SUM VERY BLANK VERSE—THE NEGRO AND THE TROUT.

Beneath the shelvy bank ov meddo brook, Expektant lays the spekeld trout. April showers, with blood from Genial skize, hav warmed the streamlet’s Veins, and dancing on its buzzum Cums sunlite and shaddo Hand in hand. Just here the verdant willow bends, To lave its tapring fingers In the kristal flood, And fragrant spearmint scents the Creeping wind. Close by, upon the alders highest limb Swaying, the blackbird sits, With mello thrut full ov April songs, Responsiv tew the sadder notes 391 Of Robin red breast from yonder maple, While sollum az phuneral cortege The dusky crow beats his wing Against the swimming ski. ’Tis Spring! or from the brooklet’s Grassy bank the violets would not Be stareing with their eyes ov Gentle blue, nor in the smoky air Would indistinkt be heard The thousand echo’s waking, Haff dreaming, from their frozen sleep. Sweet time! the yung year innocent. Gentle Spring! in undress, Unconscious ov her buty, spreds Her golden tresses to the wanton wind, While buds and blossoms early Welkum the lovely goddess to This throne of hers, And reddy stand, with harps soft strung, With dreamy musik, Sweet time! ov all the varied year, Most charming and oftnest sung. * * * * * * * * Akross the meddo, Whissling a lively catch, Just az the morning sun Looks o’er the nabring hill, Cums Afriks old and well-tanned son. Old time haz bilt upon this darkey’s Hed a nest ov grizzly hair hard-twisted, And shrunk hiz parchment skin Cluss fitting tew hiz bones. A fox skin cap, innocent ov fur, Hiz hed engulphs, And well filled with holes, To let the water out that enters in; One boot he wears, oddly mated With a shoe ov anshunt daze. From thrut to waist wide yawns Hiz coarse and starchless shirt, And over all, loose and ragged Whips the wind, what once waz Master’s Sunday koat. Nearer az he cums, and ketches With his well sped ear the Streamlet’s morning son, hiz 392 Whissell stops, and creeps this Olden darkey, with muffled tread, Still nearer, where swiftly runs The pearly waters, to hide Beneath the shelvy bank. The friendly willo, tho yung with leaves, Between the early sun and dansing Waters, spreads a quivring shade, Cluss thare old Ishmahel stands. Soon to hiz pole ov alder wood, (Almost the pole az old az Ishmels self,) He ties the horse hair line, (Himself did weave), and feeling With hiz old fingers crisp the Barbed hooks point, sure to be That dullness waz not sleeping thare, He takes (oh! nauty Ishmel!) From out a quaint old bottle, That hold perhaps a pint, He takes—a drink, Smackin his lips, and “bressing God,” In menny a looped and squirming 393 Knott he hangs the hook about, With fresh and tempting worms. One step nearer—still one more— Then waving in the air aloft The flexile line, and light, With hand unerring, the pole Obedient drops the struggling Worm just in the current’s mouth, Whare the water fust begins its race. Oh! art exquisitt! Oh! bliss extatic!— (None but the Ishmahels hav lernt This art, or this bliss felt.) Down the brook’s swift thrut swims The giddy worm, a fatal journey, For darting, az a streak ov silvry light From sentinal place, the Spekled gourmand burys in hiz maw The barbed deceit. Now who kan tell, with words enuff, The thrill that follows? I kant! But stranger look! upon the grassy Bank, dancing in deth, and see a Two pound trout, game and butiful To the last. All day, shaddo like, Old Ishmahel Steals up and down the stream, And when the sun hiz daily rase Haz well ni run, With basket full, and bottle empty, Dark Old Ishmahel, prowder Than a king, goes whissling back The way he cum.