B. CARMAN.

The Absence of Little Wesley.

HOOSIER DIALECT.

  Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still—­
  W’y, I miss his yell o’ “Gran’pap!” as I’d miss the whipperwill! 
  And to think I ust to scold him fer his everlastin’ noise,
  When I on’y rickollect him as the best o’ little boys! 
  I wisht a hunderd times a day ‘at he’d come trompin’ in,
  And all the noise he ever made was twic’t as loud ag’in!—­
  It ’u’d seem like some soft music played on some fine insturment,
  ‘Longside o’ this loud lonesomeness, sence little Wesley went!

  Of course the clock don’t tick no louder than it ust to do—­
  Yit now they’s times it ’pears like it ’u’d bu’st itse’f in two! 
  And let a rooster, suddent-like, crow som’er’s clos’t around,
  And seems’s ef, mighty nigh it, it ’u’d lift me off the ground! 
  And same with all the cattle when they bawl around the bars,
  In the red o’ airly mornin’, er the dusk and dew and stars,
  When the neighbers’ boys ‘at passes never stop, but jes’ go on,
  A-whistlin’ kind o’ to theirse’v’s—­sence little Wesley’s gone!

  And then, o’ nights, when Mother’s settin’ up oncommon late,
  A-bilin’ pears er somepin’, and I set and smoke and wait,
  Tel the moon out through the winder don’t look bigger’n a dime,
  And things keeps gittin’ stiller—­stiller—­stiller all the time,—­
  I’ve ketched myse’f a-wishin’ like—­as I dumb on the cheer
  To wind the clock, as I hev done fer mor’n fifty year,—­
  A-wishin’ ’at the time bed come fer us to go to bed,
  With our last prayers, and our last tears, sence little Wesley’s dead!

J.W.  RILEY.

Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.

  Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar
        Out of thy wilderness,
        Till earth grows less and less,
        Heaven, more and more.

  Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing,
        Till all the earth shall be
        Vibrant with ecstasy
        Beneath thy wing.

  Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come,
        That through the pathless air
        Thou shalt find otherwhere
        Unerring, home.

Opportunity.

  This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—­
  There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
  And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
  A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
  Shocked upon swords and shields.  A prince’s banner
  Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. 
  A craven hung along the battle’s edge,
  And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel—­
  That blue blade that the king’s son bears,—­but this
  Blunt thing!”—­he snapt and flung it from his hand,
  And lowering crept away and left the field. 
  Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,
  And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
  Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
  And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
  Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
  And saved a great cause that heroic day.