WRITERS OF LOCAL DISTINCTION

There's a land that is fairer than day,And by faith we can see it afar,For the Father waits over the way,To prepare us a dwelling place there.

Chorus.

In the sweet by and by,We shall meet on that beautiful shore;In the sweet by and by,We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

II.

We shall sing on that beautiful shoreThe melodious songs of the blest,And our spirits shall sorrow no more—Not a sigh for the blessings of rest.

III.

To our bountiful Father above,We will offer the tribute of praise,For the glorious gifts of His love,And the blessings that hallow our days.

The greatest difficulty confronting the compilers of any anthology is involved in the necessary exclusion, through lack of space, or else, in some instances, through lack of unmistakable manifestation of literary merit, of some authors and selections that would no doubt be welcomed by many readers of the volume. In the present work it has been the main purpose to set forth in due prominence the works of those writers of our state who have displayed unmistakable literary merit, and who have, beyond doubt, possessed both a message and a marked facility in giving it to the world. We now come to those who, usually despite the rigorous exactions of hurried and anxious frontier lives, have sensed the essential elements of poetry or story in their workaday lives, and have had the courage and optimism necessary to write and publish.To show just what courage it took and just what spirit impelled these writers, let us quote from the preface to

To show just what courage it took and just what spirit impelled these writers, let us quote from the preface to

BY C. F. SHERIFF.

... "When Ed. Coe, of Whitewater, Wisconsin, began some twelve years ago publishing Cold Spring items, signed by 'Greenhorn,' he published the first lines I ever wrote, at which time some spirit (or some unseen thing) seemed to be always whispering in my ear that I must write a book.

"Never could I drive from me these thoughts, and situated as I was, with plenty of farm work to do, no education at all, no knowledge of such business, no friends to help me, but lots to kick me down, I can tell you I was pretty well discouraged, and if I had not had lots of courage, the contents of this book would not have been written.

"This work is the only kind of work that I can get interested in, and should I pass to the mysterious beyond without gaining any name in this way, I would declare with my last breath that my life, as far as myself was concerned, had been a failure."

Something of the same impulse is found in this dedication of the volume "Dew Drops," by Leda Bond (Mrs. Feldsmith).

"This little book is fondly dedicated to Raymond and Leotta, my two beloved children, who, when the shades of sorrow closed around me, stretched forth their baby fingers, and parting the curtains of gloom, revealed once more the gladsome light of a happier day."

We feel that the names of some of these courageous and happy pioneers should be given in this volume, together with brief selections from some of their works. Some of the verses here given will show sure sense of rhyme and pleasing balance and reserve. Some have, it is true, little to commend them but the evident longing to express the song that was in the soul rather than on the lips. But who can say how much the more successful ones, who have won deserved fame and plaudits, owe to the more obscure who sought, with more meagre measure of success, to show that there is poetry and song and story in Wisconsin?

A Collection of Fugitive Poems Written Among the Cares and Labors of Daily Journalism.By A. M. THOMSON.(Then Editor of the Sentinel), Milwaukee, 1873.

Bow down thy head, O Commonwealth,'Tis fitting now for thee to weep;Thy hopes lie buried in the grave,In which our chieftain is asleep.The flags at half mast sadly droop,The bells toll out a solemn wail,As on the southern breeze there comes,With lightning speed, the sick'ning tale!O, dreadful night! O, fatal step!O, rushing river's angry tide!Was there no quick, omniscient armTo save a life so true and tried?Breathe, lofty Pines, his requiem;Sing paeans in thy forest gloom;And ye, ye Prairies, that he loved,Bring Flora's gems to deck his tomb.O, State, bereft of him you loved,O, Mother, from thy loving breast,Our friend and brother, statesman, chief,At noon, sinks calmly to his rest!We cannot hide these scalding tears,But kiss in trust this chast'ning rod;Though reason sleeps, faith is not blind,But sees in all the hand of God.

Bow down thy head, O Commonwealth,'Tis fitting now for thee to weep;Thy hopes lie buried in the grave,In which our chieftain is asleep.

The flags at half mast sadly droop,The bells toll out a solemn wail,As on the southern breeze there comes,With lightning speed, the sick'ning tale!

O, dreadful night! O, fatal step!O, rushing river's angry tide!Was there no quick, omniscient armTo save a life so true and tried?

Breathe, lofty Pines, his requiem;Sing paeans in thy forest gloom;And ye, ye Prairies, that he loved,Bring Flora's gems to deck his tomb.

O, State, bereft of him you loved,O, Mother, from thy loving breast,Our friend and brother, statesman, chief,At noon, sinks calmly to his rest!

We cannot hide these scalding tears,But kiss in trust this chast'ning rod;Though reason sleeps, faith is not blind,But sees in all the hand of God.

By J. H. WHITNEY, Baraboo, Wisconsin.

When treason, veiled in fair disguise,And clad in robes of state,Invoked the sword to cut the tiesThat made a nation great,Wisconsin sounded the alarm,And beat the battle-drum:Men heard from office, mill and farm,And answered, "Lo! we come."Down from the rugged northern pines,Up from the eastern coast;From riverside and southern mines,Comes forth the loyal host.From Gainesville thru the wildernessThey march with fearless tread,And leave behind, as on they press,An army of the dead.Beneath the blue—above the green,Mid flowers of fairest hue,We honor now with reverent mien,The men who wore the blue.The story of the rolls is told.The records, worn and gray,Like veterans, are growing old,And soon shall pass away.But deeds of valor for a causeSo just, shall ever shine,And loyalty to righteous lawsShall live, because divine.

When treason, veiled in fair disguise,And clad in robes of state,Invoked the sword to cut the tiesThat made a nation great,

Wisconsin sounded the alarm,And beat the battle-drum:Men heard from office, mill and farm,And answered, "Lo! we come."

Down from the rugged northern pines,Up from the eastern coast;From riverside and southern mines,Comes forth the loyal host.

From Gainesville thru the wildernessThey march with fearless tread,And leave behind, as on they press,An army of the dead.

Beneath the blue—above the green,Mid flowers of fairest hue,We honor now with reverent mien,The men who wore the blue.

The story of the rolls is told.The records, worn and gray,Like veterans, are growing old,And soon shall pass away.

But deeds of valor for a causeSo just, shall ever shine,And loyalty to righteous lawsShall live, because divine.

By MRS. LIBBIE C. BAER.(Appleton, Wisconsin. Copyright, 1902, by the Author.)

Never a cloud to darken the blue,Never a flower to lose its hue,Never a friend to prove untrueIn the beautiful land of fancy.Never a joy to turn to pain,Never a hope to die or wane,Never a boon we may not gainIn the beautiful land of fancy.Never a heart turns false or cold,Never a face grows gray or old,Never a love we may not holdIn the beautiful land of fancy.All of life that we crave or miss,(The world denies us half its bliss),Free, untrammelled, we have in this—In the beautiful land of fancy.

Never a cloud to darken the blue,Never a flower to lose its hue,Never a friend to prove untrueIn the beautiful land of fancy.

Never a joy to turn to pain,Never a hope to die or wane,Never a boon we may not gainIn the beautiful land of fancy.Never a heart turns false or cold,Never a face grows gray or old,Never a love we may not holdIn the beautiful land of fancy.

All of life that we crave or miss,(The world denies us half its bliss),Free, untrammelled, we have in this—In the beautiful land of fancy.

By J. R. HENDERSON, Riley, Wisconsin.

We give here a selection of "Neighborhood Verse," such as may achieve much local fame and really may make life more worth living.

Neighbors and friends, we have met today,At the home of Jimmie Clow,To see his daughter Mary give her hand away,And take the marriage vow.To see Willie Goodwin get a wife,And start on the matrimonial sea.Long life, health and happiness to him and his,Is the wish of this whole company.Now, Willie, lad, here's a pipe for you,It's a present from old Joe;And when you take your evening smokeYou'll remember him, I know.And, Mary, lass, here's a gift for you—Ah, you'll need it yet; you'll see.Take it now, and hide it awayFrom this laughing company.

Neighbors and friends, we have met today,At the home of Jimmie Clow,To see his daughter Mary give her hand away,And take the marriage vow.

To see Willie Goodwin get a wife,And start on the matrimonial sea.Long life, health and happiness to him and his,Is the wish of this whole company.

Now, Willie, lad, here's a pipe for you,It's a present from old Joe;And when you take your evening smokeYou'll remember him, I know.

And, Mary, lass, here's a gift for you—Ah, you'll need it yet; you'll see.Take it now, and hide it awayFrom this laughing company.

By MARY M. ADAMS.

Sound her praise! our noble State,All her strength to deeds translate,Prove her shield when danger's nigh,Read her banner in the sky,Tell of her in song and story,All her past with love illume,Show her present robed in glory,Promise of a larger bloom.Morning maid! whose day beganWith the nobler life in man,Sun-crowned souls reveal thy fame,Sacred hopes thy laws proclaim.O Father! hear for her our prayer,Bid her voice Thine own decree,Let all her growth Thyself declare,Guard the light supplied by Thee!

Morning maid! whose day beganWith the nobler life in man,Sun-crowned souls reveal thy fame,Sacred hopes thy laws proclaim.O Father! hear for her our prayer,Bid her voice Thine own decree,Let all her growth Thyself declare,Guard the light supplied by Thee!

MY BEST POEM.

You ask of mine the poem I love best,And promise it shall have the larger light;Alas, alas! far, far beyond the restI love the poem that I mean to write!

MYRA GOODWIN PLANTZ. 1856-1914.

FromSONGS OF QUIET HOURS.Copyright, by Pres. Samuel Plantz and reprinted by permission of The Methodist Book Concern.

This poem was written to her mother on her seventy-seventh birthday.

The spring is fair; it has its flowers,Its happy time of sun and showers;Then summer cometh as a queen,With roses on her robe of green;But autumn brings the crimson leavesAnd wealth of golden, garnered sheaves,And grapes that purple on the vine,With spring and summer in their wine.The morning comes with rosy lightThat dims the candles of the night,And wakes the nestling birds to song,And sends to toil the brave and strong.Mid-day and afternoon are spentIn search of gold or heart-content;Then comes the sunset's glow and rest,And this of all the days is best.The baby comes with ParadiseStill shining in his smiling eyes,And childhood passes like a dream,As lilies float upon a stream.Then youth comes with its restless heat,And manhood, womanhood, repleteWith care and pleasure, joy and strife,Lead to the richest part of life.And it has reached these, mother dear,The sunny, mellow time of year;Though with a climate of thine own,In constant sun thy soul has grown.Time counts not helpful, happy years—He only numbers sighs and tears;So rich in blessings, strong in truth,Thou hast not age, but richer youth.

The morning comes with rosy lightThat dims the candles of the night,And wakes the nestling birds to song,And sends to toil the brave and strong.Mid-day and afternoon are spentIn search of gold or heart-content;Then comes the sunset's glow and rest,And this of all the days is best.

The baby comes with ParadiseStill shining in his smiling eyes,And childhood passes like a dream,As lilies float upon a stream.Then youth comes with its restless heat,And manhood, womanhood, repleteWith care and pleasure, joy and strife,Lead to the richest part of life.

And it has reached these, mother dear,The sunny, mellow time of year;Though with a climate of thine own,In constant sun thy soul has grown.Time counts not helpful, happy years—He only numbers sighs and tears;So rich in blessings, strong in truth,Thou hast not age, but richer youth.

By CARRIE CARLTON.(Mrs. M. H. Chamberlain.)

A spell is on my spiritAnd I cannot, cannot write,All the teeming thoughts of gloryThat crowd my soul tonight.They come in quick succession,Like the phantoms in a dream;And they surge in shadowy billows,Like the mist upon a stream.Oh! had I but the language,I would give these visions birth;I would shadow their glorious meaning,And their untold, hidden worth.They were raised by wild thanksgiving,For a blessed answered prayer;And their fleeting, changing beauty,Held my spirit breathless there.I had pleaded, oh, how earnestFor one precious, precious boon;For one gift to cheer this bosom,That was desolate so soon.Now I know my prayer is answered,And my soul would fain adore,Him whose promise is forever,And is faithful evermore.

Oh! had I but the language,I would give these visions birth;I would shadow their glorious meaning,And their untold, hidden worth.They were raised by wild thanksgiving,For a blessed answered prayer;And their fleeting, changing beauty,Held my spirit breathless there.

I had pleaded, oh, how earnestFor one precious, precious boon;For one gift to cheer this bosom,That was desolate so soon.Now I know my prayer is answered,And my soul would fain adore,Him whose promise is forever,And is faithful evermore.

By ADA F. MOORE.Published by West and Co., Milwaukee, 1875.

There's a certain class of peopleIn this sublunary sphere—(And if I'm not mistaken,You'll find them even here),Who think the rare old preceptTo the old Athenians given,And esteemed so full of wisdomThat they deemed it came from Heaven,—In this glorious age of progressHas become quite obsolete;So they choose another motto,For these latter times more meet.It is "know thyself" no longer—So they say, and who can doubt them—But "Mortal, know thy neighbors,And everything about them!"To attain this worthy object,All other cares forego;To gain this glorious knowledge,You cannot stoop too low.Heed not the ancient croakers,Who ask, with solemn phiz—"Is it anybody's businessWhat another's business is?"No! we'd join the glorious party,That to giant size has grown,To mind our neighbor's business,And "Know nothing" of our own,Hurrah! for the Rights of Meddlers!For the freedom of our day!For the glorious Age of Progress!And for Young America!

In this glorious age of progressHas become quite obsolete;So they choose another motto,For these latter times more meet.It is "know thyself" no longer—So they say, and who can doubt them—But "Mortal, know thy neighbors,And everything about them!"

To attain this worthy object,All other cares forego;To gain this glorious knowledge,You cannot stoop too low.Heed not the ancient croakers,Who ask, with solemn phiz—"Is it anybody's businessWhat another's business is?"

No! we'd join the glorious party,That to giant size has grown,To mind our neighbor's business,And "Know nothing" of our own,Hurrah! for the Rights of Meddlers!For the freedom of our day!For the glorious Age of Progress!And for Young America!

By HARRY LATHROP.Published by Review Print, Flint, Mich., in 1903.

He loves to make another laughAnd laugh himself as well,Nor any one around one-halfSo good a joke can tell.The less of pain a man can give,The more of joy he scatters;The more excuse for him to live—Apart from weightier matters.Then emulate the men who laugh,Good health and mirth are catching,The wine of joy is ours to quaff,Life's duties while despatching.

He loves to make another laughAnd laugh himself as well,Nor any one around one-halfSo good a joke can tell.

The less of pain a man can give,The more of joy he scatters;The more excuse for him to live—Apart from weightier matters.

Then emulate the men who laugh,Good health and mirth are catching,The wine of joy is ours to quaff,Life's duties while despatching.

And other Verses.By MARION MANVILLE.Copyright, 1887, by the Author.

But one of a thousand voices,Oh, how can one voice be heard,When ninety and nine and nine hundredAre chanting the same old word?But one of a thousand singers,What song can I sing, oh pray,That is not sung over and over,And over again today?

But one of a thousand voices,Oh, how can one voice be heard,When ninety and nine and nine hundredAre chanting the same old word?

But one of a thousand singers,What song can I sing, oh pray,That is not sung over and over,And over again today?

By PROFESSOR J. J. BLAISDELL, (1827-1896), Beloit College.Copyright, 1897. J. A. Blaisdell.

One cannot be a good citizen of Wisconsin without being a good citizen of America. One cannot be a good citizen of America without being a good citizen of the Commonwealth of all nations. One cannot be a good citizen of the world Commonwealth without being a good citizen of the Universal Kingdom of God's moral order. Wisconsin citizenship, magnificent lesson to be learned!

Complied by SYDNEY T. PRATT, Manitowoc, Wisconsin.Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1901, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, by Sydney T. Pratt.

There is something in the approach of autumn, the border land of summer, that is depressing, just as if the shadow of death were brooding over the future. There are dark clouds in the sky which cut off the sunshine; there is a gloom in the heart which darkens hope and makes life "scarcely worth living." The wind has a mournful cadence, and the trees saw as if the motion were a sigh of sorrow. Everything seems to harmonize with the prevailing spirit of sadness, and animate nature moans forth a dirge. Dew drops seem like tears, and the evening breeze is a sigh. The moon itself seems to wear a garb of grief and floats among the clouds, a tear-stained Diana. It is a season for men to grow mad, for anguish to gnaw at the heart, and for melancholy to usurp the throne of reason. The retina only receives dark impressions, the tympanum transmits none but doleful sounds. One is feasted on dismal thoughts on every hand until it becomes a regular symposium of sorrow. Those imps, the Blues, that feed one on dejection, are in their heyday, implacable as a Nemesis, persistent as a Devil. They revel in gloom and drag one down to the Slough of Despond. Work is performed mechanically, and what in its nature is amusement, is now a bore. One "sucks melancholy from a song as a weasel sucks eggs," and longs for night that he may seek forgetfulness in sleep—the twin-sister of Death. A miserable world this, when the year is falling "into the sear and yellow leaf;" and there is a lingering wish that the shadows which come from theWest would bring that icy breath that gives forgetfulness and rest.

By WILFRID EARL CHASE, Madison.Copyright, 1913, by the Author.

Maze of antinomies and miracles!Bewildered, purblind we are led alongThis rock-strewn, flower-decked, mystic, wondrous way.Whence came? What are we? Whither are we led?Wherefore journey we? Why such fickle path?And Nature's myriad answers, voiced in the storm'sWild tumult, fringed on the gentian's azure cup,Or limned on human brow, we would descry,—And some we darkly guess, and some we almost know.

A SEQUEL TO THE RHYMED STORY OF WISCONSIN.By J. N. DAVIDSON.

(The following verses express no grievance of my own. I could not ask for more considerate neighbors. But all gardeners are not so fortunate, and it is for their sake and at the suggestions of one of them that these lines were written.)

Sometimes I say "The Dickens!There are my neighbor's chickens!"My neighbor I like wellBut—let me grievance tell—I do not like his chickens;—Save when he bids me to a roastAnd plays the part of kindly host.My garden is most dear to meFrom carrot bed to apple tree,And so my patience sickensWhen I behold the chickensIn it and scratching merrily.Dark gloom grows darker, thickens,In looking at those chickens.A certain scientific manOnce called the hen "A feeble bird."It is, I'm sure, on no such planMy neighbor's hens are built; the word"Feeble" to them does not apply.I wish Professor would stand byAnd see those hens make mulching fly.Or let him watch them as they eatMy cauliflower choice and sweet,Or gorge themselves on berries fine;The way they always do with mine.They run on their destructive feetFrom stalk to stalk, from vine to vine,Or scratch as if they dug a mine.And so, my neighbor, won't you please,My cares dispel, my troubles ease,By keeping all your hens at home?Soon, soon the very earth will freezeAnd then the fowls at large may roam.So I'll not need the pen of DickensTo tell my horror of your chickens!

My garden is most dear to meFrom carrot bed to apple tree,And so my patience sickensWhen I behold the chickensIn it and scratching merrily.Dark gloom grows darker, thickens,In looking at those chickens.

A certain scientific manOnce called the hen "A feeble bird."It is, I'm sure, on no such planMy neighbor's hens are built; the word"Feeble" to them does not apply.I wish Professor would stand byAnd see those hens make mulching fly.

Or let him watch them as they eatMy cauliflower choice and sweet,Or gorge themselves on berries fine;The way they always do with mine.They run on their destructive feetFrom stalk to stalk, from vine to vine,Or scratch as if they dug a mine.

And so, my neighbor, won't you please,My cares dispel, my troubles ease,By keeping all your hens at home?Soon, soon the very earth will freezeAnd then the fowls at large may roam.So I'll not need the pen of DickensTo tell my horror of your chickens!

Shall I do dear Sam a wrongIf I write no little songTelling how he pleases Grace,Brings the light to Tompie's face,Shares their play or runs a race,Merry all about the place?No: I'd do the duck no wrongIf I failed to make the song.He'll not care for verse or rhyme.But this pleasant summer-timeI have seen my little neighbors,Happy in their kindly laborsMaking Sam and others glad,So I say, "God bless the lad;Bless the lassie"; and I knowThat the love to Sam they showMakes their own hearts richer, truer;Makes the sky seem brighter, bluer;Makes them to us all a joy(I mean duck, and girl, and boy).So I'd surely do a wrongIf I did not say in songTo loved Tompie and Miss Grace(Merry all about the place)That their duck's important, quite,With his new-grown feathers white;But the more important thingIs their love; of this I sing!

Shall I do dear Sam a wrongIf I write no little songTelling how he pleases Grace,Brings the light to Tompie's face,Shares their play or runs a race,Merry all about the place?

No: I'd do the duck no wrongIf I failed to make the song.He'll not care for verse or rhyme.But this pleasant summer-timeI have seen my little neighbors,Happy in their kindly laborsMaking Sam and others glad,So I say, "God bless the lad;Bless the lassie"; and I knowThat the love to Sam they showMakes their own hearts richer, truer;Makes the sky seem brighter, bluer;Makes them to us all a joy(I mean duck, and girl, and boy).

So I'd surely do a wrongIf I did not say in songTo loved Tompie and Miss Grace(Merry all about the place)That their duck's important, quite,With his new-grown feathers white;But the more important thingIs their love; of this I sing!

PEN PICTURES OF EARLY DAYS IN WESTERN WISCONSIN.By S. W. BROWN.Copyright, 1900, La Crosse, Wisconsin.

FROM CHAPTER II, pp. 37-38.

Such was Neoshone, as the Indians who frequently camped there called it when the first white man stood on the bank of the river and watched the rushing waters flow swiftly by. They had borne the red man in his canoe, and around this very spot the Winnebago hunter had secured fine strings of ducks, and for generations had trapped for mink and gathered in abundance the fish that swarmed in every eddy and pool.

The hill at the north was crowned with a beautiful grove of young oak trees, and, standing on its slope, the early pioneer beheld before his eyes a magnificent panorama.In the distance the everlasting hills seemed to stand guard round and about it as did the walls of the Jewish capitol encircle its sacred precincts.

Valley, hillside, prairie, and plain, stretched away from the spectator's feet in varying lines and curves, while down the center rolled the grand old river. It seemed like a second Canaan, waiting for the coming of the chosen people, its soil ready to be waked by the share of the settler's plow, when crops would come forth as if touched by the magician's wand.

By NEAL BROWN.Read before the Phantom Club, Oconomowoc, Wisconsin,April 15, 1913.

... Growing old has many stages. You can remember the time when, in reading your favorite author, you were disgusted to find that he had made his hero forty years old, and you wondered how he could be guilty of imputing romance to such an unconscionable age. By and by, even though you found forty years to be the old age of youth, you were solaced by the thought that it was the youth of old age, and still later you will wonder where youth ends and old age begins.

In many assemblages you once found yourself the youngest man, or among the youngest. But with swift-flying years, you finally found yourself equal in age to most of those in all assemblies; but the time comes when only younger men are crowding around you. And when you try to evade the thought that you are growing old, along comes some kindly friend with the greeting, "How young you are looking."

You grow to regard as babes, wild, young blades of forty or fifty. You may comfort yourself with the thought expressed by Holmes. He says that he could feel fairly immune from death as long as older men whom he knew, still remained, especially if they were of a much greater age than himself. They were farther out on the skirmish line, and must be taken first.

By CORA KELLEY WHEELER, Marshfield, Wisconsin.Copyright, 1896, The Editor Publishing Company.

FROM "MY LADY ELEANOR," pp. 119-20.

I was wounded at Acre. My strong right arm will never strike another blow for the glory of the Cross. I started sadly out, in spite of our victory, for my western home.

I thought to look in Eleanor's face once more, and see if the years had brought any tender thoughts of me into her heart. If not, I should never trouble her with any claim of mine. I knew she passed her time in works of charity, and that the house of Savoy had never held the love and reverence of the people before as it held it today, under the rule of my Lady Eleanor.

We reached Savoy. In the old days I carried to the lady of my heart a reprieve from death; but to me she brought now a reprieve that took all the grief and sorrow out of my life, as she laid her sweet face on my breast and whispered, "I have loved you ever since the night you brought me home; why did you ever leave me?" With the love of the Duchess of Savoy began a new life; but to me she will ever be, as when I loved her first, "My Lady Eleanor."

ALBERTINE W. MOORE, Echoes from Mistland, Norway Music Album.

MARION V. DUDLEY, Poems.

ELLA A. GILES, Maiden Rachael, Out from the Shadows, Bachelor Ben, Flowers of the Spirit.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL, Percival's Poems.

CHARLES NOBLE GREGORY, Poems.

JULIA AND MEDORA CLARK, Driftwood.

CHARLOTTA PERRY, (pseud.) Carlotta Perry's Poems, 1888.

JOHN GOADBY GREGORY, A Beauty of Thebes and Other Verses.

FLORENCE C. REID, Jack's Afire, Survival of the Fittest.

KENT KENNAN, Sketches.

MYRON E. BAKER, Vacation Thoughts.

JOSEPH V. COLLINS, of Stevens Point, Sketches.

MYRA EMMONS, of Stevens Point, Short Stories.

JULIA M. TASCHER, of Stevens Point, Arbutus and Dandelions, a Novel.

ADA F. MOORE, (Mrs. John Phillips, of Stevens Point), Under the Pines.

MRS. E. M. TASCHER, (Mother of Julia M. Tascher), The Story of Stevens Point.

JOHN HICKS, of Oshkosh, lately Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States to Peru, The Man from Oshkosh.

JULIUS TAYLOR CLARK, formerly of Madison, The Ojibue Conquest.

GEORGE GRIMM, of Milwaukee, Pluck, a Story of a Little Immigrant Boy.

GENESSEE RICHARDSON, of Oconomowoc, My Castle In the Air.

CHESTER L. SAXBY, of Superior, A Captain of the King.

MISS L. J. DICKINSON, of Superior, John O'Dreams.

GEORGE STEELE, of Whitewater, Deidre.

JULIUS C. BIRGE, (the first white child born in Whitewater.) The Awakening of the Desert.

JOSEPH P. DYSART, Milwaukee, Grace Porter, a Jewel Lost and Found.

MARGARET ASHMUN, Poems and Short Stories.

Among the many purposes authors have for producing literature is that of pure fun or humor. If the writer attempts to reform by laughing at his people, we designate his work as satire. With this type of literature we have nothing to do here, but much literature has been produced within the state that has for its purpose the laughing with the readers. It attempts to amuse through affording a pleasing surprise. The unexpected which engenders this surprise may be that of situation, of ignorance, or of the mingling of sense and nonsense in a perplexing manner.This last means of engendering surprise and the resulting humor grew up quite largely among writers of the Middle West during and since the Civil War. It is often spoken of as American humor. It may be illustrated by a short selection from Edgar Wilson Nye's Comic History of the United States, which will show the point of mingling real historical facts with statements quite ridiculous in many instances. Let the reader attempt to determine which statements are historical sense and which are smart or even pure nonsense."On December 16, 1773, occurred the tea-party at Boston, which must have been a good deal livelier than those of today. The historian regrets that he was not there; he would have tried to be the life of the party."England had finally so arranged the price of tea that, including the tax, it was cheaper in America than in the old country. This exasperated the patriots, who claimed that they were confronted by a theory and not a condition. At Charleston this tea was stored in damp cellars, where it spoiled. New York and Philadelphia returned their ship, but the British would not allow any shenanagin, as George III. so tersely termed it, in Boston."Therefore a large party met in Faneuil Hall and decided that the tea should not be landed. A party made up as Indians and, going on board, threw the tea overboard. Boston Harbor, as far out as the Bug Light, even today, is said to be carpeted with tea-grounds."Wisconsin writers have attempted this type of humor. Two of these whose lives have been more or less connected with the history of River Falls, are mentioned here. The first of these labored quite as earnestly to cultivate the serious side of literature as he did the humorous. As a result his little volume entitled "Lute Taylor's Chip Basket," is filled with even more of the quite serious of life's lessons expressed in poems and essays than of the ludicrous. He mingled both in his book asa real manifestation of his philosophy of life. This is the way he puts it: "Fun is cousin to Common Sense. They live pleasantly together, and none but fools try to divorce them."Lute A. Taylor was born at Norfolk, New York, September 14, 1863. He came to River Falls, Wisconsin, in 1856, where he became editor of the River Falls Journal in June, 1857. He removed his paper to Prescott in 1861 and called it the Prescott Journal. In 1869 he became one of the publishers and editor-in-chief of the La Crosse Morning Leader. In addition to his newspaper work he held the appointive offices of assistant assessor of internal revenues, assessor of the sixth congressional district of Wisconsin, and surveyor of the port of entry at La Crosse. He died at the latter place November 11, 1875.When Lute was eight years old his father died, and the boy was thrown upon his own resources quite largely from this early age. The resulting struggle limited his opportunities for school and academy somewhat, but it revealed to him the blessings of persistent effort and gave him a sympathy for the sufferings of mankind. His genial disposition and keen wit made him see the joyous in life, so that between trial and joy he may be said to have been a veritable "vibration between a smile and a tear."Since so much of his effort in a literary way was serious, it is thought best to illustrate this as well as his humor. Two selections are chosen, both from the Chip Basket, which in its turn is a selection from his newspaper articles. He had not only the ability to write the extended article, but also the much more rare ability of boiling down into concentrated comparisons some of his richest observations. Out of twenty such quotations just these two are given as illustrations:"There is a thread in our thought as there is a pulse in our heart; he who can hold the one knows how to think; and he who can move the other, knows how to feel.""A man may be successful as a loafer, and invest less capital and brains than are required to succeed in any other line."To illustrate a bit of his humor due to the mingling of nonsense and facts a few paragraphs from a letter to the St. Paul Pioneer concerning the city of Chicago are given.

This last means of engendering surprise and the resulting humor grew up quite largely among writers of the Middle West during and since the Civil War. It is often spoken of as American humor. It may be illustrated by a short selection from Edgar Wilson Nye's Comic History of the United States, which will show the point of mingling real historical facts with statements quite ridiculous in many instances. Let the reader attempt to determine which statements are historical sense and which are smart or even pure nonsense.

"On December 16, 1773, occurred the tea-party at Boston, which must have been a good deal livelier than those of today. The historian regrets that he was not there; he would have tried to be the life of the party.

"England had finally so arranged the price of tea that, including the tax, it was cheaper in America than in the old country. This exasperated the patriots, who claimed that they were confronted by a theory and not a condition. At Charleston this tea was stored in damp cellars, where it spoiled. New York and Philadelphia returned their ship, but the British would not allow any shenanagin, as George III. so tersely termed it, in Boston.

"Therefore a large party met in Faneuil Hall and decided that the tea should not be landed. A party made up as Indians and, going on board, threw the tea overboard. Boston Harbor, as far out as the Bug Light, even today, is said to be carpeted with tea-grounds."

Wisconsin writers have attempted this type of humor. Two of these whose lives have been more or less connected with the history of River Falls, are mentioned here. The first of these labored quite as earnestly to cultivate the serious side of literature as he did the humorous. As a result his little volume entitled "Lute Taylor's Chip Basket," is filled with even more of the quite serious of life's lessons expressed in poems and essays than of the ludicrous. He mingled both in his book asa real manifestation of his philosophy of life. This is the way he puts it: "Fun is cousin to Common Sense. They live pleasantly together, and none but fools try to divorce them."

Lute A. Taylor was born at Norfolk, New York, September 14, 1863. He came to River Falls, Wisconsin, in 1856, where he became editor of the River Falls Journal in June, 1857. He removed his paper to Prescott in 1861 and called it the Prescott Journal. In 1869 he became one of the publishers and editor-in-chief of the La Crosse Morning Leader. In addition to his newspaper work he held the appointive offices of assistant assessor of internal revenues, assessor of the sixth congressional district of Wisconsin, and surveyor of the port of entry at La Crosse. He died at the latter place November 11, 1875.

When Lute was eight years old his father died, and the boy was thrown upon his own resources quite largely from this early age. The resulting struggle limited his opportunities for school and academy somewhat, but it revealed to him the blessings of persistent effort and gave him a sympathy for the sufferings of mankind. His genial disposition and keen wit made him see the joyous in life, so that between trial and joy he may be said to have been a veritable "vibration between a smile and a tear."

Since so much of his effort in a literary way was serious, it is thought best to illustrate this as well as his humor. Two selections are chosen, both from the Chip Basket, which in its turn is a selection from his newspaper articles. He had not only the ability to write the extended article, but also the much more rare ability of boiling down into concentrated comparisons some of his richest observations. Out of twenty such quotations just these two are given as illustrations:

"There is a thread in our thought as there is a pulse in our heart; he who can hold the one knows how to think; and he who can move the other, knows how to feel."

"A man may be successful as a loafer, and invest less capital and brains than are required to succeed in any other line."

To illustrate a bit of his humor due to the mingling of nonsense and facts a few paragraphs from a letter to the St. Paul Pioneer concerning the city of Chicago are given.

I like Chicago. Chicago is a large city. I have noticed there are always many people in a large city. A city doesn't do well without them. Some of your readers may not have been to Chicago. Shall I tell them about it?

There are many groceries here, where they sell tea, cod-fish, whiskey, flour, molasses, saleratus and such things, and other groceries where they sell cloth, women's clothes, and fancy 'fixin's' generally. Field, Leiter and Co. have one of the latter. It is in cube form—a block long, a block high, and a block thick. It is bigger than a barn, and tall as a light-house. There are more than forty clerks in it.

There are lots of ships here, and horse-cars, but the horses don't ride in them, though, and the water-works. I must tell you about the water-works. They are a big thing. Much water is used in Chicago. Fastidious people sometimes wash in it. Chicago has first-class water now, and plenty of it. She has built a tunnel two miles long, and tapped Lake Michigan that distance from the shore. The water runs down to the home station, and is then lifted up high by steam engines and distributed over the city. The hoisting of it is a good deal like work. I like to see these engines work. Any body would. Clean, polished, shining monsters, they seem to take a conscious pride in their performance, and the tireless movement of their mighty arms seems almost as resistless as the will of God. But they cost scrips, these piles of polished machinery and throbbing life do; and with that regard for economy which has always characterized me, I think I have discovered a plan by which this work can be done at nearly nominal expense. I only wonder that Chicago, with her accredited 'git' and 'gumption,' has not accepted my plan before. My plan is this: At the shore end of the tunnel build a large tank or reservoir, put two first-class whales in it, and let them spout the water up. Simple, isn't it? And feasible too, and cheap. You see the whales would furnish their own clothes and lodging, andall the oil they would need for lighting to work nights by, and the city would really be out nothing but their board. Whales have always been in the water elevating business, so this would be right in their line. They would work and think it was fun—just as a boy sometimes, but not most always, does—and there is no good reason why their sporting instinct should not be turned to practical.

I am confident of the final success of my plan, but the prejudices of people against innovations may retard its operation for some time yet.

Speaking of water makes me think that Chicago, like St. Paul, has a river, only not so much so. Rivers most always run by large cities, they seem to like to, some way. But this is a brigandish sort of river, black, foul, and murky, and in the dark night it steals sullenly through the city like a prowling fiend.

Two paragraphs will serve to illustrate Lute Taylor's ability to meditate upon the common-place and draw therefrom the wholesome lesson. We are choosing his comments upon a "nickname," where he says:

The man who has won a nickname and wears it gracefully, has the elements of popularity about him. The same instinct which leads a mother to apply diminutive phrases of endearment to her little ones is a universal instinct, one which we never outgrow, and which continually manifests itself in our form of addressing or speaking of those we love, trust or admire.

The man who is known in his neighborhood as "Uncle" is never a cold, crabbed or selfish character. He is sure to have a generous heart, and wear a cheerful smile—there is integrity in him which men trust, and warmth around him which little children love to gather, and the term is a title of honor—more to be desired than that of honorable.

Edgar Wilson Nye, known to his readers as "Bill Nye," was born in Shirley, Maine, August 25, 1850. He removed with his parents to Wisconsin in 1854. As a mere school boy, he loved to say those things which afforded amusement to his associates and his family. In an article in Collier's for April 10, 1915,[3]his mother tells the following anecdote concerning him when a boy working on the Wisconsin farm:The two boys, Edgar (Bill) and his brother Frank had been working in the field, but were separated on their return to the house at noon time. They met again at the pump, when the following conversation ensued:"Edgar looked at Frank as if surprised, and inquired: 'Your name Nye?''Yes,' replied Frank, with perfect gravity in order to lead his brother on.'That's funny; my name's Nye, too,' observed Edgar. 'Where were you born?''In Maine,' answered Frank.'I was born in Maine myself,' said Edgar. 'I wouldn't doubt at all if we were some relation. Got any brothers?''Yes, I have two brothers.''Well, well, this is growing interesting. I've got two brothers myself. I'll bet if the thing were all traced out, there would be some family relationship found. Are your brothers older or younger than you?''I have one brother older and one younger,' replied Frank.'Oh, well, then we can't be any relation after all,' declared Edgar with a look of disappointment; 'my brothers are both older.'"While a young man he went to the then territory of Wyoming, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1876. He later returned to River Falls, Wisconsin, where he engaged in newspaper work. Some years later he traveled with James Whitcomb Riley and gave entertainments in which mirth was the essential feature. He later removed from Wisconsin and made his home in New York City. He died at Asheville, N. C., Feb. 22, 1896.His writings appeared under the following titles:Bill Nye and Boomerang, in 1881; Forty Liars, in 1883; Remarks, in 1886; Baled Hay and Fun, Wit and Humor, with J. W. Riley, in 1889; Comic History of the United States, in 1894; Comic History of England, in 1896.To illustrate his humor due to the mingling of fact and nonsense, we reproduce here a portion of his chapter upon Franklin as published in his Comic History of the United States.

The two boys, Edgar (Bill) and his brother Frank had been working in the field, but were separated on their return to the house at noon time. They met again at the pump, when the following conversation ensued:

"Edgar looked at Frank as if surprised, and inquired: 'Your name Nye?'

'Yes,' replied Frank, with perfect gravity in order to lead his brother on.

'That's funny; my name's Nye, too,' observed Edgar. 'Where were you born?'

'In Maine,' answered Frank.

'I was born in Maine myself,' said Edgar. 'I wouldn't doubt at all if we were some relation. Got any brothers?'

'Yes, I have two brothers.'

'Well, well, this is growing interesting. I've got two brothers myself. I'll bet if the thing were all traced out, there would be some family relationship found. Are your brothers older or younger than you?'

'I have one brother older and one younger,' replied Frank.

'Oh, well, then we can't be any relation after all,' declared Edgar with a look of disappointment; 'my brothers are both older.'"

While a young man he went to the then territory of Wyoming, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1876. He later returned to River Falls, Wisconsin, where he engaged in newspaper work. Some years later he traveled with James Whitcomb Riley and gave entertainments in which mirth was the essential feature. He later removed from Wisconsin and made his home in New York City. He died at Asheville, N. C., Feb. 22, 1896.

His writings appeared under the following titles:

Bill Nye and Boomerang, in 1881; Forty Liars, in 1883; Remarks, in 1886; Baled Hay and Fun, Wit and Humor, with J. W. Riley, in 1889; Comic History of the United States, in 1894; Comic History of England, in 1896.

To illustrate his humor due to the mingling of fact and nonsense, we reproduce here a portion of his chapter upon Franklin as published in his Comic History of the United States.

It is considered advisable by the historian at this time to say a word regarding Dr. Franklin, our fellow-townsman, and a journalist who was the Charles A. Dana of his time. Franklin's memory will remain green when the names of millionaires of to-day are forgotten.

But let us proceed to more fully work out the life and labors of this remarkable man.

Benjamin Franklin, formerly of Boston, came very near being an only child. If seventeen children had not come to bless the home of Benjamin's parents, they would have been childless. Think of getting up in the morning and picking out your shoes and stockings from among seventeen pairs of them!

And yet Benjamin Franklin never murmured or repined. He decided to go to sea, and to avoid this he was apprenticed to his brother James, who was a printer.

His paper was called the New England Courant. It was edited jointly by James and Benjamin Franklin, and was started to supply a long-felt want.

Benjamin edited it a part of the time, and James a part of the time. The idea of having two editors was not for the purpose of giving volume to the editorial page, but it was necessary for one to run the paper while the other was in jail.

In those days you could not sass the king, and then, when the king came in the office the next day and stopped his paper and took out his ad, put it off on 'our informant' and go right along with the paper. You had to go to jail, while your subscribers wondered why their paper did not come, and the paste soured in the tin dippers in the sanctum, and the circus passed by on the other side.

How many of us today, fellow-journalists, would bewilling to stay in jail while the lawn festival and the kangaroo came and went? Who of all our company would go to a prison-cell for the cause of freedom while a double-column ad of sixteen aggregated circuses, and eleven congresses of ferocious beasts, fierce and fragrant from their native lair, went by us?

At the age of seventeen Ben got disgusted with his brother, and went to Philadelphia and New York, where he got a chance to 'sub' for a few weeks and then got a regular job.

Franklin was a good printer and finally got to be a foreman. He made an excellent foreman. He knew just how to conduct himself as a foreman so that strangers would think he owned the paper.

In 1730, at the age of twenty-four, Franklin married, and established the Pennsylvania Gazette. He was then regarded as a great man, and almost every one took his paper.

Franklin grew to be a great journalist, and spelled hard words with great fluency. He never tried to be a humorist in any of his newspaper work, and everybody respected him.

Along about 1746 he began to study the habits and construction of lightning, and inserted a local in his paper in which he said that he would be obliged to any of his readers who might notice any new odd specimens of lightning, if they would send them to the Gazette office for examination.

Every time there was a thunderstorm Frank would tell the foreman to edit the paper, and, armed with a string and an old doorkey, he would go out on the hills and get enough lightning for a mess.

In 1753 Franklin was made postmaster of the colonies.He made a good Postmaster-General, and people say there were fewer mistakes in distributing their mail then than there have ever been since. If a man mailed a letter in those days, Ben Franklin saw that it went to where it was addressed.

Franklin frequently went over to England in those days, partly on business and partly to shock the king. He liked to go to the castle with his breeches tucked in his boots, figuratively speaking, and attract a great deal of attention. Franklin never put on any frills, but he was not afraid of crowned heads.

He did his best to prevent the Revolutionary War, but he couldn't do it. Patrick Henry had said that war was inevitable, and had given it permission to come, and it came.

He also went to Paris, and got acquainted with a few crowned heads there. They thought a good deal of him in Paris, and offered him a corner lot if he would build there and start a paper. They also offered him the county printing; but he said, no, he would have to go back to America or his wife might get uneasy about him. Franklin wrote 'Poor Richard's Almanac' in 1732 to 1757, and it was republished in England.

Dr. Franklin entered Philadelphia eating a loaf of bread and carrying a loaf under each arm, passing beneath the window of the girl whom he afterward gave his hand in marriage.

One section of this book might be devoted wholly to the work of newspaper men in furthering the progress of literature in the state. Several names would deserve mention in such connection,—among them E. D. Coe, of Whitewater; Colonel Robert M. Crawford, of Mineral Point; John Nagle, ofManitowoc; Major Atkinson, of Eau Claire; Horace Rublee and A. M. Thomson, of the Milwaukee Sentinel; Bruce Pomeroy, of La Crosse; Amos P. Wilder, of the State Journal, Madison; E. P. Petherick, of Milwaukee; Colonel A. J. Watrous, of Milwaukee, and two former Governors of Wisconsin,—W. D. Hoard, of Fort Atkinson, and George W. Peck, of Milwaukee, besides Mr. Nye and Mr. Taylor, mentioned above.Mr. Peck was born in New York in 1840, but he has lived in Wisconsin since 1843. He has been connected with newspapers at Whitewater, Jefferson, La Crosse, and Milwaukee. He founded the "Sun" at La Crosse in 1874, and later removed it to Milwaukee, where he called it "Peck's Sun." At one time he was unquestionably the best-known writer in Wisconsin, and the best-known Wisconsin writer throughout the country, which fame came to him through his "Peck's Bad Boy" sketches. He was also the author of "Peck's Compendium of Fun," "Peck's Sunshine," together with almost countless sketches which usually were in some way connected with the mischief-loving, mirth-provoking "Bad Boy." Neighbors of the Pecks in Whitewater tend, by their recollection of the former Governor, to confirm the suspicion that not all of "Peck's Bad Boy" was fiction, and that the author himself may have played a not inconsiderable part in the scenes therein depicted.Mr. Peck's fellow-citizens in Milwaukee honored him with the mayoralty, and the citizens of the state made him Governor from 1891 to 1895. He is now, January, 1916, a familiar figure to Milwaukee citizens. He has a keen memory for his old friends, and citizens, both young and old, who can remind him of some of his old neighbors in Whitewater or Jefferson are always sure of a pleasant chat with him.

Mr. Peck was born in New York in 1840, but he has lived in Wisconsin since 1843. He has been connected with newspapers at Whitewater, Jefferson, La Crosse, and Milwaukee. He founded the "Sun" at La Crosse in 1874, and later removed it to Milwaukee, where he called it "Peck's Sun." At one time he was unquestionably the best-known writer in Wisconsin, and the best-known Wisconsin writer throughout the country, which fame came to him through his "Peck's Bad Boy" sketches. He was also the author of "Peck's Compendium of Fun," "Peck's Sunshine," together with almost countless sketches which usually were in some way connected with the mischief-loving, mirth-provoking "Bad Boy." Neighbors of the Pecks in Whitewater tend, by their recollection of the former Governor, to confirm the suspicion that not all of "Peck's Bad Boy" was fiction, and that the author himself may have played a not inconsiderable part in the scenes therein depicted.

Mr. Peck's fellow-citizens in Milwaukee honored him with the mayoralty, and the citizens of the state made him Governor from 1891 to 1895. He is now, January, 1916, a familiar figure to Milwaukee citizens. He has a keen memory for his old friends, and citizens, both young and old, who can remind him of some of his old neighbors in Whitewater or Jefferson are always sure of a pleasant chat with him.

From "PECK'S BOSS BOOK," p. 42. Copyright, 1900, by W. B. Conkey Co.

A man came into the "Sun" office on Tuesday with a black eye, a strip of court plaster across his cheek, one arm in a sling, and as he leaned on a crutch and wiped the perspiration away from around a lump on his forehead, with a red cotton handkerchief, he asked if the editor was in. We noticed that there was quite a healthy smell of stock-yards about the visitor, but thinking that in his crippled condition we could probably whip him, if worst came to worst, we admitted that we were in.

"Well, I want to stop my paper," said he, as he sat down on one edge of a chair, as though it might hurt. "Scratch my name right off. You are responsible for my condition."

Thinking the man might have been taking our advice to deaf men, to always walk on a railroad track if they could find one, we were preparing to scratch him off without any argument, believing that he was a man who knew when he had enough, when he spoke up as follows:

"The amount of it is this. I live out in Jefferson county, and I come in on the new Northwestern road, just to get recreation. I am a farmer, and keep cows. I recently read an article in your paper about a dairymen's convention, where one of the mottoes over the door was, 'Treat your cow as you would a lady,' and the article said it was contended by our best dairymen that a cow, treated in a polite, gentlemanly manner, as though she was a companion, would give twice as much milk. The plan seemed feasible to me. I had been a hard man with stock, and thought maybe that was one reason my cows always dried up when butter was forty cents a pound, and gave plenty of milk when butter was only worth fifteen cents a pound. I decided to adopt your plan, and treat a cow as I would a lady. I had a brindle cow that never had been very much mashed on me, and I decided to commence on her, and the next morning after I read your devilish paper, I put on my Sunday suit and a white plug hat that I bought the year Greeley ran for President, and went to the barn to milk. I noticed the old cow seemed to be bashful and frightened, but taking off my hat and bowing politely, I said, 'Madame, excuse the seeming impropriety of the request, but will you do me the favor to hoist?' At the same time I tapped hergently on the flank with my plug hat, and putting the tin pail on the floor under her, I sat down on the milking stool."

"Did she hoist?" said we, rather anxious to know how the advice of President Smith, of Sheboygan, the great dairyman, had worked.

"Did she hoist? Well, look at me, and see if you think she hoisted. Say, I tell you now in confidence, and I don't want it repeated, but that cow raised right up and kicked me with all four feet, switched me with her tail, and hooked me with both horns, all at once; and when I got up out of the bedding in the stall, and dug my hat out of the manger, and the milking-stool out from under me, and began to maul that cow, I forgot all about the proper treatment of horned cattle. Why, she fairly galloped over me, and I never want to read your old paper again."

We tried to explain to him that the advice did not apply to brindle cows at all, but he hobbled out, the maddest man that ever asked a cow to hoist in diplomatic language.

William F. Kirk is no longer a resident of Milwaukee, he having been called to a larger sphere of work on New York papers. But for a period of some eight or ten years he endeared himself to the readers of the Milwaukee Sentinel by his daily column. In it he had many quips which reminded one of Eugene Field in his "Sharps and Flats." But perhaps the most popular type of his work appeared in his "Norsk Nightingale" sketches, of which one is here given.

From the "NORSK NIGHTINGALE, BEING THE LYRICS OF A 'LUMBER YACK'," by William F. Kirk.Copyright, 1905, by Small, Maynard & Co. (Inc.).

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