A RHYME OF LITTLE FISHES

For even little fishes let

The Red Gods have your thanks.
Though all you want you do not get,
Rejoice you don't draw blanks.

For better men than you, by far,
Have fished the whole day through-
Yea, fished like-what someone called war-
And caught far less than you.

To-morrow can't bring luck more bad

To you, and anyway

You should be glad that you have had
A chance to fish to-day.

So e'en for little fishes give

The Gods your hearty praise

That they, in turn, may let you live

A heap more fishing days.

Permission of "Outing Magazine."

-C. L. Gilman.

THE ANGLER'S DELECTATION Let me live harmlessly; and near the brink Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place,Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink

With eager bite of perch, or bleak, or dace;

THE ANGLER'S DELECTATION

And on the world and my Creator think:

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Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace And others spend their time in base excess

Of wine,

or, worse, in war and wantonness.

Let them that list, these pastimes still pursue,
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill;
So I the fields and meadows green may view,
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,
Among the daisies and the violets blue,
Red hyacinth, and yellow daffodil,
Purple narcissus like the morning rays,
Pale gander-grass, and azure culver-keys.

I count it higher pleasure to behold
The stately compass of the lofty sky,
And in the midst thereof, like burning gold,
The flaming chariot of the world's great eye;
The watery clouds that in the air up-roll'd,
With sundry kinds of painted colors fly,
And fair Aurora, lifting up her head,
Still blushing, rise from old Tithonus' bed.

The hills and mountains raised from the plains;
The plains extended, level with the ground;
The grounds, divided into sundry veins,

The veins, enclos'd with rivers running round; These rivers, making way through nature's chains, With headlong course into the sea profound;

The raging sea, beneath the valleys low,
Where lakes and rills and rivulets do flow.

The lofty woods, the forests wide and long,

Adorn'd with leaves, and branches fresh and green, In whose cool bowers the birds with many a song,

Do welcome with their quire the summer's Queen; The meadows fair, where Flora's gifts among

Are intermix'd, with verdant grass between;
The silver-scal'd fish that softly swim
Within the sweet brook's crystal watery stream.

All these, and many more, of His creation

That made the heavens, the Angler oft doth see, Taking therein no little delectation,

To think how strange, how wonderful they be! Framing thereof an inward contemplation,

To set his heart from other fancies free; And whilst he looks on these with joyful eye, His mind is rapt above the starry sky.

-John Dennys.

From "Secrets of Angling."

THE SPECKLED TROUT

With rod and line I took my way

That led me through the gossip trees,
Where all the forest was asway
With hurry of the running breeze.

I took my hat off to a flower
That nodded welcome as I passed;
And, pelted by a morning shower,
Unto its heart a bee held fast.

THE SPECKLED TROUT

A head of gold one great weed tossed,
And leaned to look when I went by;

And where the brook the roadway crossed
The daisy kept on me its eye.

And when I stooped to bathe my face,
And seat me at a great tree's foot,

I heard the stream say, "Mark the place:
And undermine it rock and root.'

And o'er the whirling water there
A dragonfly its shuttle plied,
Where wild a fern let down its hair,
And leaned to see the water's pride-

A speckled trout. The spotted elf,
Whom I had come so far to see,
Stretched out above a rocky shelf,
A shadow sleeping mockingly.

And I have sat here half the day
Regarding it. It has not stirred.
I heard the running water say-
"He does not know the magic word.

"The word that changes everything,
And brings all Nature to his hand:
That makes of this great trout a king,
And opes the way to Faeryland."

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-Madison Cawein.

From "The Poet and Nature and the Morning Road," John P. Morton

& Co.

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

Well! I think it is time to put up!

For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,

Stiff from throwing the line,

To take nothing at last by my motions.

I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish

To inveigle the fish

To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream,

And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention;
And although at my hook

With attention I look,

I can ne'er see my hook with a Trench on!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,
But they seem upon different terms now;
Have they taken advice,

Of the "Council of Nice,"

And rejected their "Diet of Worms" now?