SPRING IS ON THE WIRE

181

Your work is piled up mountain-high, and no place to

begin;

A thousand things that must be done, not one you want to do!

Oh to be a boy again,

And to feel the joy again

Of monarch's mighty treasure in a rusty old tin can; Tote the sapling pole again

To the fishing hole again

Where friendly willow trees have spread their branches like a fan.

The figures won't stay added, imps shove them out of line;

Your eyes can't help but wander to the sky's expansive

blue.

The ledgers are all muddled-"Ting-a-ling! the fishing's fine!"

Yes, Spring is on long-distance, and she's callingcalling-you.

Just to hear the swish again

Of a struggling fish again,

Your heart be set a-tingle by the tug upon your hand;

See the silver gleam again

Leap out of the stream again,

And watch a million pounds of joy come wiggling to

the land!

You feel quite sorry for yourself for your fishing days are few;

Time's busy with his nippers and he's pulling out your hair

You're ALL OF FORTY-FIVE! and aging every min

ute, too;

Your forehead's getting wrinkled with the furrows plowed by care.

Oh to cast the line again

In shadow or sunshine again,

And hear the waters laughing in the dear old fishing hole;

Just one day to be again

A boy so gladly free again,

And strip off all the sorrows years have tightened round your soul.

You shut the desk with vigor, make yourself believe you're mad.

Sigh with a hopeless gesture at the things that you must do!

But you could hug that kid who called you, best friend you ever had,—

You're off!-He is the spirit of the boy that's left

in you.

So you go out to fish again,

To dream, to hope, to wish again,

WITH ROD AND REEL

183

A freckled lad smiles up at you from out the water's brim;

You catch the gleam of youth again,

The old-time faith and truth again,

And it was only yesterday you said goodbye to him! -Joseph Morris.

WITH ROD AND REEL

With rod and reel the toiler plays,
And dreams of long vacation days,
When he shall float on grassy deeps
And cast the gleaming lure that sweeps
Athwart the hungry bass's gaze.

Once more he scorns the careful phrase,
The irksome yoke of urban ways,

And scents the joy the sportsman reaps
With rod and reel.

He sees far, forest-girted bays
Reflect dawn's iridescent grays;

For there he knows the fierce bass keeps
A constant vigil—there it leaps
And takes the lures the sportsmen raise
With rod and reel.

-Ray Clarke Rose.

From "At the Sign of the Ginger Jar," A. C. McClurg & Co.

THE OLD ANGLER'S DREAM

When cares of life begin to trace
Faint lines and wrinkles on the face,
And change brown hairs to gray,
Then memory gives the power to me
To bid dull care and sorrow flee,
For in my mind once more I see

The scenes of youth's bright day.

Again the quiet fields I view,

And mountain stream that once I knew:
Its music I still hear:-

The babbling music of the brook,
Whose every pool and shady nook
I used to search with baited hook
In crystal water clear.

I fished alone, but the wild stream
Was the companion of my dream,
It talked and sang to me;

The ripples on their beds of stone
Sang a sweet music of their own:-
Oh, no, I never felt alone,

Hearing such melody.

The screaming kingfisher, the mink,
Who from my very feet would slink,
The joy of sky-born hue,

The booming grouse, whose startling flight
Roused in the breast a passing fright,

The tanager of plumage bright

Were my companions, too.

MY LADY FISHES

Amid such sights and sounds to fish
It is the old man's dearest wish,

His youth again to find;

No man is old who in his heart

With that fond dream will never part:

The rushing stream,

The angler's dream!

Oh, may that dream forever start

Within the care-worn mind!

185

-William E. Elliott ("Piscator").

Permission of "The American Angler."

MY LADY FISHES

With reel and rod in hand
My lady sits in the prow,
Hope beaming on her brow-
Yes, I've seen that look on land.
The line gives a sudden swish

And a lightning twist to the tip:
My lady, with tight-pressed lip,
Is beginning to play her fish.

Sometime on shore

I've seen that look before.

There are flashes in the sun,

There are rushes quick and strong,
And the reel sings forth its song
While my lady lets him run.

On her face