WE MAY HEAR THE BIRD SING. NELLY HART WOODWORTH. We may hear the bird sing but we cannot descry The heart of the singer; the great mystery Of the singing is hidden from sight, and the heart Of the sweet singing bird has a vision apart; We may listen intently to catch the sweet theme, But who can interpret the soul of the dream? We may hear the bird sing, catch each generous note That pours to the air from its quivering throat, See the breast rent with ardors; unfathomed, deep-stirred Folded under the song lies the soul of the bird, Unsounded and soundless, too deep for our reach. Though we listen entranced to its musical speech; Who sees the lark's soul as it mounts from the sod, Who sees the clear soul has a vision of God! UNCLE NICK ON FISHING. IRWIN RUSSELL. It alluz sets me laughin', when I happens to be 'roun,' To see a lot ob gemmen come a-fishin' frum de town: Dey waits tell arter breakfus', 'fo' dey ebber makes a start, An' den you sees 'em comin' in a little Jarsey kyart! Now, Jarsey kyarts is springy, an,' to studdy up de seat, De gemmen's 'bliged to ballus' hit wid suffin good to eat; An' Jarsey kyarts is lighter run, de gemmen seems to think, By totin' long a demijohn ob suffin good to drink. When dy gits at de fishin' place, it's 'stonishin' indeed! Such tricks to go a-fishin' wid _nobody_ nebber seed: Dey poles is stuck togedder wid a dozen jints ob tin, An' has a block-an'-teeckle for to win' de fishes in! De gemmen makes a heap o'fuss, an skeers de fishes off, An' den dey takes an' sots de poles, some place de bank is sof, An' den dey hunts a shady place, an' settles on de grass, An' pruz'ntly heahs 'em: "Dat a spade? I has to pass!" St. Petah wuz a fisherman, an' un'erstood his trade: He sot an' watched his cork, instid ob lazin' in de shade! De gemmen isn't copyin' arter him--dey bettah be!-- Or--_I_'s a science fisherman--'t'd do to copy _me_. When _I_ goes out a-fishin', I puts on my ol'est clo'es: (Dey age's putty tol'able, you'd nat'rally suppose!) I gits up in de moh'nin', long afore de sun is riz, An' grabbles wums, _I_ tell you! like de yurly bird I is. I's alluz berry 'ticlar 'bout de season ob the moon; De dark ob hit is fishin'-time--an' time for huntin' coon; An' den its mighty 'portant, too, as notus shed be tuk Ob varis' little sarcumstances bearin' on de luck: You has to spit upon de bait afore you draps it in; Den keep yo' cork a-bobbin', des as easy as you kin; Ef someone steps acrost de pole, you knows yo' luck is broke, Widout dey steps it back agin afore a word is spoke.