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BYRON R. NEWTON.
All our doubts will leave us ever, all our fears will
be at rest; Life will then be less like being than being always
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.
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.
AN OPEN VERSE TO EUGENE FIELD.
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;
You remember last September,
Thus a cottage for your dotage
of the bright twilight,
Where the flame's eager tongues and its withering
breath Shall not reach me; oh! toad, is there nothing but
So the trade I've made,
THE TOAD AND THE SPARROW.
There's a story that's told in a mythical 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.
KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY.
The ocean lay waveless; the sun in the west
Too meek for retorting, too noble to weep,
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