barriet L. Wason.

TO EUGENE FIELD.

If I could know that thought of mine
Had power to start a sudden tear
In other eyes, and bring more near
Some dear one by a single line,-

If I could know a chord unstrung,

Beneath my touch would lightly break
To quivering song, and tender wake

The music left so long unsung

Should I not feel it power enough

And fame, for one? Lo! it is thine,

This wond'rous thing; heart chords of mine Take up their old strains, crude and rough, To pattern on a broken string,

After the cadence thou dost sing.

SEPTEMBER.

Who will may laud the April time, her glances shy and tender,

That deluge the expectant earth with promises of splendor; Where tears are so entwined with smiles, each but the

other seeming

To fulfill her erratic moods to serve for restful dreaming.

Better September's winsome smiles tinged with pathetic sadness,

Thrilling the heart with subtle power than all the summer's

gladness,

Those Spartan smiles that hide a pang to see insidious

creeping,

The treacherous beauty of decay on all within her keeping.

The lull that falls on eager life when rush of strife is over Edges the mist against the hills, drapes copes and sedgy cover;

And like the shadows in a dream the swaying sunbeams

glitter,

"Tis luxury to simply live, all sweet without the bitter.

The aster and the golden-rod stand nodding in the bushes— For them she tones the chilly wind that o'er the prairie

rushes;

And speeds where the stately pines are flinging out

defiance,

To every smaller monarchy that dares to claim alliance.

The noisy river at their feet subsides to faint complaining; Forgets the prodigal delight that welcomed April's

reigning,

It owns the chill of Autumn's breath, no more itself de

ceiving;

September holds the warp and woof that gauge the summer's weaving.

September with her gorgeous hues, caressing touch and tender,

Foreshadowing no coming joys but fast departing splendor, Hiding the form of ruthless change in robes of gayest

seeming,

And filling every nook with peace; this is the time for dreaming.

IN MEMORIAM.

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

"And may there be no moaning at the bar,
When I drift out to sea."- Tennyson.

A pilot he who many a craft hath steered
To the unknown, and learned the way to bliss,
The rest which he to weary hearts endeared,
Of laborer's right is his.

On death's unfathomed vast he saileth lone
Whose helm has guided others into peace.
We dare not follow him with wail and moan
Who bade our moans to cease.

His song is hushed; the singer is not dead
Who fashioned song like this for us to keep.

Its import like a rose leaf, summer shed,
Across life's storms will creep.

That peace he brought to us will reach afar
To guide him on, how lone his voyage be,
And there shall be no moaning at the bar
As he drifts out to sea.

IN MEMORIAM.

COLONEL JOHN ARKINS,

FOR MANY YEARS EDITOR OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN NEWS.

Ignoble seems the fashion of our day

That stabs the living and applauds the dead,
Gives to crude wit too broad, unlicensed play,
All themes alike on its vile missions sped.

Heedless where fall the points, full often set
Only to round a column for the hour-
Forgotten soon as fashioned; worthless, yet
Barbed with a cancerous and malignant power.

Ye who so lately wounded, come ye now

Heaping your bay leaves on his happy bier?
Chaplet with laurel his unruffled brow,

For his unswerving silence drop a tear?

Do ye not know this tribute stintless strewn,
Even yesterday as rightfully was his?
Why feared ye lest some honor should be shown?
Of all this wealth what atom would ye miss?

To-day his eyes in death's sweet peace are sealed,
See not your graceful turns in wordy gem;

Your paeans of applause are idly pealed

On ears that once had priceless valued them.

"Always a cheerful giver" one tells o'er;

"God loves a cheerful giver," saith another.

"Called to decide between the rich and poor

His soul reached ever to his poorer brother.

"His charities were blazoned not abroad."

"Let not your left know what your right hand

doeth,"

Cautioned the Nazarene. This brave soul heard,
Nor needs that human judge his cause revieweth.

'Twas in the flesh he did these gracious deeds. Ye could not spare a pause to praise him then. Because your grief is true believe he pleads,

Turn to the living world with living men

Ready to fall beneath their weight of strife,

Soul-sick of jest primed full of cautering darts; And fit a broader code into your life,

Since even public men have private hearts.

DENVER HIGH SCHOOL CADETS.

Attention! Forward-looking left nor right,
Soldiers in jest, yet training for a fight
Which shapes to earnest as the years unroll
For you to stamp the future's mystic scroll;
Youth's joyous pulses thrumming double quick
To clash of swords or rifle's stirring click;