KETCHIN' PICK'REL

Some people call it pick'rel and some others call it pike. That is all the same to me, they can call it what they like.

The name don't cut no figger; all I care about is this: That when you git one on your line it's seven kinds of bliss.

I don't want to ketch no tarpon that weighs a half a ton. And feedin' clams to sheepshead isn't just what I call

fun.

Of salmon when it's boiled or baked I'll say that I am fond

But when I'm after sport I fish for pick'rel in a pond.

I don't use no fuss and feathers tied on those little hooks,

All red and white and green and blue that come in fancy books.

And multiplyin' reels and sich don't cut no ice with me Or dinky castin' rods that land your tackle in a tree.

A chunk of pork or old red shirt, a minny or a frog; A corncob pipe, some good black jack, a dry seat on a log.

Just give me those old-fashioned tools is all I ask or

wish,

Then if you'll come along with me I'll show you how

to fish.

THE TROUT BROOK

107

If you let your frog drift over beneath that lily pad Some old pick'rel there may see it who wants his breakfast bad.

You don't have to do no trampin', or cussin' sky blue flies,

That you slam in all directions but never git a rise.

Let the pick'rel do the guessin' while you squat there and think,

And fill the corncob pipe again and take another drink. There ain't no call for hurry, you don't have to ketch no train,

For if there's nothin' doin' you kin hit the jug again.

By-and-by your float will wiggle and then go out of sight

That's the time you git a move on and soak that pick'rel right.

When you've got him on the bank you'll agree with me in this:

That ketchin' pick'rel in a pond is seven kinds of bliss. -Norman Jeffries.

THE TROUT BROOK

You see it first near the dusty road,
Where the farmer stops with his heavy load
At the foot of a weary hill;

There the mossy trough it overflows,

Then away with a leap and a laugh, it goes

At its own sweet, wandering will.

It flows through an orchard gnarled and old,
Where in spring the dainty buds unfold
Their petals pink and white;

The apple blossoms so sweet and pure,
The streamlet's smiles and songs allure,
To float off on the ripples bright.

It winds through the meadow scarcely seen,
For o'er it the flowers and grasses lean

To salute its smiling face.

And thus, half hidden, it ripples along,
The whole way singing its summer song,
Making glad each arid place.

Just there, where the water dark and cool
Lingers a moment in yonder pool,

The dainty trout are at play;
And now and then one leaps in sight,
With sides aglow in the golden light
Of the long, sweet summer day.

O back to their shelves those books consign,
And look to your rod and reel and line,

Make fast the feathered hook;

Then away from the town with its hum of life,

Where the air with worry and work is rife,

To the charms of the meadow brook!

-Carl Waring.

Permission of "Forest and Stream."

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE 109

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

Up and down old Brandywine,

In the days 'at's past and gone— With a dad-burn hook-and-line

And a saplin'-pole-i swawn!

I've had more fun, to the square
Inch, than ever anywhere!

Heaven to come can't discount mine,
Up and down old Brandywine!

Hain't no sense in wishin'-yit

Wisht to goodness I could jes'

"Gee" the blame' world round and git
Back to that old happiness!-

Kind o' drive back in the shade
"The old Covered Bridge" there laid
'Crosst the crick, and sort o' soak
My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!-it hain't no dream
'At I'm wantin', but the fac's
As they wuz; the same old stream,
And the same old times, i jacks!-

Gimme back my bare feet-and
Stonebruise too!-And scratched and tanned!-
And let hottest dog-days shine

Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees

'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,

Kind o' curdled with the breeze

And the yallerhammer's tune;

And the smokin', chokin' dust
O' the turnpike at its wusst―
Saturd'ys, say, when it seems

Road's jes' jammed with country teams!

Whilst the old town, fur away

'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land, Dozed-like in the heat o' day Peaceful' as a hired hand.

Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor
O' the ole bridge!-grind and roar
With yer blame' percession-line—
Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw hat

Off the foot-log!-what I care?-
Fist shoved in the crown o' that—
Like the old Clown ust to wear.-

Wouldn't swop it fer a' old
Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!-
Keep yer King ef you'll gim-me
Jes' the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal
My best "goggle-eye!"-but you
Can't lay hands on joys I feel
Nibblin' like they ust to do!

So, in memory, to-day
Same old ripple lips away
At my "cork" and saggin' line,
Up and down old Brandywine!