A Tribute

ELDERS OF THE MICHIGAN CONFERENCE.

Top row, left to right:I H. Tippstts, Lovell, Wyo.; A. W. Fergu- .

son, Rigby, Idaho; G. D. Goulding, Panguitch, Utah; A. P. Guerber, Detroit, Mich, (local); Jas. M. Lay ton, Cardston, Alta, Canada; S. L. Baker, Leavitt, Alta, Canada; R. 8. Nelson, Smithfield Utah. Second row: Brother Crosby, St. Johns, Ariz., (Ann Arbor student); A. S. Car- lile, Heber City, Utah; A. R. Kennington, Fairview, Wyoming; Presi-

dent G. E. Ellsworth: Conference President C. L. Sorensen, Hyrum, Utah; B. W. Dalton, Manassa, Colo.; M. J. Flake, Snowflake Arizona. Third row: George Swenson, Spanish Fork, E. W. Irwin, Laketown, E. E. Nelson, Thatcher, allot' Utah; E. H. Scovil, Raymond, Alta, Canada; '0. M. Call, Rigby, Idaho.

A Tribute. (For the Improvement Era.)

Stand by, Old Time, with your measured tread and your shadowed wings of gray,

For I, with my feeble pow'rs to do, would paint you anew today. I would sweep from your true old visage the lowering man-made guise.

And make it kind as an angel's, with love in your old, dim eyes.

1 would take from your knotted fingers the scythe with its blade all bare, And cast it back to the idle hands that placed its cold gleam there.

3C0 IMPROVEMENT ERA.

I would take from your hold the wheels of war whose clangings never cease,

And plant in its stead the scrolls of light, and the olive branch of peace.

Benign Old Friend, with your frost-hung wings and your grizzled strands of hair

'Tis men who wind up the wheels of strife and cast them everywhere. From your sun-lit dial the years of life fall quietly down as dew, And only the sons of earth fling forth the ruin ascribed to you.

The snows of age from your whitened hands heap silently year by year, But men's deceits blanch the hairs of youth, in a single day of fear. 'Tis men who hew down the cities' pride that gladdens the lonely

plain,

Who pillage the holy templed heights, and scatter the altar flame.

'Tis men who stamp out the prints of art 'neath the engine wheels of

war,

Who hide in the marble dust of blight the flowers of golden lore; Who plunge thro' the vestal halls of peace in the groves of Elysian shade,

Who sow the tares of desolate waste where the fields of grain are laid.

'Tis men who dash, in their seething rage, at the steadfast forts of

truth,

Who batter the walls of sanctity, and sever the years of youth; Who crush and blight, who fell and slay, with the scythe of their own decline,

And, hiding their guilty hands, would stay thy holy advance, Old Time! Bertha A. Kleinman. Salt Lake City, Utah.