GEORGE W. FLEMING. 279 Withhold not at evening thy hand from the toil, But guard well the fruitage from every spoil, 'Till the last glow of sunset fades out on thy sight, GEORGE W. FLEMING. EORGE WALT FLEMING was born in And flelds crowned with plenty are gleaming in G Rochester, N. Y., April 5th, 1862. Edu white. cated in the common schools of that city, he left Rochester in his eighteenth year and at twentythree years of age was editor-in-chief of the Brooklyn, N. Y., Sunday World. He left Brooklyn to assume the duties of associate editor upon the Minneapolis, Minn., Star, afterward the Star-News. He removed to Syracuse in 1887, where on December 10th of the same year he engaged in active business as junior in the firm of L. D. Fleming & Son. Mr. Fleming contributes to the local press in verse and in prose, as well as to many foreign papers. He is the son of Lorenzo Dow and Minerva Jane (Kirk) Fleming and grandson of Ebenezer S. Fleming, D. D., who, with the celebrated preacher, Lorenzo Dow, founded, edited and conducted for years the Christian Palladium. In November, 1887, he married Miss Blanche Beulah Brace in Minneapolis. She died in February, 1888. F. D. T. THE COLUMBINE FOR COLUMBIA. EMBLAZONED in panoply regal, The rose and the lily may shine; Aquileza! akin to our eagle, We claim thee, O wild columbine! Through commonwealths twice two and twenty And states yet in embryo, too, Scatter widely thy symbols of plenty, Cornucopias red, white and blue. Thou art red as the East flushed with glory Deep blue as the warm Southern skies, Snow white as the North's hilltops hoary, In the West, like its own golden prize. Ring airily out on the mountain! Swing slowly thy bells on the plain! By prairie, and cañon and fountain, Elfin fingers wake Liberty's strain. Be our lives like thy leaflets, well rounded, From the horns that encircle the star. ONE MAN'S LIFE. "YES, I'm a bloated drunkard, A wreck, a sot, a 'bum,' A poor jest with the many, A sight for pity from some; But you, who look so easy, And care naught for my plight, May ere you die be sorry For the jests you've passed this night. Think not that feeling's empty, That no heart for woe have I, For, though the drink is in me, Home to my wife and family When at week's end came my pay; But the frenzy for the liquor Grew upon me slow, but sure, "One day there came upon us A stranger from the South, I was away at my labor. On my wife's sweet, ruddy mouth The stranger's eyes did fasten With a vulture's gaze, unclean, Almost before I knew it He from me my wife did wean. She left me--and the children, Bereft of a mother's care, Strayed-or else were stolen The girl was bright and fair. The boy became a jail-bird, The girl-'tis best untoldAnd I-well you can see me Am the wreck you now behold. I know that I was foolish, The world is full of men Who have braved the woes before them, Came unscathed from lion's den. I know that I'm a coward- The end is near, you see. The woman-wife I called her- M In waiting for to-morrow When to-day its chances give. Laugh, friends, no use to cry. AMELIA G. C. GEORGE. RS. AMELIA GIBBONS CHAPMAN GEORGE was born in Albany, N. Y., about the middle of the present century, of English ancestry. Her grandparents on the maternal and paternal sides having settled in the capital of the Empire State in 1794. She was the youngest of a large family. Her father died when she was quite young and she was brougt up under the judicious care of her mother, who also died, when Amelia was in her girlhood. Mrs. George is the widow of the late Dr. Elisha George of Syracuse. She has one child a son, who has made music his profession and is at present choir master in one of the churches in Syracuse. H. E. M. CHRISTMAS. BREAK forth in song, ye beauteous stars of morn! Cherubic hosts with joy repeat, “The Lord of Life is born!" O merry bells, peal out on wild and wintry air, Chime, chime again the story old, yet new and wondrous fair. This sombre planets' clothed in festal garments white, Upon her deepest darkness glows a beatific light. Lo! Heaven's High Priest descends to sinful earth, And veils His Majesty Divine in lowly infant birth! O Holy Babe, Incarnate One, effulgance from above, Thou well-beloved Son of God, incomparable Love! With fervent praise, and grateful hearts, we own Thy glorious sway, And hail Thee "King Triumphant," on this Thy Natal Day! MYLES TYLER FRISBIE. 281 M MYLES TYLER FRISBIE. YLES TYLER FRISBIE was born in Otisco, a town of Onondaga county, N. Y., April 3rd, 1865. In the district schools of that county, and afterwards in the old Onondaga Academy, Mr. Frisbie obtained an education, which has been broadened and amplified by a zealous love of books. Until he was twenty-four years of age Mr. Frisbie lived on the parental acres, under conditions that gave him, however, the fullest opportunity to gratify his natural thirst for an extended knowledge of literature. When it happened that circumstances took him to the busier haunts of men in Syracuse, his mind was in a state to be quickly moulded to new surroundings. The best proof of his singular adaptability to varying phases of life is found in the fact that four years after he came to town a countrybred boy, he was placed in charge of the city department of the Syracuse Standard. Mr. Frisbie is in that position at present and is dignifying his profession as well as fulfilling every expectation of him at his post. Prior to connection with the Syracuse Standard, Mr. Frisbie was on the staff of the Syracuse Journal, where he was the assistant of Carroll E. Smith, the editor of the paper, and a prolific contributor to its editorial pages. As a boy he produced a group of verses, mostly pitched in a joyous key, which were sent by others to the daily press for publication. Encouraged by seeing his humble work in print, he made a study of the technique of the art, and withholding the results of trials on new lines, waited until he was sure his metrical feet were not likely to trip him. During the past ten years his verse has appeared in newspaper and magazine pages with more or less frequency. Mr. Frisbie is socially companionable, is married and domestic in his tastes. C. R. S. THE MINOR POET. I'd rather be a simple bard and sing a homely song, The annals of plain common-folk, their humdrum right and wrong, Than stand upon Parnassus with a scroll of flame unfurled And invest my tongue with eloquence to thrill a waiting world. I'd sing of sturdy farmer lads about their daily toil, The brightly gleaming plowshare as it turns the mellow soil, The wealth of golden harvests that in barns and stacks is stored And the fruitage of the orchard, brown October's precious hoard. I'd sing the fall of twilight as the sun sinks in the west, The hour when tired mothers lull their sleepy babes to rest; The bliss of fond young lovers under evening skies in June, And the sweet and foolish nothings said beneath the yellow moon. The joys of careless childhood and the pains and griefs of age, The histories and mysteries that fill life's storied page, The days all glad with sunshine and the hours of doubt and gloom Through which we all must journey from the cradle to the tomb. Let others sing of chivalry and deeds of days of old, Of battles grand by sea and land, of knights and warriors bold; The lowly rhymes of present times are dearer far to me, And I hold these songs are sweeter for their simple melody. MY UNIFORMED NURSE. A SWEETLY Winsome face, Crossed on her bosom white; Her very presence heals, Her quiet footfalls soothe, "I love you, gentle nurse!" WILFUL WASTE MAKES WOFUL WANT. WHY will you tease me so, sweet maid, Why will you tease me so? I ask your love, you answer, Yes |