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
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
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
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.