THE YELLOW FINS O' YARROW
The yellow fins o' Yarrow dale!
I kenna whar they've gane tae;
Was ever troots in Border vale
Sae comely or sae dainty?
They had baith gowd and spanglit rings,
Wi' walth o' pearl amang them;
An' for sweet luve o bonny things,
The heart was laith to wrang them.
But he that angles Yarrow ower
(Maun changes ever waken?)
Frae our Lady's Lock to Newark Tower,
Will find the stream forsaken.
Forsaken ilka bank an' stane
O' a' its troots o' splendor;
Auld Yarrow's left sae lorn and lane,
Ane scarcely wad hae kenn'd her.
Waes me! The ancient yellow fin
I marvel whar he's gane tae;
Was ever troot in Forest rin
Sae comely or sae dainty!
FISHING NOOKS
"Men will grow weary," said the Lord,
"Of working for their bed and board.
They'll weary of the money chase
And want to find a resting place
Where hum of wheel is never heard
And no one speaks an angry word,
And selfishness and greed and pride
And petty motives don't abide.
They'll need a place where they can go
To wash their souls as white as snow.
They will be better men and true
If they can play a day or two."
The Lord then made the brooks to flow
And fashioned rivers here below,
And many lakes; for water seems
Best suited for a mortal's dreams.
He placed about them willow trees
To catch the murmur of the breeze,
And sent the birds that sing the best
Among the foliage to nest.
He filled each pond and stream and lake
With fish for man to come and take;
Then stretched a velvet carpet deep
On which a weary soul could sleep.
It seemed to me the Good Lord knew
That man would want something to do
When worn and wearied with the stress
Of battling hard for world success.
When sick at heart of all the strife
And pettiness of daily life,
He knew he'd need, from time to time,
To cleanse himself of city grime,
And he would want some place to be
Where hate and greed he'd never see.
And so on lakes and streams and brooks
The Good Lord fashioned fishing hooks.
-Edgar A. Guest.
From "Just Folks." Copyrighted by and permission from Reilly & Lee Co.
When the shadders thicken evenin's,
An' the fireflies kinder shine,
An' the wind is softly moanin'
Through the hemlock an' the pine;
When the crickets are a-chirpin',
An' the frogs'll croak at night,
Then you'd best be gettin' ready-
For the fish is goin' to bite.
When it comes roun' time fer seedin'
An' there's breakin' to be done,
An' you've got to put in garden,
An' a thousand things in one,
An' you feel a kinder itchin'
An' you can't explain it quite,
Then you'd best be gettin' ready—
For the fish is goin' to bite.
When the days are gettin' longer,
An' the bees are mongst the flowers,
An' the world is lookin' fresher
Watered by the April showers;
When the lilacs are a-buddin'
An' the crocus cup in sight,
Then you'd best be gettin' ready-
For the fish is goin' to bite.
Permission of "Field and Stream."
THE POMPANO OF FLORIDA
(Trachynotus carolinus)
The pompano is to a gourmand worth a journey to the Gulf Coast.-S. C. Clarke in Fishes of the Atlantic Coast.
Sweet Southern airs and flowery blooms
Of the magnolia's rare perfumes,
The breath of rose, the violet's scent,
In one commingled sweetness blent,
Delight me as I muse of thee,
Fair Florida, far down the sea.
Musing, I seem to tread thy glades,
The vistas of thy wood-arcades,
Where golden globes of oranges
Enrich perennial-flowering trees;
And the pineapple's ruddy cone
Gleams in the thorny thicket's zone.
I seem to track the rivulet's course
Far up its tangled journey's source,
To follow it o'er grassy meads,
Amid the jungles and the reeds,
To meet it where it joins its tide
To spreading bay or river wide,
And take the grouper, trout, or bass
From ripples crystal-clear as glass.
But chief the triumph of my line
To take pompano from the brine,
The richest prize the angler knows
Where ocean rolls or river flows.
A fish with frosted silver deck'd,
With blue, resplendent colors fleck'd,
Flavor'd more richly than all schools
That haunt the shallows and the pools.
A bottom-fish, its sumptuous fare
Crustacea and the mollusk rare,
Rich food that makes the sheepshead fish
To epicure a matchless dish!
Salmon of sea and trout of brook,
Fair captive of the angler's hook,
No daintier delicacies boast
Than the pompano of the coast.
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