THE SONG OF THE RUNNING REEL 241

And when the angler's hook is fixed
They fight, they struggling bleed,
Now leaping high, now plunging deep,
Darting with lightning speed.

And yet these sea marauders,
These tyrants of the main,
By fiercer, mightier ruffians
Are hunted, conquered, slain;
The tumbling porpoise hunts them,
Dorado fierce pursues,

And when the shark assaileth,

Blood-stains the waves suffuse.

-Isaac McLellan.

THE SONG OF THE RUNNING REEL

A sudden splash—

A silvery flash

A jerk, a turn, and a forward dash,

To the song of the running reel!

When the gentle breezes of morning
Roll the mists of the night away,
You slowly float in your drifting boat,
Where the lush pond-lilies sway:
To troll your glistening minnow
Where the willows shadow the brook:
To feel the thrill of the morning chill,
And the lure of the rod and hook.
To make your cast in the riffles,

Where the water each boulder spurns:

To follow the gleam in the silvery stream,
As your minnow wriggles and turns.
Then the lightning lunge of a hungry bass,
As he darts for his moving prey:

To hear the purr-then the singing whirr,
As the reel plays your strike away.
The red blood pounds through every vein
And each muscle tenses to steel:

Such glorious strife is the wine of life,

To the song of the running reel!

Permission of "Field and Stream."

-Francis Aiken.

ON THE HOOK

The cork goes under half a mile;

You feel the sag and jerk

Along your rod, and then and there,

My boy, you set to work.

He's on your hook, no doubt of that;

He tugs and yanks—it's grand;

But ah, a fish is never caught

Until he's pulled to land.

The scheme, my man, is deuced good;

It should your fortune make;

And then the chap with dough admits

It's big and ought to take.

He's swallowed hook, line, sinker, all;

But oh, you must command

Skill, will, and patience, strong and long,

If he's brought safe to land.

JUST A CHANCE-THAT'S ALL 243

The fellow's handsome, brave, and rich,
With good connections too,

And taste and manners-yes, my girl,
He'll something more than do.

He's on the hook; those wiles of yours
He couldn't quite withstand;

But getting him to land's the game,
Just getting him to land.

-St. Clair Adams.

JUST A CHANCE-THAT'S ALL

Some sing the praise of the sweet, shy trout
And some of the bold, bad bass;

And some of the salmon that leaps for the fly,
And some of the tarpon that dazzles the eye
Or yet to the ouananiche pass.

I sing the praise of the whole fish tribe,
The cast, the lure, and the strike,
Any kind that will chase my dull cares away
And give an excuse to play hookey to-day
Is the kind of fishing I like.

-Anonymous.

A LAY OF THE LEA

I'm an old man now,

Stiff limb and frosty pow,

But stooping o'er my flickering fire, in the winter weather,

I behold a vision

Of a time elysian,

And I cast my crutch away, and I snap my tether!

Up i' the early morning,

Sleepy pleasures scorning,

Rod in hand and creel on back, I'm away, away!
Not a care to vex me-

Not a fear perplex me—

Blithe as any bird that pipes in the merry May.

Oh, the Enfield meadows,

Dappled with soft shadows!

Oh, the leafy Enfield lanes, odorous May blossoms! Oh, the lapping river,

Lea, beloved for ever,

With the rosy morning light mirrored on its bosom.

Out come reel and tackle

Out come midge and hackle

Length of gut like gossamer, on the south wind streaming

And brace of palmers fine,

As ever decked a line,

Dubbed with herl, and ribbed with gold, in the sunlight gleaming.

A LAY OF THE LEA

245

Bobbing 'neath the bushes,

Crouched among the rushes,

On the rights of Crown and State, I'm, alas! encroaching

What of that? I know

My creel will soon o'erflow,

If a certain Cerberus do not spoil my poaching.

As I throw my flies,

Fish on fish doth rise,

Roach and dace by dozens, on the bank they flounder. Presently a splash,

And a furious dash,

Lo! a logger-headed chub, and a fat two-pounder!

Shade of Izaak, say,

Did you not one day,

Fish for logger-headed chub, by this very weir?

'Neath these very trees,

Down these shady leas,

Where's the nightingale that ought to be singing here?

Now, in noontide heat,

Here I take my seat;

Izaak's book beguiles the time-of Izaak's book I say, Never dearer page

Gladdened youth or age,

Never sweeter soul than his blessed the merry May.

For the while I read,

'Tis as if indeed,

Peace and joy and gentle thoughts from each line were

welling;