burned out, ere the sun went down ; 
 
 It was then, that I ceased to chafe ; 
 For the Major rode up with the joyful news, 
 
 "Mary and Sultan are safe, 
 He brought her away from this burning plain, 
 
 Like a meteor cleaving the air, 
 A few black specks on her long white dress, 
 
 And the smell of the smoke in her hair." 
 
 Three cheers were sent up by the cow-boys, 
 
 When they knew what the Sultan had done ; 
 A cheer for the girl, a cheer for the steed, 
 
 And a cheer for the race he had won. 
 Then the bravest of all the brave boys said. 
 
 "The poor little prairie flow r er, 
 What we endured for a half a day 
 
 Would have done her to death in an hour." 
 
 This tale is yet told on the Brazos, 
 
 And this eye-witnesses say ; 
 "An Angel in white, on a flying steed, 
 Went South through the smoke that day." 
 
 Albert Greenwood. 
 Newport 
 
AMERICA FOR WOMEN. 
 
 America, thou land of the free, 
 
 What good thing shall we tell of thee? 
 
 Thou "land of the free and home of the brave," 
 
 O er whose sunlit fields the starry flags wave. 
 
 What sort of a record dost thou daily make? 
 
 Will the future years thy praises awake? 
 
 Art thou blessing or cursing mankind every day? 
 
 O "land of the noble free" what canst thou say? 
 
 "Many long years ago across the broad sea, 
 
 Lived a man named Columbus, a brave man was he ; 
 
 Strange thoughts filled his mind, and he earnestly tried 
 
 To find a new way cross the waters so wide. 
 
 "But money he lacked, and many an hour 
 
 He hopefully prayed that some higher power 
 
 Might open a way that his plans might be blest, 
 
 And he be able to sail far away to the West. 
 
 "At last twas a woman who gave him the aid ; 
 
 Brave Queen Isabella a sacrifice made, 
 
 Her jewels so bright she willingly gave, 
 
 That a trial be given Columbus the brave. 
 
 "After months of privation and dangers untold, 
 
 I, America, was found, with millions in gold ; 
 
 And a woman, remember, furnished the way 
 
 That found me the land so much blest today. 
 
 "I am known far and near as the friend of the poor, 
 
 No one howe er humble is turned from my door, 
 
 There s room and a welcome for all of mankind, 
 
 And happiness, joy and comfort they find. 
 
 "In no other land has woman such power, 
 
 She s honored and favored each day and hour, 
 
 She teaches our children, and office she holds, 
 
 She s working for God and salvation of souls. 
 
 "In the broad mission fields no other can do 
 
 One-half of the good that woman so true 
 
 Is doing for heathen now groping in sin ; 
 
 She goes forth a martyr sure victory to win. 
 
 "I, America, am proud that my women are true 
 
 To God, and to me, keeping goodness in view, 
 
 And as long as He reigneth and ruleth above, 
 
 May they keep unity of spirit in bonds of love. 
 
 Anna Sublctte Jones. 
 Alexandria. 
 
REST FOR THE WEARY. 
 
 It was a warm summer evening when a lad of prob- 
 a-bly sixteen came slowly up to the gate near a fine 
 Country mansion. His clothes were ragged and ill- 
 fitting but he seemed clean in other ways. His shoes 
 were badly worn. An old straw hat covered a growth 
 of long flaxen hair. 
 
 As he raised the latch to enter he caught the sound 
 of merry voices on his left. Just then a smiling face 
 peered cautiously through the leafy screen of a near 
 by grape arbor, and a pleasant voice called the boy s 
 attention. He entered and silently closed the gate 
 behind him and walked rapidly toward the arbor. 
 Soon he saw an opening and going up to it he looked 
 inside, where he saw two girls and a boy all a few 
 years younger than himself. The eldest girl invited 
 him into the house. She started and he followed, and 
 they soon came to the entrance. She opened the door 
 and ushered him into a cozy room, where a beautiful 
 lady was sitting near a window sewing. She looked 
 up as they entered. The interruption was soon ex 
 plained, and that the lad seemed tired and hungry. 
 The woman led the way to an adjoining room where 
 an appetizing supper was coon served. After satis 
 fying his hunger he was asked to enter another room 
 where a bed was prepared for him. He was told that 
 it was at his disposal and the lady withdrew. He 
 quickly undressed and laid down, and was soon in the 
 land of pleasant dreams. 
 
 Gus Van Osdoll. 
 Holton. 
 
THE TRAGEDY OP RED MOUNTAIN. 
 
 A few miles to tne north of Birmingham, Alabama, rises a great 
 cone of earth which is known in that vicinity as Red Mountain. 
 High above the crests of the surrounding mountain peaks the 
 pointed summit of this great cone of red earth rears its head. 
 Upon the southern face of the mountain, near the top of it, is the 
 entrance to an underground cavern. 
 
 Shortly after the close of the Civil War a small band of guerillas 
 under the leadership of an outlaw of the name of Podingtoir, 
 Lucifer Podington frequented the mountains of south-west Ala 
 bama. The frequent depredations of this lawless band were such 
 as to keep the law-abiding citizens of that section in a state of 
 constant fear. The governor of the state had set a price upon the 
 head of Captain Podington; and. although Podington was well 
 known by many of the citizens of Birmingham, and was frequently 
 seen in that locality, his capture was never accomplished by mortal 
 man. 
 
 One hot summer night, it was in the month of June of the year 
 1872 Podington and his lawless crew, who happened to be skulk 
 ing in the vicinity of Birmingham, took refuge in the cavern be 
 neath Red Mountain. That night a thunder storm broke in all its 
 fury about the crest of Red Mountain. The rain came down in 
 sheets and torrents which loosened the red earth which held in place 
 a great boulder which hung above the spacious doorway of the 
 natural cavern. The huge boulder, loosened by the rain together 
 with tons of earth, slid from its place, completely filled the cavern s 
 mouth and entombed, alive, the lawless band who slumbered within! 
 
 Some years after this occurrence had taken place, a party of 
 hunters who were digging for a marmot discovered and reopened 
 the entrance of this cavern. Within this spacious sepulchre was 
 found the bones of seven horses and the skeletons of seven men. 
 
 In one corner of this tomb, apart from his comrades, was found a 
 human skeleton sitting upon the damp floor of the cave with its 
 back resting against the wall of the cavern. Beside the grinning 
 skeleton lay a brace of rusted pistols and a small tin case, withm 
 which was a leather-bound diary. Upon the last musty page of this 
 diary was written, in a firm, bold hand, these words: 
 "Gone to join the Last Muster," 
 June 7th, 1872. 
 
 Lucifer Podington, 
 Cap t. Army C. S. A." 
 
 Edgar Lee Maines. 
 Zionsville. 
 
"IT IS FINISHED." 
 
 It is finished." cried th.e Savior, as He groaned at Calvary; 
 As He gave His precious life-blood, that through faith we might be 
 
 free ; 
 
 As He suffered here below ; as He paid the debt we owe, 
 In His precious life-blood s flow paid it all for you and me. 
 
 It is finished! It is finished! Jesus has prepared the way. 
 He has built the sure foundation that eternally shall stay. 
 Why dispute the words He said? Why reject the blood He shed, 
 That can quicken from the dead wandering souls 1 in sin, astray? 
 
 It is finished what is finished? Ah! salvation s way is done. 
 It was finished in the life-blood of the Father s righteous Son. 
 That which justice has denied Jesus has for thee supplied. 
 If thou only wilt abide in His grace, oh wandering one. 
 
 It is finished! It is finished! And the plan is now complete. 
 Come and lay thy heavy burden down at Jesus bleeding feet 
 Come and trust thy risen Lord; lean upon His mighty word; 
 Find within His blood interred holy peace, supreme and sweet. 
 
 Christ has made the great atonement; He the law has satisfied; 
 And He bids us not in justice, but in grace divine abide. 
 Erring soul long gone astray, hear His voice so earnest say 
 Why reject! Why turn away from the Friend who for thee died? 
 
 Ah! thy load is black and heavy, and thy soul is fallen low, 
 And the way seems dark and gloomy, and thy guilt is great I know: 
 But doest thou in sin forget Jesus loves thee even yet! 
 Ah, He paid the awful debt when He suffered long ago. 
 
 He has paid the awful ransom, and He calls to thee to-day. 
 
 Gentle, loving are the accents, oh! why wilt thou disobey? 
 
 He thy soul will now retrieve if thou only wilt believe. 
 
 Come the gift of life receive; Claim His promise while you may 
 
 It is finished! It is finished! Over land and over sea, 
 
 Herald forth the joyous message: Christ has died to make you free! 
 
 On the cross He long ago paid the awful debt you owe 
 
 In His precious life-blood s flow paid it all to ransom thee! 
 
 It is finished! It is finished! Jesus, at thy bleeding feet, 
 
 Helpless, dead and lost I fling me now to claim Thy promise sweet, 
 
 Oh, my soul is all a blight sin has made it black as night, 
 
 But I come to Thee for light Thou canst save and make complete. 
 
 It is finished! It is finished! Jesus. Thou and Thou alone. 
 Canst for all my black transgressions and my sinful deeds atone. 
 I ve no recompense to bring, at Thy feet, oh, Christ, to fling. 
 Simply to Thy word I cling; It can ne er be overthrown. 
 
 Gertrude Phoebe Doerr. 
 Brownstown. 
 
FLASHES OF WISDOM. 
 
 Our yesterdays are but our tomorrows with whiskers on. 
 
 * v * * 
 
 There are more fine intellects buried in laziness than are buried 
 in poverty. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Mistakes are like crooked corn rows; you can t see them until 
 they are made. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 A man must first make a success of himself, before he can make 
 a success of life. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Some men are not a success anywhere, except at. the little end 
 of a cigar or pipe stem. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I have seen people so stingy that they seldom took a full breath 
 lor fear their lungs would wear out. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 In some respects people are like bricks; they are made of clay. 
 The difference seems to be, principally, in the quality of the clay. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 This is a very wicked world we live in, though very few people 
 care to leave it even when called upon to go, because they are not 
 quite sure of their destination. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 There is only one valid contract, made on full consideration, 
 that you are not bound to live up to, and that is the marriage con 
 tract. The courts will not only refuse to make you live up to it, 
 but they will help you break it. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Fools, like orators, are born, not made. For this the orator is not 
 to blame, neither is the fool. About the only difference between 
 them is, you can make a fool out of an orator, but you can t make 
 an orator out of a fool. Every man is a fool some time in his life. 
 A wise man may profit by experience, but a fool never does. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Do not do things on weekday that you would be ashamed to do 
 on Sunday manual labor excepted. If you do not live a Christian 
 on Weekday, your Sundays will be too short in which to get for 
 giveness for your meanness. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 When you are dead those who were your nearest friends will 
 tell your good deeds; those whom you robbed will think of your 
 bad deeds; God will judge you by all your deeds. You will be a 
 good deal longer dead than you were alive. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Quit your shamming now. Tomorrow will be too late. 
 
 John Baker. 
 Angola. 
 
JIM CLEVERS. 
 He Looks Ahead and Makes Preparations for the Future. 
 
 Mister Editor It are a long time till the presidenshel campane 
 yet. but I have been swingin round the sircle and consultin with 
 some ov the leading dimicrats in the country. They believe in takin 
 time by the forelock, or some other kind ov lock, and beginning 
 the work of preparation, with some previousness. 
 
 The main troubles to be overcome are that ther s so many kinds 
 ov dimocratic principles an they all hav to be compermised. Thers 
 the hard money Dimocrat what wears a standin collar an a ramrod 
 backbone, an the free silver Dimacrat what has hayseed in his hair 
 an spectacles in the bosom of his britches. Then thers the ante 
 expanshun and imperalism dimacrats, an a whole lot of other kinds. 
 I wish there were only one kind of dimacrats jest fer handiness. 
 
 1 found out that the main trouble in the future would be to get 
 up a nashel platform that would suit all parties, an I hav undertook 
 to serround the difficulty. I am going to get it up cm an entirely 
 new plan. The ida was suggested to me by a tin sign I seen In 
 Frank Brown s grosery. It were one of these signs what read 
 different when you look at them from different sides. It were a 
 soap sign, and when you are in front, it reads: "Ivory Soap," When 
 you are on the other side it reads: "It floats," and when you are 
 on the other side it reads: "Fits the Hand." 
 
 Now that are the way I am going to get up the next Nashnel 
 Dimacrat platform. I am workin on it now, and when it are 
 finished, ef you look at it from New York an the effete east it will 
 read: "Gold Standard-Sound Currensy;" ef you look at it from 
 Nebraska an the boundless west it will read. "Free-Silver 16 to 1" 
 an ef you look at it from Indyana an the middle west it will read, 
 "No expansun Free Trade." 
 
 It are a great work, but I will pull through ef I don t go crazy 
 and the ink bottle holds out. The ida are not entirely new. fer 
 it are the plan that Bryan made his speeches on last campane, an 
 the boys sa that I am as smart as Bryen. 
 Shoalr Cyrus M. Hane. 
 
A SCULPTOR. 
 
 He stood in his Atelier 
 
 And modeled in clay, 
 The dreams of his soul 
 
 Were soon to see day. 
 
 Each stroke of the hammer 
 
 To life it awoke, 
 And he chiseled away 
 Until it quite spoke. 
 
 At last he stepped back 
 
 His work to admire, 
 Her contour was perfect, 
 
 All soul could desire. 
 
 SOLILOQUY. 
 
 You re sacred to me 
 You re rll that is pure, 
 You take me to realm 
 Earth cannot allure. 
 
 Sold to a Croesus 
 
 Because of his pelf, 
 Can I sell my soul? 
 
 You, best of myself. 
 
 No, "Art Collector" 
 
 I desecrate art ! 
 The soul of my soul 
 
 And heart of my heart ! 
 
 All in creation 
 
 Could not fill the void 
 You my fair statue 
 
 Would take from poor Lloyd. 
 
 Have said I have loved. 
 
 Ah ! never before, 
 Tis mv affinity, 
 
 (What can I wish more?) 
 
 MEB Culbertson, 
 Richmond. 
 
SLEEP ON. 
 
 Sleep on, my darling boy, sleep on, 
 
 And let the smile that blossoms on thy lips 
 
 Bespeak the breaking of the dawn 
 
 In dreamland s happy realms, where sunwashed 
 ships 
 
 In placid harbors ever lie at ease, 
 
 Laden with souls from o er earth s stormy seas, 
 
 Sleep on ; I would not have thee wake 
 To meet the years that hold so much of wrong; 
 
 Far better now that thou shouldst take 
 Thy one short year, matchless with mother- 
 song, 
 
 And make it part of thine eternal dream, 
 
 Lender the skies of paradise agleam. 
 
 Sleep on. What though thine eyes shall miss 
 Fair summer dawns and sun-enraptured days? 
 
 What though thy lips know not the kiss 
 
 Of one pure woman whom love s scepter sways? 
 
 Thou, too, shalt miss the blinding storms that 
 break 
 
 Across the winter world in summer s wake. 
 
 Thy heart the pulse of pain shall miss, 
 
 That follows close a fair false woman s crime. 
 
 The hovel and the harlot s kiss 
 
 Can claim thee not. Beyond the touch of time, 
 
 Calm and secure thy sinless spirit lies 
 
 Safe in the harbor of the happy skies. 
 
 Sleep on ; and blessed is the thought 
 That thou shalt wake no more amid the pain 
 
 Of stifling days and nights with terror fraught. 
 Under the drifting snow and summer rain, 
 
 We leave thy little form of faded clay ; 
 
 Thy soul in some far haven sings to day. 
 
 Edmund Jay Wilson. 
 Dublin. 
 
HOW THE TIME ROLLED BY. 
 
 When Marigold Ainsworth was seventeen years old her father 
 died, leaving her an heiress. Her mother died during- her infancy, 
 and a step-mother came to govern the home just two years prior 
 to the Judge s death. 
 
 Marigold was beautiful, perfectly formed, haughty and high spir 
 ited. She and her step-mother did not live harmoniously and one 
 afternoon a long conference was held with Professor Harry Haw 
 thorne, of the Village Academy with a result that Miss Marigold 
 was packed off to his keeping. Hawthorne had long loved the 
 charming girl, but his love had been well hidden from everyone. 
 
 Marigold accidentally overheard the conference between her mother 
 and the Professor, and determined to disprove the ugly charges of 
 wildness, and show the world what metal she was made of and she 
 did. Her studies were well learned, her deportment such as to 
 cause wonderment from the other students, the Professor and her 
 step-mother. The examination was passed with high merit and the 
 term ended. 
 
 The evening of the final day Marigold visited the empty school 
 room for her books. The bareness and cheerlessness of the familiar 
 and beloved room was impressive. She glanced at the big chair 
 occupied by the Professor and went to it. She saw his manly, 
 loving face; his kind words were in her ear and throwing herself 
 upon the empty chair sobbed aloud, "My Master" and knew then 
 she loved him. A quick step, a frantic "My Angel" and the Pro 
 fessor held her in both arms as he poured forth his love in the happy 
 girl s burning ears. He told her how long he had loved her and 
 how hard he would work for her happiness. But he must go away 
 and earn that which would keep her forever in surroundings equal 
 to her home life. She could not speak her love was so great. He 
 grasped both her white hands and told her he would not kiss her 
 lips, he never w r anted her to allow that, until she could give her 
 hand and heart with the kiss. He then left her. 
 
 Twenty years rolled away and Marigold still beautiful and even 
 more graciously queenly, occupied the old homestead. Her step 
 mother had married a rich man, loaving the old place in sole charge 
 of Marigold. Time had not changed the proud and beautiful woman, 
 excepting one or two grey hairs just above the temple, adding to 
 her regal beauty. She often thought of her school-master and 
 often softly said "How the time rolls by" but she did not grow old 
 with the passing years, and remained Marigold Ainsworth. Many 
 offers of marriage she had, and from those in wealth and high 
 rank. Her heart was with Harry Hawthorne and always would be. 
 Her friends, associates and neighbors finally decided she was either 
 stony-hearted or had given her heart to an unknown one far, far 
 away. And they guessed right. 
 
 On the day of her thirty-fifth birth, she was more cheery and happy 
 than in many former ones. She mused and thought of her absent 
 one all day. At eventime the maid brought up a. card "Harry 
 Hawthorne" and her soul was filled with love. Their meeting was 
 a joyous one. He was just fifty years old that day and told her 
 he had returned a rich man to claim the only love of his heart. 
 He battled against the thought that she had married or even died, 
 and now that he found her the same beautiful, gracious, queenly 
 Marigold, he wanted her forever. She simply raised her ruby lips and 
 pressed them lovingly to his, saying: "You told me to give 
 my kiss to the man I loved and would marry and there it is." 
 
 In the large brown mansion on the picturesque hill just beyond 
 the quiet village, rests within its portals one of the happiest families 
 known in that section, Beautiful Marigold with her bright daughter 
 and lively boy make a lovely setting around the brightly burning 
 log fire as the Honorable Henry Hawthorne, glancing over his paper, 
 views the scene. His wife glances up to catch his fond eye, and 
 quietly slipping over to his side, winds both arms around his neck 
 and softly murmurs: "Kiss me Harry we will always be happy." 
 And so they are. The rolling of Father Time makes more certain 
 the determined vow registered years ago by the loving mother and 
 wife to show the world what kind of metal she was made of. Her 
 destiny was made when she overheard her stepmother s charges 
 against her. Happily so. 
 
 Alma Esther King. 
 Petersburg. 
 
HOOSIER SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 On the country school house! 
 That stood on yonder hill; 
 
 Is still a source of pleasure 
 For the memories it has filled. 
 
 There midst youths enchantment 
 We look bacR and with pride 
 
 Remember long ago the days, 
 When we stood on the old hill side. 
 
 We were but lads and lasses. 
 What jolly times we found 
 
 Wandering mid the oak trees 
 And playing on the ground. 
 
 There the railroad crossed the corner, 
 And the brook right down below 
 
 Was another shady spot 
 Where the boys had learned to row. 
 
 And then the spellin school 
 In the fall when the nights were cold 
 
 We d hitch up Deck and Blister 
 And then we d get a scold; 
 
 Ma afeEfrin us wild children 
 Would have a run-a-way, 
 
 But we d pay no attention 
 For we knew it was her way. 
 
 And I recollect Aunt Dosey 
 Who came to school one day, 
 
 Agrumblin cause her Johnnie 
 Got hurt when in a play. 
 
 Our teacher he was frightened 
 Cause he was but a mite, 
 
 And when Aunt Dosey shook her fist, 
 He said that she was right. 
 
 All those rustic scenes 
 Can never be forgot: 
 
 The house, the hill, the valley 
 And the little shady spot. 
 
 Altho the brook has dried away 
 And the oak grove disappeared 
 
 There are still some silent pathways 
 That bring back by gone years. 
 
 Oh the country school house! 
 That stood on yonder hill; 
 
 Is still a source of pleasure 
 For the memories it has filled. 
 
 There midst youths enchantment 
 We look back and with pride 
 
 Remember long ago the days 
 When we stood there side by side. 
 
 Howard Dean Chapel. 
 
 Knox. 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Christmas is a prophetic day, the fullness of which we cannot 
 comprehend, neither could the wise men of the East comprehend 
 the meaning of "Christ," whose birth was the first Christmas; they 
 came to worship an earthly king, while all the time they were doing 
 homage to the Great Messiah, the king of the world. 
 
 No word in the language has so many shades of meaning to differ 
 ent persons as Christmas. No anniversary of the calendar means so 
 little to one or so much to another. 
 
 Here and there we meet people who fully comprehend the import 
 ance of Christmas and we find them enjoying the truest happiness 
 from its observance. To the common mind all too often it s a day of 
 selfish pleasure. To the Christian the birth of Christ means the 
 birth of worship. 
 
 True worship is universal, it not only is the comprehension of the 
 life and teachings of Christ, giving to Him the love due Him, but 
 also there is due from each one a love for one another. For it is 
 the manifestation of brotherly love that makes Christmas the 
 happiest day of the year. 
 
 In olden times it was kept by fasting and prayer. But as the cur 
 rent of time passes away so do manners and customs of the people 
 change, and today Christmas is kept by feasting and giving pres 
 ents. This is the custom of the people in general, yet each indi 
 vidual celebrates it differently. Sometimes it is celebrated by the 
 chimes of the marriage bell; sometimes by a visit of the Angel of 
 Death. Some enjoy the day by dancing and drinking wines, while 
 others go among the poor lending aid and speaking sympathizing 
 words, or even giving a friendly smile, by which often-times a way 
 ward or fallen piece of humanity is raised and pointed to a better 
 life. 
 
 And what could be a greater deed, at this glad season of the 
 year than to be the good Angel who could bring hope into some 
 one s life; then we could join our voices in sweetest harmony Love 
 One Another." Asking also that God may bless "Every One." This 
 is Christmas in all its nobleness and sincerity. 
 
 Then why could not every one celebrate Christmas correctly and 
 enjoy it perfectly? We are feasting upon all the products of the 
 ages past, and enjoy the best opportunities yet known in the world s 
 history of advancement, we rest under the protecting wing of the 
 greatest and most advanced nation of the world. 
 
 Christmas is also a day of Thanksgiving; the thanks, however, 
 should not be wrought in the market places and street corners that 
 they may be heard of by men, but should be answered in the asking. 
 
 So let each Christmas be brighter and brighter because we sway 
 the reigns of empire in command for the good of human kind as 
 some men scheme its evil: Then will blessings bright crown for 
 all happy Christmas greetings. 
 
 Lottie Garner South. 
 Brownsburg. 
 
GOOD BYE. 
 
 How strangely sweet the melody 
 That sounds in some wild minor key 
 Across the lute strings of the heart, 
 When e er with loved ones we must part; 
 
 With overflowing eyes we try 
 
 To say those words, "Good bye, good bye." 
 
 Or when at night some fancy old, 
 
 Some story of a love untold 
 
 Comes flitting through the memory, 
 
 Then passes for eternity, 
 
 And the night winds in the poplars sigh 
 Those tender words, "Good bye, good bye." 
 
 Homer Elbert Cotton 
 
 Bloomington. 
 

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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY