Some likewise say, and even swear,

He was a goodly saint, sir,

And made "loose fish" for all the land,

And trout as red as paint, sir.
And as a relic of his power,

It was his ardent wish, sir,

That dear old Erin should always have,

A number of "odd fish," sir.

-Robert Blakey.

AN ANGLER'S SONNET

O for a rod mine eager hand to grace-
A beauteous morn; a brooklet dashing by,
Where nigh the sands they comfortably lie-
Sly trout that mock the rainbow's misty trace,
In the great dome above-the mystic maze
Of beauty such that fills the quiet eye,
And brims the heart-while up on high,

The beaming sun looks down upon my face!
O moment rare, when knee-deep in the cool,
And swirling depths, to mark the hackle's fall-
Behold a rise, and then the cunning fight!

Ah, sweet they were, these hours when the call Of whistling quail comes to the ear. At night To homeward turn contented from the pool!

-Robert Page Lincoln.

Permission of "The American Angler."

FATE OF THE FATUOUS FISHERMAN 287

FATE OF THE FATUOUS FISHERMAN

A salmon lived near to Vancouver;
He was large and excessively strong;
He was such an habitual mover

That he never was motionless long.
Like the rest of the fishes in Finland,
The rivers he often would gain,
But ne'er was contented when inland,
For he always remembered the main.

A fisherman once went an angling
In an antediluvian craft;

His neighbors came near unto strangling,
So much at that shallop they laughed.
But the fisher, his little hook baiting,
Remarked, "I shall win if I try, ''
And for hours he sat patiently waiting
Till the salmon rose up to the fly.

With a dexterous twist and a turn, he
Secured a good grip on the hook,
And the fisherman went on a journey
That rivaled the journeys of Cook.
At a pace that was simply terrific

The salmon set out for the West,
And he managed to cross the Pacific,
Not pausing a moment to rest.

He skirted the Philippine Islands,
Sumatra was left on the lee;
He sped by the Ceylonese highlands,
And crossed the Arabian Sea;

Past Aden and Suez and Malta
He went like a comet, until,
Just grazing the rock of Gibraltar,
He headed southwest for Brazil.

As obstinate as a virago,

He raced till the following morn, When, passing Tierra del Fuego,

He hurriedly rounded the Horn. He hastened by Juan Fernandez,

And pointing his nose to Peru, He came into view of the Andes

That day at a quarter to two.

But here a big fragment of coral

Ripped off from the shallop a plank,
And with haste that was almost immoral,
The treacherous cockle-shell sank.
The fisher his head above water

Maintained by the aid of an oar;
And he floated an hour and a quarter
In the hope of attaining the shore.

At last he cried: "Jupiter Ammon!
My merciful fortune I thank

That I've met with the king of all salmon!

That bite was a wonder!" and sank.

The salmon but traveled the faster;

He said, "I am innocent quite,

For that boat was the cause of disaster;

'Twas a bark that was worse than my bite."

-Guy Wetmore Carryl.

FISHING

THE TROUT FISHER'S PLEASURES

Wand'ring by the streams apart,

Glad and calm as they,

Plying still my simple art,
All the livelong day.

Seeking out the shadiest nooks
Of the winding moorland brooks,
Where the pearly waters sleep
In their quiet pools and deep.

Where the greedy trout doth lie,
Ready for the ensnaring fly.
Who so free from weeping sorrow
And from care as I?

-Thomas Westwood.

289

FISHING

Where branches spread a roof of jade the lazy river lingers,

And makes a burnished silver pool as tranquil as the sky,

And out upon its bosom reach the birches' mirrored

fingers

To twist and writhe and waver as the current idles by.

There time can be forgotten while you watch your dobber floating,

With a dragon fly above it who would rather like to light,

And a water bug regatta very busy with their boating, And a kingfisher who clatters like an airplane in his flight.

Oh, the glitter of the water and the long, blue, dreamy shadows!

And the golden, sandy shallows where the sunlight breaks the gloom!

And the waking daisies forming constellations in the meadows!

And the friendly wind that tells you that the wild grapes are in bloom!

There, propped against a maple trunk, I'd like to take my station;

A can of worms, a rod, a line-these constitute my wish

And spend in utter happiness the balance of creation, Watching shadows on the water while I sit, and fish, and fish.

There's a catbird in the willow, mixing cussing with his singing;

There are turtles on the tree root, where the sun pours clear and hot.

When you lie and up against the sky watch leafy branches swinging,

It really is no matter if you catch a fish or not. For the vague, uncertain rustles in the thicket just be

hind you

May be a timid dryad or the goat-hoofed, laughing Pan,