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BYRON R. NEWTON.

73

All our doubts will leave us ever, all our fears will

be at rest; Life will then be less like being than being always

blest!

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O, my brother in the struggle, O, my comrade in

the strife! Keep thy courage and thy patience; fill thy station;

live thy life; Twine thy hopes about the Sometime, trust it ever,

hold it fast, Though it tarry, wait thou for it; it will surely come at last!

(

BYRON R. NEWTON.

MR;

was

In the rosy, radiant Sometime there will be a won

drous rest; We shall lie and drink in gladness as an infant

sucks the breast; No more the heart shall be disturbed by any woe or

wile, The earth shall wear a heavenlier look, the heavens

themselves shall smile. Hope will fruit upon its branches as the orange

rounds and glows; There will be no strife and tumult, only concord

and repose; Every joy will be discarded that another may not

share, And the ills of life will soften into something sweet

and fair. In the gracious, golden Sometime we shall love

and never tire, Keep the sweet emotion glowing, as the Vestal

kept the fire; There will be a sturdier trusting and a sympathy

sublime; The heart shall be in league with peace, and

peace in league with time. We shall lay aside our burdens, we shall be dis

robed of care, Cease our stilling lowland living, rise and breathe

the mountain air; We shall feel ourselves uplifted over meanness,

spite and wrong; Firmly then will throb our pulses, and our heart

beats will be strong. In the braver, better Sometime life will broaden

and expand; Every impulse will be noble, every purpose will be

grand; Speech shall put on loftier meanings, thought to

higher planes ascend, And the action prove the motive, and the motive

show the end.

R. NEWTON was born in Friendship, Alle

gany county, August 4, 1862, and educated in Friendship Academy and Oberlin College. He began his newspaper work with the Elmira Daily Advertiser in 1883, and was afterwards city editor of the Wellsville, N.Y , Daily Free Press for a year.

In 1885 he traveled through Quebec and Nova Scotia, writing a series of historic sketches for a syndicate of American papers. He was connected with the New York Commercial Advertiser for a time, removing to Buffalo in 1887. He is now on the staff of the Evening News. He is the vice-president of the Buffalo Press Club, and

was one of the organizers of the International į League of Press Clubs.

C. H. P.

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AN OPEN VERSE TO EUGENE FIELD.

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We shall dream, but we shall labor; we shall labor,

but shall sing, As the skylark pipes its carols while it plies its

patient wing; We shall work with eager fingers, we shall run with

willing feet, And the rest that crowns our striving will be some

thing heavenly sweet. There will be a sense of freedom, that will make

our pulses leap, And a sweeter sense of safety, that will hush our

hearts to sleep;

Say, “Gene,"

You remember last September,
One day down the bay,
As we fished and wished
For a spot less hot,
That you said, instead
Of Chicago's heat and hog'o,
You would be with me
In the halo of Buf-fa-lo,
If I'd be so kind as a house to find,
Where the quiver o'er the river
Of the bright twilight,
And the teem and the gleam
Of the storm and the morn
In their wake o'er the lake
Were in view to you.

Thus a cottage for your dotage
I have found, on ground
Where the view for you
Of the quiver o'er the river

of the bright twilight,
And the teem and the gleam
Of the storm and the morn
In their wake o'er the lake,
From a handy back verandy
You'll enjoy, my boy.

Where the flame's eager tongues and its withering

breath Shall not reach me; oh! toad, is there nothing but

death?"

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So the trade I've made,
Will you take it now or break it?

THE TOAD AND THE SPARROW.

There's a story that's told in a mythical way
Of a toad and a sparrow, that happened one day
To journey together along the highway.
The toad toiled onward with many a jump,
With many a tumble and many a thump,
And when he would falter or fall in the track,
Miss sparrow stood ready to give him a whack
On his tenderest spot, and his patience to try
With a censuring glance from her sarcastic eye,
That did all but say in a sarcastic way:

"Oh, yes," quoth the toad, “here's the ocean

quite near; When escape is so simple, we never should fear. Now notice my action, it's easy for me, And why you're so frightened I really can't see.” Then, hopping along to the water hard by, That gleamed with the light of the fiery sky, He swelled himself up like a monstrous sponge And, saying good night, in he went with a plunge. Then lifting again just his nose and his chin, Shouted back: “Wisest sparrow, oh, why don't you swim?"

MORAL. There's a moral just here for intelligent creatures: Don't always judge men by the mold of their

features! There's ever a function for wing and for limb; If a toad can not fly, he will manage to swim. When some one is slow or a blockhead in school, Don't tell all your neighbors he's surely a fool, For we'll seldom discover on life's crowded road Four legs on a sparrow or wings on a toad. And it's quite haru to tell, when you see a toad stop, In just what direction he's able to hop. If our friends chance to lag when in luck we can fly, Let us never be eager their gists to decry. For indeed it is wrong, and so very chagrining, To laugh at the dunce who is slow at beginning, When as likely as not, ere the journey is past, He'll quicken his pace and outstrip us at last.

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KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY.

The ocean lay waveless; the sun in the west
Sank down o'er the hills, and the world was at rest.
The sparrow, in angry and petulant mood,
Sought rest in the boughs of a sheltering wood;
Then nestling herself in her foliaged bed,
Glanced down at his toadship and haughtily said:
“Hop toad, you disgust me! Now mark what I say:
If to-morrow you blunder along in this way,
You beautiful bird, you picturesque drone,
I am sure you will finish the journey alone!”

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Too meek for retorting, too noble to weep,
The toad fell to thinking and shortly to sleep.
But his nap was cut short by the sparrow's shrill

cry: “Oh, toad! see that terrible light in the sky!" 'Twas fire! and swift in its sweeping career Each moment was drawing more dreadfully near. “Oh, what shall I do?"cried the sparrow in fright, “My wings can not carry me up to a height

Last June, in my lone garden, a lovely rose-tree

grew, Rich in God's gracious giving of sunshine and of

dew;

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