VOL. IV.

No. 4.

FRANK

FRANK L. STANTON.

64

The

RANK LEBBY STANTON was born in Charleston, S. C., but removed to Georgia at an early age and, as he says, was raised from one end of Georgia to the other." It is in Georgia journalism that he has made his reputation as humorist and poet. He began to write at the early age of nine years, but did not print anything until he was twenty years of age. He first came into general notice as a writer of spicy paragraphs, in a small country paper printed in Smithville, Ga. His saucy flings and rollicking hits soon made him a state-wide character for wit, and his pungent paragraphs were eagerly copied by the exchanges. The Constitution and other prominent southern dailies enriched their columns with chips from his diamond-mine, that sparkled and flashed through the press from mountain to sea-board. Smithville News was no longer obscure, for it had given Stanton to the public. Later, he commenced to write poems, words of exquisite tenderness set to musical rhyme, and then the audience who had laughed with the jester were awed into sympathy with and love of the poet. His instrument of expression sounds sometimes with the grand organ chords of minor strains, again it voices the musical pleading of the lute. He writes also in dialect; homely verses that go to the heart as directly as a clasp of a friendly hand or a sympathetic spoken word. A rare muse this, who decks herself alternately in homespun and silk attire. Mr. Stanton is a true minstrel, singing his tender lays without premeditation or thought of artistic construction. After leaving the Smithville News, Mr. Stanton was for a year or more associated with John Temple Graves on the Tribune, of Rome, Ga., a paper noted for its freshness and literary excellence. Now he is one of the editorial staff of the Atlanta Constitution where he works side by side with the famous writer, Joel Chandler Harris, and the gifted Wallace P. Reed. He writes dialect sketches, short stories of intense realism, criticisms,

witty paragraphs, love-songs and deeper poems by turns, excelling in all. He possesses the gift of dramatic recitation in an eminent degree. While there is much in Mr. Stanton's writing that is playful, frolicsome and humorous, and while he likes humorous writing best, it is not his strongest vein. He is more poet than jester, and his threnodies frequently rise to the measure of the sublime. M. R. C.

WEARY THE WAITING. .

THERE'S an end to all toiling some day, sweet day, (But its weary the waiting, weary!) There's a harbor somewhere in a peaceful bay, Where the sails will be furled and the ship will lay At anchor-somewhere, in the far-away(But its weary the waiting, weary!).

There's an end to the troubles of souls opprest (But its weary the waiting, weary!) Some time in the future when God thinks best, He'll lay us tenderly down to rest, And roses 'll grow from the thorns in the breast, (But its weary the waiting, weary!).

There's an end to the world with its stormy frown, (But its weary the waiting, weary!) There's a light somewhere that no dark can drown, And where life's sad burdens are all laid down, A crown-thank God!-for each cross-a crown! (But its weary the waiting, weary!).

WEARYIN' FOR YOU.

JEST a-wearyin' for you,
All the time a-feelin' blue;
Wishin' for you, wonderin' when
You'll be comin' home agen;
Restless-don't know what to do,
Jest a-wearyin' for you.

Keep a-mopin' day by day;
Dull-in everybody's way.
Folks they smile and pass along
Wonderin' what on earth is wrong;
'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew-
Jest a-wearyin' for you.

Rooms so lonesome with your chair
Empty by the fireplace there;
Jest can't stand the sight of it;
Go out doors an' roam a bit,
But the woods are lonesome, too,
Jest a wearyin' for you.

Comes the wind with soft caress,
Like the rustlin' of your dress;
Blossoms fallin' to the ground
Softly, like your footsteps sound;
Violets, like your eyes so blue,
Jest a-wearyin' for you.

Mornin' comes. The birds awake
(Used to sing so for your sake),
But there's sadness in the notes
That comes thrillin' from their throats!
Seem to feel your absence, too,
Jest a-wearyin' for you.

Evenin' comes. I miss you more
When the dark glooms in the door;
Seems jest like you orter be

There to open it for me!

Latch goes tinklin'-thrills me through

Sets me wearyin' for you.

Jest a-wearyin' for you!
All the time a-feelin' blue!
Wishin' for you-wonderin' when
You'll be comin' home agen.
Restless-don't know what to do-
Jest a-wearyin' for you.

WHEN JIM WAS DEAD.

WHEN Jim was dead

"Hit sarved him right," the nabors sed, An' 'bused him for the life he'd led,

An' him a-lyin' thar at rest

With not a rose upon his breast!
Ah! menny cruel words they sed,

When Jim was dead.

"Jes' killed hisself!" "Too mean ter live!"
They didn't hav' one word ter give
Of comfort as they hovered near
An' gazed on Jim a-lyin' there!

"Thar ain't no use to talk," they sed,
"He's better dead."

But suddenly the room growed still, While God's white sunshine seemed ter fill The dark place with a gleam of life, An' o'er the dead she bent—Jim's wife! An' with her lips close, close ter his, As though he knew an' felt the kiss, She sobbed-a touchin' sight ter see“Ah! Jim was always good ter me!"

I tell you, when that cum ter light,
It kinder set the dead man right;
An' round the weepin' woman they
Throwed kindly arms of love that day,
And mingled with her own they shed
The tenderest tears-when Jim was dead.

MY STUDY.

THE day in the west has faded,

And night with auroral bars The brow of the north has braided, And brightened the blue with stars; And here in the firelight ruddy, In this temple of mystic art, Which I modestly call "My Study," I'm writing to you, sweetheart.

I wish you could see me bending
Over my books sublime,
And drearily, wearily wending

My way through the realms of rhyme!
I have sixteen songs and a sonnet
Just finished, my stock in trade,
And a verse "On a Lady's Bonnet,”
Which will come too high, I'm afraid.

The room where I write is cheerful
And warm-when it isn't cold;
But its objects of art are fearful
And wonderful to behold!
There's a chimney with grate of iron,
Where the flaming firelight throws
Its gleam on a bust of Byron,

And a Cæsar with broken nose!

Then a bird on a bust of Pallas,
The Raven of Edgar Poe,
Looks down from the mantel callous

To the years as they come and go. On a desk are the works of Schiller And Goethe, in bindings plain; The songs of Joaquin Miller

And the poems of Paul H. Hayne.