y,
Pennsylvania, September 8, 1850. He is the second son of Henry H.
Kimble, and is descended on his father's side from English stock, being
a lineal descendant from Governor John Carver, who came to this country
in the Mayflower in 1620. On his mother's side, his grandfather, Seruch
Titus, was a prominent citizen of Bucks county, and, as his name
indicates, was of Italian descent.

Mr. Kimble moved with his parents to the Fourth Election district of
Cecil county, in the Spring of 1855, and has been engaged in farming all
his life, except two years spent in teaching in our public schools. He
is a popular music teacher and performer on musical instruments, and has
won local distinction as a debater.

In 1870 his first verses were published in the _Morris Scholastic_ a
newspaper published in Grundy county, Illinois. He afterwards wrote for
the _Cecil Whig_. In 1875 he wrote "The Patrons of Husbandry," a serial
poem, which was published by the Grange organ of the State of
Pennsylvania, in seven parts, with illustrations. It was pronounced by
competent critics to be one of the "best and most natural descriptions
of farm life ever written." It attracted wide attention and received
favorable comment from the N.Y. _World_ and other leading papers. He
wrote another serial in 1876, entitled "Two Granges."

Mr. Kimble makes no pretensions as a writer and has never allowed his
love of literature to interfere with his farm work. In the Winters of
1872, '73 and '74 he taught in the public schools of this county with
satisfaction to his patrons.

In December, 1873, he was married to Miss Sarah Teresa Gallagher,
daughter of John E. Gallagher, of the Fourth district. They have five
children, three daughters and two sons. In 1880, Mr. Kimble moved from
the farm near Fair Hill, where he had spent twenty-five years, to
Appleton, where he still resides. He is now a frequent and popular
contributor to the _Cecil Democrat_.

HIS LAST TUNE.

The shade of death had haunted him
Through many a weary day;
With dread disease his youthful frame
Was wasting slow away.
He took his violin and sighed,--
"I am too weak to play."

But, rising in his cushioned chair,
He grasps, with trembling hand,
The neck and bow, and tunes the strings
And thinks of concerts grand;
And hears the crowd applauding loud
As when he led the band.

Inspired with supernatural power
He plays a melody,
Forgetting all the terrors of
His mor