The angler's fly
Comes dancing by,
But never a moment it cheats my eye;
For the hermit trout
Is not such a lout
As to be by a wading boy pulled out.
King of the brook,
No fisher's hook
Fills me with dread of a sweaty cook;
But here I lie
And laugh as they try;
Shall I bite their bait? No, no, not I.
But when the streams,
With moonlight beams,
Sparkle, all silver, and starlight gleams;
Then, then, look out
For the hermit trout;
For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams.
-William Post Hawes (Cypress, Jr.").
Well hooked, but far from beaten yet,
He plays a gallant fighting part.
My nerves are strung, my teeth are set,
My brow, and more of me, is wet
With what is surely honest sweat-
Who christened this the "gentle art?"
Just where the swirling rapids flash,
He took me with a sudden dart,
Then came a pull, a sounding splash,
A whirring reel, a furious dash,
Then over boulders, leap and crash-
Who christened this the "gentle art?"
So lumbering onwards blown and spent,
These forty minutes from the start
I have pursued where'er he went,
The rovings of his discontent,
My greenheart to a crescent bent-
Who christened this the "gentle art?”
Spectators watch with eager eyes,
They shout together and apart:
"Be gentle with him," some advise;
"Give him the butt," another cries;
Their clamor mounts unto the skies-
Who christened this the "gentle art?"
He girds him for his final play,
And I, with victory at my heart,
Summon the gaff to end him. Nay!
My line sags emptily away-
Shade of old Izaak, what to say?
Who christened this the "gentle art?"
THE ANGLER'S DREAM OF SPRING
Arbutus mauve, and lily white,
And rhododendron flowers bedight,
On winding banks are blooming.
Sky-gems, reflected through the night,
Woo violets nodding blue and bright,
That sway by waters crooning,
And peep all shyly o'er the bank
Beneath sweet-fern plumes tall and rank,
To thorn-flowers' cool perfuming!
Above, low pine-rune zephyrs play,
As brook-notes sing, "Away! Away!"
And showers of seed-pearls gaily tossed,
Are silvered by the moon and lost;
There bamboo rods are whisked about,
While flies are cast for lusty trout.
Permission of "Forest and Stream."
THE ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Meet the morn upon the lea;
Are the emeralds of spring
On the angler's trysting-tree?
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me,
Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on the trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Have you met the honey-bee,
Circling upon rapid wing
Round the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see;
Are there bees at our willow-tree?
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Are the fountains gushing free?
Is the south wind wandering
Through the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me,
Is the wind at our willow-tree?
Wind or calm at the trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, up and sing!
Wile us with a merry glee,
To the flowery haunts of spring-
To the angler's trysting-tree.
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me,
Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?
Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?
-Thomas Tod Stoddart.
FISHERMEN THREE
Old Pharaoh went a-fishing; He'd catch 'em with his hands, And so he fell to groping
Among the Red Sea sands.
The sands were quick, it may be,
Or he a trifle slow;
He sank so far Old Clootie
Called, "Welcome, Phar-a-oh."
Old Noah went a-fishing;
He sat upon the ark
And kept his hooks a-dangle
From daylight on to dark.
His catch was pretty meager;
But every one affirms
He had no chance, because he
Had just a pair of worms.
Old Jonah went a-fishing;
He got a leaky boat;
First thing he knew, it wouldn't
Much more than stay afloat.
But he was nothing daunted
And when he felt a wish
To get back home, he promptly
Took passage in a fish.
MY BEST KENTUCKY REEL
"To my friend, Hon. Grover Cleveland, I bequeath my best Kentucky reel."—Joseph Jefferson.
Dear friend, I nevermore shall hear
Your shout above the rushing stream,
Nor see your struggling captive leap
Where rainbows o'er the rapids gleam.
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