And me their notes are blown in many a way
Lost in our murmurings for that old day
That fared so well, without us.--Waken to
The pipings here at hand:--The clear halloo
Of truant-voices, and the roundelay
The waters warble in the solitude
Of blooming thickets, where the robin's breast
Sends up such ecstacy o'er dale and dell,
Each tree top answers, till in all the wood
There lingers not one squirrel in his nest
Whetting his hunger on an empty shell.




AT ZEKESBURY.



The little town, as I recall it, was of just enough dignity and dearth
of the same to be an ordinary county seat in Indiana--"The Grand Old
Hoosier State," as it was used to being howlingly referred to by the
forensic stump orator from the old stand in the courthouse yard--a
political campaign being the wildest delight that Zekesbury might ever
hope to call its own.

Through years the fitful happenings of the town and its vicinity went
on the same--the same! Annually about one circus ventured in, and
vanished, and was gone, even as a passing trumpet-blast; the usual
rainy-season swelled the "Crick," the driftage choking at "the covered