DOWN AROUND THE RIVER

Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Have to furse with Lizey Ann-but lawzy! I fergive her!

Drives me off the place, and says 'at all 'at she's a-wishin',

Land o' gracious! time'll come I'll git enough o' fishin'! Little Dave, a-choppin' wood, never 'pears to notice; Don't know where she's hid his hat, er keerin' where his coat is,

Specalatin', more'n like, he hain't a-goin' to mind me, And guessin' where, say twelve o'clock, a feller'd likely find me.

Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Clean out o' sight o' home, and skulkin' under kivver Of the sycamores, jack-oaks, an' swamp-ash and ellum

Idies all so jumbled up, you kin hardly tell 'em!— Tired, you know, but lovin' it, and smilin' jes' to think 'at

Any sweeter tiredness you'd fairly want to drink it! Tired of fishin'-tired o' fun-line out slack and slacker

All you want in all the world's a little more tobacker!

Hungry, but a-hidin' it, er jes' a-not a-keerin':— Kingfisher gittin' up and skootin' out o' hearin'; Snipes on the t'other side, where the County Ditch is, Wadin' up and down the aidge like they'd rolled their britches!

KING OF THE BROOK

137

Old turkle on the root kind o' sort o' drappin'
Intoo th' worter like he don't know how it happen!
Worter, shade and all so mixed, don't know which
you'd orter

Say, th' worter in the shadder-shadder in the worter!

Somebody hollerin'-'way around the bend in
Upper Fork-where yer eye kin jes' ketch the endin'
Of the shiney wedge o' wake some muss-rat's a-makin'
With that pesky nose o' his! Then a sniff o' bacon,
Corn-bread and 'dock-greens-and little Dave a-shin-
nin'

'Crost the rocks and mussel-shells, a-limpin' and a-grinnin',

With yer dinner fer ye, and a blessin' from the giver. Noon-time and June-time down around the river! -James Whitcomb Riley.

From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co.

KING OF THE BROOK

Give me the rod and reel,

The wee strong line and the keen-barbed hook;

Give me the joy all true fishers feel

Who vanquish the King of the Brook!

He is a goodly prince

In his royal robe of red and gold,
Like a sultan's, rich with sheeny tints,
How he darts through the water cold!

A kingly home is his:

The sparkling pool in the mad spring stream! Name me the palace brighter than this

In the silvery ripple's gleam.

Ah, 'tis a glory rare,

With footsteps soft, and with bated breath,
To tempt the king from his fastness fair,
And battle him unto the death!

He dies as monarchs die

Who of dastardly fear give no sign, But fight for life till their latest sighRoyal proof of his royal line!

Ye who extol the town,

Take its wealth, its pride, its fleeting joys, Its mansions high, with their fronts of brown, Its beauty, its fashions, its toys.

But give me rod and reel,

The wee strong line and the keen-barbed hook;

Give me the joy all true fishers feel

Who vanquish the King of the Brook!

Permission of "Forest and Stream."

-M. A. Kingsford.

I WANT TO GO FISHING TO-DAY 139

IZAAK WALTON'S PRAYER

A crinkling, sun-specked stream, some kindly shade
A friend who loves a chub or dappling trout,
My mug of barley-wine when sport's been played,
A nut-brown lass with tender-melting pout.

Arcadian-homely hours, apart from men,
Pursuing my sequestered, gentle art,
Making my toil and pastime so to blend

That peace unruffled dwells within my heart.

Fish-dimpled waters that with slumbrous croon
Lap banks with ladies'-smocks made fair and sweet.
Keep me, O Lord, from London's loveless gloom,
Let Walton lie at Severn's rustling feet.

-D. L. James.

I WANT TO GO FISHING TO-DAY

There's a languorous feeling and sultry air,
In office and store and street;

There's a longing for shores where the winds are fair.

And cooling sands for the feet.

There's the swish of the waves and the splash of

the oars,

The sound of a distant call;

There's the far-away cloud that gently soars,

And the blue that covers all.

And, oh, as I look from my window high,

And watch the clouds at play,

There comes from my heart such a rising sighI want to go fishing to-day!

I strive to banish the thought of a line
That leads to the lair of the bass;

I think of the dangers that may be mine,
Ere the island's head I pass;

But, oh, that bare-footed boy that comes
With his rod, has stirred me again

And I sing once more the song that he hums
And I long to be in his train.

For memory launched a silvery boat
On a sea that is bright and gay-
The happiest man I would be afloat,
Could I but go fishing to-day!

-John Charles Shea.

THE HIDDEN POOL

High in the Sierras, where the pines

Drop their cones by the rock-ribb'd stream,

Under a tangle of ferns and vines,

There lies a pool where the brook trout teem.

'Tis rimm'd by willows and alders green, And banked by boulders and golden sand;

Dark it lies, and it hides unseen,

Waiting the cast of the master hand.