WHEN THE FISH BEGIN TO BITE

There's a feelin' comes a-stealin'
Sorta shamefaced-like an' queer,
An' my heart'll sorta startle
Just about this time o' year.
Like a robin that's a-throbbin'
With the matin' time delight,
When the days are gettin' longer,
An' the sun is gettin' stronger,
An' the fish begin to bite.

Every daisy seems as lazy,

Just a-noddin' in the sun,
As a feller feelin' meller

When his evenin' chores are done,
An' a-knowin' where he's goin'
With his fishin' pole, all right,
When the days are gettin' longer,
An' the sun is gettin' stronger,
An' the fish begin to bite.

Ain't no other feelin', nuther,

That'll grip you just like this.

Can't outgrow it. Don't you know it?
Then you don't know what you miss.
When you're fishin', well, you're wishin'
Every other feller might,
When the days are gettin' longer,
An' the sun is gettin' stronger,

An' the fish begin to bite.

-Sam S. Stinson ("Silent Sam").

Permission of "The American Angler."

JUST KEEP FISHIN'

WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE
COMPLEAT ANGLER"

While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign!
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort

To reverend watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline—
He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook-
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,

The cowslip-bank and shady willow tree;

157

And the fresh meads-where flowed, from every nook Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!

-William Wordsworth.

JUST KEEP FISHIN'

When a feller's feelin' lazy-when the springtime's comin' 'round,

When the sun is gettin' friendly-sorter warmin' up the ground;

It is then I get the fever an' I hunt my pole an' line, An' I've got to go a-fishin' fer I know they're bitin' fine.

When the work has all been finished an' we're footloose fer a week,

Then I gather up my tackle fer a full day at the creek—

To sprawl out there, contented, with my old cob pipe

alight,

An' smoke an' dream an' patient be while waitin' fer a bite.

I like to land one now an' then-it helps a feller's fame,
But if I don't I make no kick, but go on jest the same;
An' like all good fishermen when I get home, I say:
"I hooked a powerful big one but I let him get away."

Now when we're called from this old world to join the angels' band,

I hope the thing will work out so I'll somehow be on hand;

An' if the good Lord lets me have the job fer which I'm

wishin',

I want to find some shady spot an' jest keep on a-fishin'. -Harry M. Dean.

Permission of "Outing Magazine."

SUMMER ON THAMES

A rushy island guards the sacred bower,
And hides it from the meadow, where in peace
The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,
Robbing the golden market of the bees:
And laden barges float

By banks of myosote;

And scented flag and golden flower-de-lys
Delay the loitering boat.

WHEN THIS OLD ROD WAS NEW

Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hook
Within its hidden depths, and 'gainst a tree
Leaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book,
Forgetting soon his pride of fishery,

And dreams, or falls asleep,

While curious fishes peep

About his nibbled bait, and scornfully

Dart off and rise and leap.

159

From "Shorter Poems."

-Robert Bridges.

FISHING IS FINE WHEN THE POOL IS MUDDY

Oho! O ho!

Above,-below,

Lightly and brightly they glide and go!
The hungry and keen to the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy.
-Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

From "The Red Fisherman."

WHEN THIS OLD ROD WAS NEW

When this old rod was new,

'Twas in the vanish'd time,

When step was light and eye was bright,

And youth was in its prime.

Oh! bright were then the skies

In the glory of the dawn,

When the dews that gemm'd the grass

Shone in the rosy morn.

Then oped the garden gate,

And down the bowery lane,
Hedg'd in with elm and chestnut,
My hasty path was ta'en;
And to the brawling brooks

That thro' the meadows twine
I hurried fast, with heart elate,
With the new rod and line.

When this old rod was new,
Full oft by the mill-dam edge,
Where the water-lilies grew

And the cat-tails and the sedge,
I stood on the bank, and threw
My line for the perch and bream,
In the cool, transparent stream,
When this old rod was new.

And up where the mountain brook
Pour'd swift over stone and sand,
Over yellow sand and crystal stone

I've stood with this rod in hand.
Then, where the dark eddies whirl'd,
In the shadow of pine and yew,
I cast my silken tackle,

When this old rod was new.

I knew that under the bank,

Where deep was the pool scoop'd out, Where the black tree-roots were hidden, There lurk'd the spotted trout.