B 6 R K E I E Y\ LIBRARY I UNIVERSITY OF I CALIfORNIA J SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Jo*e0/> Alorr.5 ^^chejfer Songs for Fishermen COLLECTED BY JOSEPH MORRIS AND ST. CLAIR ADAMS Compilers of "IT CAN BE DONE," PUBLISHERS STEWART KIDD COMPANY CINCINNATI COPYRIGHT, 1922 STEWART KIDD COMPANY All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America THE CAXTON PRESS "Everybody for books." This is one of the Interlaken Library. So "They say fish should swim thrice . . . first it should swim in the sea (do you mind me?), then it should swim in butter, and at last, sirrah, it should swim in good claret." Dean Swift: "Polite Conversation" (Dialogue II). 291 INTRODUCTION The love for fishing is universal. The small boy at school who pretends to be studying and who really is proving the marvel that the letters in preface can represent the words "Peter Rogers Eats Fish, Alli- gators Catch Eels," soon forgets his book altogether. He becomes thrall to his imagination; his fancy trans- ports him to a brookside where he tempts minnows and achieves happiness with a bent pin and a can of worms. His teacher, austere in appearance, may at heart be subject to the same allurement; a popular exponent of the cause of fishing to-day is the college professor, the literary man, the diplomat, Henry Van Dyke. The great actor, in his turn, loves to quit the world of make-believe for the realities of solitude and the angle; witness Joseph Jefferson. The statesman finds similar relief from the cares of state; witness Grover Cleveland and Viscount Grey. Butcher, baker, and candlestick maker, clerk, clergyman, and capitalist if you would find what, beneath the hard semblances of them, they verily are, utter the cabalistic words: "Let's go fishing." As with fishing, so with fishermen ; the love for them too is universal. "All the world loves a lover," we are told ; and yet we may ask, "Had not the lover best look to his laurels?" Whatever else you may say of him, he is not a comfortable person to have around. But 7 8 INTRODUCTION when Walton, the Father of Fishers, tells us he loves all anglers, he gives a reason why that love endures: 'They be such honest, civil, quiet men." Is not the pronouncement just? Can a loud-mouthed roisterer catch fish? Can the restless, insubstantial fellow bring home a full creel ? A man's very devotion to the sport is a badge of inward merit. And to this inward worth how other men respond! In other departments of human life they insist on externals; the rich man will not hobnob with the poor, nor the scion of culture willingly rub elbows with the son of toil. But for fisher- men all differences are sunk. No other fellowship is at once so spontaneous and so genuine as the brother- hood of rod and line. Fishing, moreover, is no sudden fad of the modern world or of any single country therein. We have con- siderable evidence that the Greeks liked fishing, as indeed so human and alert a people could hardly have helped doing. The evidence is still more emphatic in the case of the Romans. As for the Hebrews, we know from the story of Jonah that whether or not in those days men could catch fish, it was possible for fish to catch men; and in New Testament times some of the disciples, the "fishers of men," had previously toiled with actual nets. In short no land, occidental or ori- ental, torrid or frigid, but loves fishing and has its own methods, often primitive enough, of taking finny prey. England and Scotland have shown exceptional appre- ciation of the joys of angling, and exceptional under- standing of piscatorial lore; over them both hangs, in Shakespeare's phrase, "a very ancient and fish-like INTRODUCTION smell." The United States and Canada have gone the Old World one better. What fish have not moved and lived and had their being in these magical cis- atlantic waters ! Prodigiously talented fish ! Did not Franklin assure the credulous Europeans there is no more sublime spectacle in nature than the upward leap of a whale over Niagara? To the curious, the romantic, and the devout, the fish has yet another interest it was formerly used as a symbol of Christ. This use was due to the accident that the initials of the Greek names and titles of Jesus ("Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior") spell ichthys, the Greek word for fish. When we come to the literature of fishing, we think unavoidably of Walton. His book, perchance in an expensively illustrated edition, lies on every true fish- erman's table. It is after the lapse of nearly three centuries still an authority on the general princi- ples, and even on many of the details, of fishing. Bet- ter still, it catches and reflects the cool, serene life and spirit of the angler as no other book does or perhaps ever shall. What shrewd distinctions are drawn by old Izaak: "Fishing is an art, or, at least, it is an art to catch fish." What love of nature's delights does he show: "Turn out of the way a little, good scholar, towards yonder high honeysuckle hedge; there we'll sit and sing, whilst this shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows." What honest emulation he feels: "I envy nobody but him, and him only, that catches more fish than I do." 10 INTRODUCTION What enjoyment he finds in his simple recreation: 'There be many that have forty times our estates, that would give the greatest part of it to be healthful and cheerful like us; who, with the expense of a little money, have eat and drank, and laughed, and angled, and sung, and slept securely; and rose next day and cast away care, and sung, and laughed, and angled again." What humble contentment informs his daily life: "We may say of angling, as Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, 'Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did' ; and so, if I might be judge, God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling." The Cavaliers of seventeenth century England have often been traduced ; but judgment must many a time have been softened because this loved and lovable "brother of the angle" was of the Cavalier party. Walton was very long of life, as all good anglers should be, and his spirit yet lingers among us. He is not simply a man; he is an institution. Walton was primarily a writer of prose, but in poetry also fishing is the best represented of all sports a fact due, not to any one man, but to a legion. A clue to this laudation in verse is supplied by old Izaak's words: "Angling is somewhat like poetry, men are to be born so." More specifically, the affinity between fishing and the poetic temperament lies partly in the fact that fishing leads us among the charms and won- ders of nature. Again, it is a meditative sport, and instead of interfering with the spirit of quietude, in- duces it. Thus many of the men who have fished have INTRODUCTION 11 also written poetry. Naturally, they have now and again chosen the theme that lies nearest their heart. Fishing poems are, in consequence, innumerable. This volume brings together the best and most rep- resentative of these poems. The prodigious amount of fishing verse available has led, inevitably, to regret- table omissions. To begin with, all verse not written in English, however excellent in itself or well trans- lated, has been denied reproduction in these pages. Moreover many poems of fine flavor by Somerville, Hogg, Doubleday, Dennys, and Foster (to mention only a few of the better-known fishing-bards) ; all ex- cerpts from the "Fishers' Garland," published annu- ally for years at Edinburgh, and from the volume of "Edinburgh Angling Club Songs" ; all parodies (though many are notably clever); all mere doggerel; and all narrowly local poems or pieces for specific occasions (as for club celebrations or in honor of some famous fisherman) these have had to be debarred. In fact the editors, after examining, piece by piece, almost the entire corpus of fishing verse extant, faced the still harder task of making exclusions. They hardened their hearts to hundreds of "pretty good" poems on the theory, as a wit once expressed it, that "a pretty good poem is like a pretty good egg." They admitted nothing that failed to measure up to one or the other of two standards of merit : ( i ) literary distinction, (2) felicitous or effective embodiment of some special aspect of fishing. Even so, they were forced to shut out many poems that had won to the very threshold of acceptance. But they have the satisfaction of feel- 12 INTRODUCTION ing that they have spared no pains to compile the best possible anthology for anglers. Since they could not make the volume save in a limited sense inclusive, they resolved it should show, not only real merit, but the utmost variety. To this end they have apportioned space with jealous care. They have naturally been most liberal to Stoddart, "the Fisher Laureate," because his poems live fishing and reflect, more completely than any other writer's, its manifold spirit. They have levied heavily upon the English and Scotch bards with poems by Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Scott, Donne, Pope, Thomson, Gay, Keats, Hood, Kingsley, Praed, Lang, and Rupert Brooke, and more heavily upon those of the United States with poems by Whittier, Holmes, Riley, Van Dyke, Eugene Field, Edgar Guest, Walt Mason, John Kendrick Bangs, Frank L. Stanton, Douglas Malloch, James W. Foley, Grantland Rice, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Readers of fishing mag- azines will be pleased to find such favorite writers are Robert Page Lincoln, William E. Elliott, George B. Staff, George W. Sears, and Sam S. Stinson. The editors have tried to represent practically all phases of fishing and all sections of the country. To the trout, salmon, and bass, as favorite game fish, they have accorded space commensurate with popularity. Nor have they been so obtuse as to ignore the by- products of fishing, as delight in nature, in the calm of vast forest stretches, and in the nocturnal gather- ings and diversions of anglers. The editors gratefully acknowledge the permissions INTRODUCTION 13 extended them to reproduce poems under copyright. Specifically they wish to express their gratitude to J. A. Cruikshank of "The American Angler," E. F. War- ner and Hy. S. Watson of "Field and Stream," William Bruette and John P. Holman of "Forest and Stream," Albert Bntt of "Outing Magazine," and W. J. Taylor and C. V. Latham of "Rod and Gun in Canada," who by their conspicuous generosity and helpful co-opera- tion have greatly contributed to whatever merit this book may possess. For the convenience of the reader, literary refer- ences and Scotch words are explained by notes at the back of the book. INDEX BY TITLES ANGLER, THE ScoUard 253 ANGLER, THE Wade 211 ANGLER, THE Walton 31 ANGLER'S AWAKENING, THE Lincoln 203 ANGLER'S BALLAD, THE Cotton 68 ANGLER'S BENEDICTION, THE Stoddart 96 ANGLER'S CAROL, THE Foster 89 ANGLER'S CHANT, THE McLellan 47 ANGLER'S CONTENTMENT, THE Fletcher 191 ANGLER'S DELECTATION, THE Dennys 146 ANGLER'S DELIGHT, THE Houston 298 ANGLER'S DREAM OF SPRING, THE Brown 58 ANGLER'S FAREWELL, THE Hood 1 50 ANGLER'S GRAVE, AN Stoddart 308 ANGLER'S INVITATION, THE Stoddart 23 ANGLER'S POSSESSIONS, THE Houston 170 ANGLER'S PRAYER, THE Wiborn 294 ANGLER'S QUESTION, THE Kingsley 26 ANGLER'S REVEILLE, THE Van Dyke. ... 28 ANGLER'S SONG, THE Basse 295 ANGLER'S SONG, THE Dexter 276 ANGLER'S SONNET, AN Lincoln 286 ANGLER'S TOAST, THE Jeffries 283 ANGLER'S TRYSTING-TREE, THE Stoddart 58 ANGLER'S VINDICATION, THE Stoddart 259 ANGLER'S WISH, THE Walton 226 ANGLING Doubleday .... 74 ANGLING Fisher 78 ANGLING Pope 248 ANGLING REVERIES Ward 233 APPEAL FROM OUR FINNY FRIENDS, AN Bracken 206 APRIL ON TWEED Lang 1 28 AT BROAD RIPPLE Riley 26 BAIT, THE Donne 91 BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN, THE Holmes 292 BALLADE OF THE BASS, THE ' .Anonymous. . . 232 BALLADE OF THE GAMEFISH Rice 43 15 16 INDEX BY TITLES BALLADE OF THE FALSE AND THE TRUE Stinson 281 BIG-MOUTH BLACK BASS, THE Mather 259 BLACK-BASS-FISHING IN WESTERN STREAMS. .McLellan 191 BLUEFISH, THE McLellan 240 BLUE-NOSED WORM, THE Mackie 67 BONNIE TWEED, THE Stoddart 228 BONNY TWEED FOR ME! THE Foster 223 BOY AND His DAD, A Guest 81 BOY ANGLER, THE McLellan 97 BOY'S SONG, A Hogg 198 BRING THE ROD, THE LINE, THE REEL! Stoddart 274 BROOK, THE Tennyson 1 25 BROOK TROUT, THE McGaffey 221 BY THE STREAM O'Brien 1 88 CALL OF THE STREAM, THE Crandall 1 54 CASTIN' Willis 174 CHANGE OF BAIT, A McCrea 54 CHANNEL BASS FISHING Simmons 237 CLAM MAN, THE Gushing 235 COACHMAN, THE Isys 134 CONUNDRUM OF THE AGES, THE Sharpe 90 COROMANDEL FlSHERS Naidu 74 DARKY'S RAINY DAY Dunbar 38 DOWN AROUND THE RIVER Riley 1 36 DYING FISHERMAN, THE Mason 42 EEL-SPEARING BY TORCHLIGHT McLellan 284 FATE OF THE FATUOUS FISHERMAN Carry/ 287 FIRST FISHERMAN, THE Chalmers 113 FIRST WORM, THE Anonymous . . . 222 FISH Hunt 113 FISH, THE. . Brooke 141 FISH Is COIN TO BITE Hillel 218 FISH STORIES Morris 84 FISHER ONCE WAS I, A Parker 200 FISHER'S CALL, THE Chatto 207 FISHER'S JOY, THE Fletcher 292 FISHER'S WELCOME, THE Doubleday .... 214 FISHERMAN, THE Drayton 194 FISHERMAN, THE Guest 133 FISHERMAN, THE Scollard 190 FISHERMAN IN TOWN, A Stanton 1 79 FISHERMAN'S FEAST, THE Field 33 INDEX BY TITLES 17 FISHERMAN'S LIGHT, THE Moodie 1 67 FISHERMAN'S PETITION, A Judd 79 FISHERMEN, THE Whittier 210 FISHERMEN MEND THEIR NETS, THE Malloch 78 FISHERMEN THREE Adams 59 FISHIN' Bangs 44 FISHIN' Wilbur 254 FISHIN' TIME Lincoln 1 52 FISHIN' TIME Peck 268 FISHIN' WITH AN OLD BAMBOO Shaw 275 FISHING Burt 71 FISHING Gay 114 FISHING McGaffey 196 FISHING Malloch 309 FISHING Mason 80 FISHING Mitchell 197 FISHING Somerville 1 89 FISHING Van de Water . 289 FISHING Wilcox. 46 FISHING CURE, THE Guest 315 FISHING HOLE, THE Malloch 41 FISHING Is FINE WHEN THE POOL Is MUDDY . . Praed 1 59 FISHING LINES Adams 166 FISHING NOOKS Guest 217 FISHING OUTFIT, THE Guest 260 FISHING-PARTY, THE Riley 314 FISHING SONG Putnam 205 FLY CASTING Staff 168 FRESH RUN Cochrane 56 GIVE ME MINE ANGLE Shakespeare. . . 64 GOOD FISHING Phillips 119 HAMPSHIRE FLY-FISHING Isys 101 HAPPY ANGLER, THE Stoddart 1 29 HIDDEN POOL, THE Ross 140 Ho, FOR THE KANKAKEE! Thompson .... 234 HOLY- WELL POOL, THE Stoddart 164 HONEST ANGLER, THE Cotton 99 How MEN LIVE Shakespeare. . . 65 IN SUMMER Kerr 302 IN TROUTING TIME Bangs 130 INVETERATE ANGLER, THE Johnson 191 INVITATION, THE Kingsley 121 I WANT TO Go FISHING TO-DAY '.Shea 139 IZAAK WALTON'S PRAYER James 139 2 18 INDEX BY TITLES JUST A CHANCE THAT'S ALL Anonymous. . . 243 JUST KEEP FISHIN' Dean 157 KEEP FISHIN' Rose 256 KETCHIN' PICK'REL Jeffries 106 KING AND KID Mason 193 KING OF THE BROOK Kingsford 137 LAD AND THE DAD, THE Foley 36 LAST CAST, THE Lang 264 LAY OF THE LEA, A Westwood 244 LEVEN WATER Smollett 258 LONG ISLAND TROUT, THE Hawes 55 MICHIGAN AGAIN Malloch 238 MODERN SPORT Adams 144 Music OF THE REEL, THE Isys 48 MY BEST KENTUCKY REEL Buckham 60 MY FAVORITE BOOK O'Connell 62 MY LADY FISHES Getchell 185 NORTH COUNTRY FLY-FISHING Isys 103 OFF TO THE FISHING GROUND Montgomery. . . 297 OLD ANGLER'S DREAM, THE Elliott 184 OLD HOME HAUNTS, THE Clarke. ....... 201 OLD MILL BY THE RIVER, THE McLellan 277 OLD SONG, AN Anonymous ... 194 ON A BANK As I SATE A-FISHING Wotton 206 ON A RIVER BANK So GREEN Stanton 35 ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN Scott 186 ON THE HOOK Adams 242 OUR BIGGEST FISH Field 311 OUT FISHIN' Guest 24 PISCATOR, DON'T BRAG Osborne 303 PLEASANT'ST ANGLING, THE Shakespeare. . . 64 POMPANO OF FLORIDA, THE McLellan 219 POOR FEESH ! Appleton 51 PROTEST OF THE BROOK TROUT Hallock 307 REAL BAIT, THE Guest 178 RHYME OF LITTLE FISHES, A Gilman 146 "RISE," A McGaffey 302 RIVER, THE Stoddart 1 72 RONDEAU Newberry 125 INDEX BY TITLES 19 SAINT PATRICK Blakey 285 SALMON Sage 85 SALMON, THE Isys 279 SALMON FISHERMAN, THE Greenwood. . . . 255 SALMON FLY, THE Keene 92 SALMON OF LABRADOR McLellan 305 SALMON RUN, THE Foster 161 SEA-TROUT GREY, THE Stoddart 239 SMALL-MOUTH BLACK BASS, THE Mather 258 SONG Stoddart 132 SONG OF THE ROD AND REEL, THE Brewer 123 SONG OF THE RUNNING REEL, THE Aiken 241 SPEARING Street 168 SPECKLED TROUT, THE Cawein 148 SPORT ROYAL Hundley 99 SPRING Thomson 1 74 SPRING FEVER Malloch 1 20 SPRING Is ON THE WIRE Morris 180 STRIPED BASS, THE McLellan 225 STRIPED BASS CRANK, THE Cawthorne .... 299 SUMMER ON THAMES Bridges 1 58 TAKING OF THE SALMON, THE Stoddart 246 THAT TROUT Sears 249 THEY WENT A-FISHING Anonymous ... 145 THREE FISHERS, THE Kingsley 86 To A FISH OF THE BROOK Wolcot 80 To AN OLD FRIEND Chalmers 66 To A TROUT Montague 304 To MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. IZAAK WALTON Cotton 262 To MY DEAR BROTHER IZAAK WALTON Floud 263 To MY TROUT ROD Douglas 105 To THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY Cowper 83 To THE OCCASIONAL ANGLER Leggo 75 TROLLING SONG Stoddart 65 TROUT, THE Isys 230 TROUT BROOK, THE Waring 107 TROUT FISHING Connolly 270 TROUT FISHER'S PLEASURES, THE Westwood 289 TROUTING Trowbridge 250 TROUT SEASON WIDOW, THE Malloch 173 UNATTAINABLE, THE Chalmers 212 UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE Riley 109 20 INDEX BY TITLES VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER Holmes 266 WALTON'S "COMPLEAT ANGLER" Westwood 136 WATCHING THE MINNOWS Keats 270 WAYS OF THE FISHERMAN, THE Bunyan 119 WE'VE ALL SEEN HIM Smith 199 WHAT BOTHERS HIM Stanton 192 WHEN A BASS GETS ON MY LINE Allen 94 WHEN JENNY COME ALONG Stanton 84 WHEN THE FISH BEGIN TO BITE Stinson 1 56 WHEN THE FISHING BOATS Go OUT Montgomery. . . 87 WHEN THE FISHIN' POLE Is NODDIN' Stanton 311 WHEN THIS OLD ROD WAS NEW McLellan 1 59 WHEN TULIPS BLOOM Van Dyke 1 26 WHEN You Woodruff 50 WHERE THE REDEYES BITE Staff 177 WICKED FISHERMAN, THE Browne 124 WINDING STREAM, THE Dublin 131 WITH ROD AND REEL Rose 183 WORM-FISHING Browne 227 WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE COM- PLEAT ANGLER" Wordsworth ...157 YELLOW FINS o' YARROW, THE Stoddart 216 YE WARDERS OF THE WATERS. . . .Stoddart 208 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE ANGLER'S INVITATION Come when the leaf comes, angle with me, Come when the bee hums over the lea, Come with the wild flowers Come with the mild showers Come when the singing bird calleth for thee! Then to the stream side gladly we'll hie, Where the grey trout glide silently by; Or in some still place Over the hill face Hurrying onward, drop the light fly. Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speed To our own loved walls down on the mead, There, by the bright hearth, Holding our night mirth, We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed. Thomas Tod Stoddart. 24 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN OUT FISHIN' A feller isn't thinkin' mean, Out fishin' ; His thoughts are mostly good an' clean, Out fishin'. He doesn't knock his fellow men, Or harbor any grudges then; A feller's at his finest when Out fishin'. The rich are comrades to the poor, Out fishin' ; All brothers of the common lure, Out fishin'. The urchin with the pin an' string Can chum with millionaire an' king; Vain pride is a forgotten thing, Out fishin'. A feller gits a chance to dream, Out fishin' ; He learns the beauties of a stream, Out fishin' ; An' he can wash his soul in air That isn't foul with selfish care, An' relish plain and simple fare, Out fishin'. A feller has no time fer hate, Out fishin' ; OUT FISHIN' 25 He isn't eager to be great, Out fishin'. He isn't thinkin' thoughts of pelf, Or goods stacked high upon a shelf, But he is always just himself, Out fishin'. A feller's glad to be a friend, Out fishin' ; A helpin' hand he'll always lend, Out fishin'. The brotherhood of rod an' line An' sky and stream is always fine; Men come real close to God's design, Out fishin'. A feller isn't plotting schemes, Out fishin' ; He's only busy with his dreams, Out fishin'. His livery is a coat of tan, His creed to do the best he can; A feller's always mostly man, Out fishin'. Edgar A. Guest. From "The Path to Home." Copyrighted by and permission from Reilly & Lee Co. 26 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE ANGLER'S QUESTION I cannot tell what you say, green leaves, I cannot tell what you say: But I know that there is a spirit in you, And a word in you this day. I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, I cannot tell what you say: But I know that there is a spirit in you, And a word in you this day. I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, I cannot tell what you say: But I know that in you too a spirit doth live, And a word doth speak this day. Charles Kingsley AT BROAD RIPPLE Ah, Luxury! Beyond the heat And dust of town, with dangling feet, Astride the rock below the dam, In the cool shadows where the calm Rests on the stream again, and all Is silent save the waterfall, I bait my hook and cast my line, And feel the best of life is mine. No high ambition may I claim I angle not for lordly game Of trout, or bass, a wary bream AT BROAD RIPPLE 27 A black perch reaches the extreme Of my desires; and "goggle-eyes" Are not a thing that I despise; A sunfish, or a "chub," or "cat" A "silver-side" yea, even that! In eloquent tranquillity The waters lisp and talk to me. Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks, As some proud bass an instant shakes His glittering armor in the sun, And romping ripples, one by one, Come dallying across the space Where undulates my smiling face. The river's story flowing by, Forever sweet to ear and eye, Forever tenderly begun Forever new and never done. Thus lulled and sheltered in a shade Where never feverish cares invade, I bait my hook and cast my line, And feel the best of life is mine. James Whitcomb Riley. From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The 28 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light; 'Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille. This is the carol the Robin throws Over the edge of the valley; Listen how boldly it flows, Sally on sally: Tirra-lirra, Early morn, New born! Day is near, Clear, clear. Down the river All a-quiver, Fish are breaking- Time for waking. Tup, tuff, tup! Do you hear? All clear Wake up! THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 29 The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark, And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond- fields of dew, While every voice cries out, "Rejoice!" as if the world were new. This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, Unto his mate replying, Shaking the tune from his wings While he is flying: Surely, surely, surely Life is dear Even here. Blue above, You to love, Purely, purely, purely. There's wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell, And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well ; The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink. This is the song of the Yellowthroat, Fluttering gaily beside you; Hear how each voluble note Offers to guide you : 30 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Which way, sir? I say, sir, Let me teach you: I beseech you! Are you wishing Jolly fishing? This way, sir! ril teach you. Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your fears behind, And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind; For be your fortune great or small, you'll take what God may give, And all the day your heart shall say, "Tis luck enough to live." This is the song the Brown Thrush flings Out of his thicket of roses; Hark how it bubbles and rings, Mark how it closes: Luck, luck, What luck? Good enough for me, 7'm alive, you see! Sun shining, No repining; Never borrow Idle sorrow; THE ANGLER 31 Drop it! Cover it up! Hold your cup! Joy will fill it, Dorit spill it, Steady, be ready, Good luck! Henry Van Dyke. From "Poems of Henry Van Dyke." Copyright, 1911, 1920, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers. THE ANGLER Oh! the gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any; 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, And 'tis beloved by many: Other joys Are but toys, Only this Lawful is; For our skill Breeds no ill, But content and pleasure. In a morning up we rise, Ere Aurora's peeping: Drink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping: Then we go To and fro, 32 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN With our knacks At our backs, To such streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure. When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectations : Where in a brook With a hook, Or a lake, Fish we take; There we sit, For a bit, Till we fish entangle. We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too; We can watch both night and morn Suffer rain and storms too; None do here Use to swear, Oaths do fray Fish away; We sit still, And watch our quill ; Fishers must not wrangle. THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST 33 If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier-hedge we get For a friendly shelter; Where in a dyke Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon Without grudging; We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow ; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath: Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented. Izaak Walton ('John Chalkhiir). THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST Of all the gracious gifts of Spring, Is there another can surpass This delicate, voluptuous thing, This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? 34 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Upon a damask napkin laid, What exhalations superfine Our gustatory nerves pervade, Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine ! The ancients loved this noble fish; And, coming from the kitchen fire All piping hot upon a dish, What raptures did he not inspire ? "Fish should swim twice," they used to say,- Once in their native, vapid brine, And then again, a better way You understand ; fetch on the wine ! Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, How often have I cast for you, How often sadly seen you scud Where weeds and water-lilies grew ! How often have you filched my bait, How often snapped my treacherous line! Yet here I have you on this plate, You shall swim twice, and now in wine. And harkee, gargon ! let the blood Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him, Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood This piscatorial pride should swim; So, were he living, he would say He gladly died for me and mine, And, as it were his native spray, He'd lash the sauce what, ho ! the wine ! ON A RIVER BANK SO GREEN 35 I would it were ordained for me To share your fate, O finny friend ! I surely were not loath to be Reserved for such a noble end ; For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, At last reels in his ruthless line, What were my ecstasy to swim In wine, in wine, in glorious wine! Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, Come hither every year and bring The boons provocative of mirth ; And should your stock of bass run low, However much I might repine, I think I might survive the blow, If plied with wine and still more wine! Eugene Field. From "Poems of Eugene Field." Copyright, 1910, by Julia S. Field. Charles Scribner's Sons. ON A RIVER BANK SO GREEN I sorter look away off, Where the sky is all serene, An' I want to take a day off On a river bank so green. Fish, fish, fish, An' the line a-goin' "Swish!" (Oh, the perch is sich a beauty When he's fried an' in the dish !) 36 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN The trees like big umbrellas, Hide the hot sun from yer view Dip their green leaves in the river, Till they drip with crystal dew ! Fish, fish, fish, An' the line a-goin' "Swish!" (Oh, the perch just fits the palate, When he's fried an' in the dish !) So I sorter look away off, Where the river bank I see; An' the Wind says: 'Take a day off, An' go loafin' roun' with me!" Fish, fish, fish, An' the line a-goin' "Swish!" (Oh, the perch he is just so purty When he's fried an' in the dish !) Frank L. Stanton. Permission of "Forest and Stream." THE LAD AND THE DAD My friend, Johnny Jones, once played hookey from school, (A quite reprehensible thing!) In plain contradiction of precept and rule, (A most inexcusable thing !) Played hookey with many a sly, backward look, Till he found him a seat by the bank of the brook, Where he skilfully wriggled a worm on a hook, (A most inexcusable thing!) THE LAD AND THE DAD 37 His desk was deserted, his slate lay there spurned, (A clearly intolerable thing!) His books all unread and his lessons unlearned, (A quite impermissible thing!) He fished with some qualms when he thought of his sin, And the schoolroom where properly he should have been But Oh, what his joy when he drew a fish in ! (A terrible, terrible thing!) My friend, Johnny Jones, smelled of fish at the eve, (Quite truly a dangerous thing !) There was mud on his trousers and some on his sleeve, (A quite unexplainable thing!) So when he got home Father Jones crisply said : "I'll see you a minute or two in the shed," And he whipped Johnny soundly and put him to bed, (A parentally admirable thing!) My friend, Jones the elder, one hot Summer day, (A natural, natural thing,) Pulled down his desk-top, put his papers away, (A very explainable thing,) And said as he pulled his desk shut with a jerk: "I'm off for some place where the game fishes lurk, I'm blessed if this life should be made just for work!" (A really quite sensible thing.) So he left all his books and his papers and bills, (You'll agree an excusable thing,) And took himself off to the woods and the hills, (A truly forgivable thing!) 38 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN He fished with some qualms when he thought of the bills And the papers and books, but the joy of the rills In the brooks and the call of the woods and the hills ! (A quite understandable thing!) He didn't play hookey ! Oh no, not at all, ('Twas a really quite sensible thing!) But Johnny Jones did, as perhaps you recall That quite reprehensible thing. But the spirit of vagrancy Johnny Jones had Was much the same spirit as that of his Dad, And I say there's small choice between Dad and the Lad, (A really heretical thing!) James W. Foley. From "Friendly Rhymes." Copyrighted by and permission from E. P. Dut- ton & Co. DARKY'S RAINY DAY Wen I git up in de mo'nin' an' de clouds is big an' black, Dey's a kin* o' wa'nin' shivah goes a-scootin' down my back; Den I says to my ol' ooman ez I watches down de lane, "Don't you so't o' reckon, Lizy, dat we gwine to have some rain?" "Go on, man," my Lizy answah, "you cain't fool me, not a bit, I don't see no rain a-comin', ef you's wishin' fu' it, quit; DARKY'S RAINY DAY 39 Case de mo' you t'ink erbout it, an' de mo' you pray an' wish, W'y, de rain stay 'way de longah, speshul ef you wants to fish." But I see huh pat de skillet, an' I see huh cas' huh eye Wid a kin' o' anxious motion to'ds de da'kness in de sky ; An' I knows whut she's a-t'inkin', dough she tries so ha'd to hide. She's a-sayin', "Wouldn't catfish now tas'e mon'trous bully, fried?" Den de clouds git black an' blackah, an' de thundah 'mence to roll, An' de rain, it 'mence a-fallin'. Oh, I's happy, bless my soul! Ez I look at dat ol' skillet, an' I 'magine I kin see Jes' a slew o' new-ketched catfish sizzlin' daih fu' huh an' me. Taint no use to go a-ploughin', fu' de groun'll be too wet, So I puts out fu' de big house at a moughty pace, you bet, An' ol' mastah say, "Well, Lishy, ef you t'ink hit's gwine to rain, Go on fishin', hit's de weathah, an' I 'low we cain't complain." Talk erbout a dahky walkin' wid his haid up in de aih ! Have to feel mine evah minute to be sho' I got it daih; 40 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN En' de win' is cuttin' capahs an' a-lashin' thoo de trees, But de rain keeps on a-singin' blessed songs, lak "Tek yo' ease." Wid my pole erpon my shouldah an' my wo'm can in my han', I kin feel de fish a-waitin' we' en I strikes de rivah's san' ; Nevah min', you ho'ny scoun'els, need'n' swim erroun' an' grin, I'll be grinnin' in a minute w'en I 'mence to haul you in. Wen de fish begin to nibble, an' de co'k begin to jump, I'se erfeahed dat dey'll quit bitin', case deh hyeah my hea't go "thump," Twell de co'k go way down undah, an' I raise a awful shout, Ez a big ol' yallah belly comes a gallivantin' out. Needn't wriggle, Mistah Catfish, case I got you jes' de same, You been eatin', I'll be eatin', an' we needah ain't to blame. But you needn't feel so lonesome fu' I's th'owin' out to see Ef dey ain't some of yo' comrades fu' to keep you com- pany. Spo't, dis fishin' ! now you talkin', w'y dey ain't no kin* to beat; I don' keer ef I is soakin', laigs, an' back, an' naik, an' feet, THE FISHING HOLE 41 It's de spo't I's lookin' aftah. Hit's de pleasure an' de fun, Dough I knows dat Lizy's waitin' wid de skillet w'en I's done. Paul Lawrence Dunbar. From "Complete Poems," Dodd, Mead & Co. THE FISHING HOLE I know a dandy place to fish, The kind of place that makes you wish There never was no work er school, An' all you had to do was fool Around all day with line an' pole An' pull 'em out of that there hole. The Crick is swifter there a lot But, to one side, there is a spot Among the boulders by the hill, An' there the water's always still. There water-beetles like to ride An' there is where the big ones hide. A bunch of spruce an' cedar grows Beside the fishin' hole an' throws Its shade across that little pool An' keeps it always dark an' cool The hottest days I tell you what There ain't no better fishin' spot! 42 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN An' all you need is just a fly An' keep it sort of drift in' by So it will ketch the fishes' eyes An', jiminy, how they will rise! There ain't no place on all the crick The big ones seems to be so thick. The poorest fisherman, I guess, Could go up there an' git a mess ; An' all you need is line an' pole To pull 'em out of that there hole. What's that? Where is it? -Well, You needn't think I'm goin' to tell! Douglas Malloch. THE DYING FISHERMAN Once a fisherman was dying in his humble, lowly cot, and the pastor sat beside him saying things that hit the spot, so that all his futile terrors left the dying sinner's heart, and he said: "The journey's lonely, but I'm ready for the start. There is just one little matter that is fretting me," he sighed, "and perhaps I'd better tell it ere I cross the Great Divide. I have got a string of stories that I've told from day to day; stories of the fish I've captured, and the ones that got away, and I fear that when I tell them they are apt to stretch a mile; and I wonder when I'm wafted to that land that's free from guile, if they'll let me tell my stories if I try to tell them straight, or will angels BALLADE OF THE GAMEFISH 43 lose their tempers then, and chase me through the gate?" Then the pastor sat and pondered, for the question vexed him sore; never such a weird conun- drum had been sprung on him before. Yet the courage of conviction moved him soon to a reply, and he wished to fill the fisher with fair visions of the sky: "You can doubtless tell fish stories," said the clergyman, aloud, "but I'd stretch them very little if old Jonah's in the crowd." Walt Mason. From "Walt Mason: His Book," Barse & Hopkins. BALLADE OF THE GAMEFISH "Only the gamefish swims upstream" Colonel John Trotwood Moore. Where the puddle is shallow, the weakfish stay To drift along with the current's flow; To take the tide as it moves each day With the idle ripples that come and go; With a shrinking fear of the gales that blow By distant coasts where the Great Ports gleam; Where the far heights call through the silver glow, "Only the gamefish swims upstream." Where the shore is waiting, the minnows play, Borne by the current's undertow; Drifting, fluttering on their way, Bound by a fate that has willed it so; In the tree-flung shadows they never know How far they have come from the old, brave dream ; Where the wild gales call from the. peaks of snow, "Only the gamefish swims upstream." 44 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Where the tide rolls down in a flash of spray And strikes with the might of a bitter foe, The shrimp and the sponge are held at bay Where the dusk winds call and the sun sinks low; They call it Fate in their endless woe As they shrink in fear when the wild hawks scream From the crags and crests where the great thorns grow, "Only the gamefish swims upstream." Held with the current the Fates bestow, The driftwood moves to a sluggish theme, Nor heeds the call which the Far Isles throw, "Only the gamefish swims upstream." Grantland Rice. Permission of the Author. From "The Sportlight." FISHIN' Don't ye talk to me of work! I'm jest goin' fishin' Where the speckled beauties lurk, Round the pools a-swishin'. Ne'er a thought have I of care, Settin' on a green bank there, Drinkin' in the soft June air, Void of all ambition ! I don't care much what I ketch, Long as I am anglin'. What I carry, what I fetch, On my string a-danglin'. FISHIN' 45 Makes no difference to me Some or none, whiche'er it be While I'm off there wholly free From all scenes of wranglin'. Fishin' ain't jest ketchin' fish In a pond or river Though a fresh trout on a dish Makes ye sort o' shiver Fishin's settin' on some spot Where it's neither cold ner hot, Without thinkin' on your lot Fortune, love, or liver. Fishin's gettin' far away From all noise and flurry; Gettin' off where you can play Nothin's in a hurry; There to sort o' loaf, and set, Blind to all the things that fret, And forgettin' all regret, Quarrils, cares, and worry. Yessir! I'll give up ambition, And fer fame and fortune wishin' Any day to go a-fishin' ! John Kendrick Bangs. From "The Foothills of Parnassus," The Macmfflan Co. 46 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN FISHING Maybe this is fun, sitting in the sun, With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes, While he dips his line in the ocean brine, Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes. Tis romantic, yes, but I must confess Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting. But I dare not move "Quiet, there, my love!" Says my Angler, "for I think a monster fish is biting." Oh, of course it's bliss, but how hot it is! And the rock I'm sitting on grows harder every minute ; Still my fisher waits, trying various baits, But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it. Oh, it's just the way to pass a July day, Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming, But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way that insect crawls Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming. "Any luck?" I gently ask of the angler at his task, "There's something pulling at my line," he says; "I've almost caught it." THE ANGLER'S CHANT 47 But when, with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace, We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. From "Poems of Pleasure," W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago, I1L THE ANGLER'S CHANT Ah, the shriek of the reel, the trout-fisher's reel ! No sound is so sweet to the ear; The hum of the line, the buzz of the wheel! Where the crystalline brook runs so clear. Here's a shade on the stream where the willows bend down, Where the waters sleep drowsy and dim, And there where the ripples whirl amber and brown The lords of the rivulets swim. Then fling the light tackle with delicate cast, Let your fly like a cobweb alight, A dash and a splash, and the victim is fast, While your reel sings a song of delight. See, yonder a green-moss'd boulder enchecks The stress of the turbulent tides, And there amid bubbles and foam-bell flecks The gold-spotted brook-trout hides. 48 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN The sweet breezes blow, the morning sun shines, The white clouds drift slow down the sky; Tis a day that is perfect for sport with the lines, For artistic cast of the fly. Ah, haste to the shore, brother angler, to-day, On the weedy gray rock take your place, Where the surf, at its base, makes glorious race, And, like rainbows, glitters the spray! Cast your eye o'er the blue expanse of sea; How lovely, how grand is the scene! The great rolling waves, now dusky, now green, Forever rejoicing and free. See the flash of the bluefish over the main, The gleam of the bright striped bass ! Then the braided line fling, let the reel hum its strain, And so the gay moments shall pass. Isaac McLellan. THE MUSIC OF THE REEL Song for the Opening of the Trout Season. Hail! soft and genial vernal morn! Hail! brooklet flowing clear! O, joy, with rod in hand again To greet our opening year ! THE MUSIC OF THE REEL 49 While Hope's bright pleasure? cheer my heart, And o'er my fancy steal, As on my ear so sweetly rings The music of the reel ! It sings of winter past and gone, Of daily lengthening hours, When sunny spring shall gaily bring The cuckoo and the flowers ; When oft amid the meads my rod Shall lightly wave, and feel The leaping trout arise and ring The music of the reel ! Nor Hope lone is in the tone This sweetest music gives, But many a happy memory wakes, Thus started, and re-lives Of morn and eve by river side, And easeful noon-day meal, While slept upon the resting sod, The music of the reel ! But Hope o'er Memory now prevails, And fans her forward wing; And as I lift anew the rod I hear her cheerly sing May coming days be best of all, And fuller fill the creel, And richer spoil reward thy toil With music from the reel ! 'Cotswold Isys. 50 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN WHEN YOU When you stop a week at the best hotel And stay within sound of the dinner bell, With a can of worms and a bamboo stick And catch fifty-nine perch and twelve bluegills quick, You're a fisherman, Yes, sir, you're a fisherman! When you start at dawn with a box of grub And a lot of minnows alive in a tub, And fill the boat as the swift hours pass With a mess of croppies and several bass, You're an angler, Yes, sir, you're an angler! When you hire a "pusher" to handle the oars And cast every foot by the weedy shores, Throw your frog through a hole six inches wide And get a strike on the other side, You're a caster, Yes, sir, you're a caster! When you strike the lake while the fishing's bad And there's not a decent fish to be had, You land a half-pounder and throw him back in And return at night with a happy grin, You're a sportsman, By gad, you're a sportsman! Paul H. Woodruff. Permission of "Field and Stream." POOR FEESH 51 POOR FEESH! I hate fishing Most overrated amusement Known. But because it's Cruel, Senseless, And old as sin It's thrillingly popular! Fishermen for fun Always says it's "sport". How do they Get that way? Might as well Sit in the back yard, With a rod, And line, And reel, And fly-baited hook, And "cast" back of the Syringa-bush until Some foolish, inoffensive bird Darts down and makes A "strike". Then, when it's reeled in, Souse it in the Rain barrel, so it Can't breathe, (Any more than a 52 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Fish can, out of water,) And think well Of yourself! The bird would Fight as hard as Any mountain-stream trout, Or lake bass, so There's your "sport." Fishermen, as such, Spend interminable hours Playing a rotten game Like that, on opponents Without a come-back, All the way from trout To tarpon. And when "a bunch of beauties" Is basketed, (Minus the biggest-one- That-got-away, of course), The fisherman runs A string through the gills And gaping mouths of the dying catch, Ties one end of the line To a tree, the other To a tent-pole, Strikes a chesty "This-is-nothing-unusual" pose, And has friend guide Take a snapshot POOR FEESH 53 With the camera as close As possible, To make the fish Look bigger. Ninety-nine out of Every one hundred fishermen Don't actually crave Fish for food Much as they need it For brain development. They just fish, And brag, And lie, And bluff, And return home Full of importance, Large gestures, Patronizing remarks, And chiggers. Then on the quiet Canned salmon or sardines Are game enough for them. No wonder a peevish shark Now and then resents Some man invading the ocean, And bites off An arm or leg or two. Strength to its jaws! 54 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN I hate fishing And all those blurbs About it being such Wonderful sport. Wonderful? Uh-huh! About as wonderful As swatting flies. Anyway I never have any luck. Jack Appleton. A CHANGE OF BAIT A sunburned kid, with a tattered lid, And a coat a size too large, With a piece of twine, for a fishing line, Sits fishing on a barge That's tied to a stake, at the edge of the lake, Where the wavelets gently lap, It's a kind of a sin, but I sit and grin, As I watch the little chap Transfix a worm, that will wiggle and squirm, On the end of his fishing hook, Or a small green frog, that he caught in the bog, On the other side of the brook. He's proud of the job, of the floating bob, That he's tied to his line with care, There's a sudden swish, as he lands his fish, From the depths of its hidden lair, THE LONG ISLAND TROUT 55 It is proudly viewed, and the bait renewed From the can where he keeps his store, Then he lets it drop, with a sudden plop, In his eager quest for more, And he gets them, too, for they come to view In the twinkling of an eye, And I'm clean outdone, for never a one, Will come where I'm sitting by. For, much as I wish, there's never a fish Will rise to my tempting fly, And my bran-new reel, on my rod of steel, I ' ve never a chance to try, For they pass my place, to the freckled face Of the lad in the anchored punt, Keep swimming past, as I make my cast, In my vain and useless hunt For a fish that will try, to grab my fly, And be tempted on to its fate, So I go to the spot, where the fish are caught, And fish with a silver bait. John R. McCrea. Printed in and permission from "Rod and Gun in Canada." THE LONG ISLAND TROUT Down in the deep Dark holes I keep, And there, in the noontide, I float and sleep; By the hemlock log And the springing bog And the arching alders, I lie incog. 56 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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."). FRESH RUN 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?" FRESH RUN 57 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?" Alfred Cochrane. From "Collected Verses." 58 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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. L. F. Brown. 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? FISHERMEN THREE 59 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. 60 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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. St. Clair Adams. MY BEST KENTUCKY REEL "To my friend, Hon. Graver 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. MY BEST KENTUCKY REEL 61 But, ah ! for sake of old lang syne, For sake of friendship long and leal, Take, with a comrade's lasting love, My best Kentucky reel. How oft your ardent eyes have said, "Ah me! how beautiful and rare, With music in its silken click, And graven with such loving care!" You never said, "I'd like it, Joe; I envy you from head to heel" ; But, Grover, well I knew you craved My best Kentucky reel ! And now it's yours, fond friend and best, Your undisputed own for aye, To sing to you beside the stream Through many a bloom-white April day To sing, I fain would think, of me, When soft thoughts o'er your spirits steal, And you can hear me prating of My best Kentucky reel. I pray you treat it well, old chum, And keep it oiled and polished bright, And never lay it damp away, Though you come weary home at night. I've held in trust, I give in trust, A very masterpiece of steel. So cherish lovingly, dear friend, My best Kentucky reel. 62 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN God speed you, fellow fisherman, Beside the roaring brook, And many a crimson-spotted trout Send surging up to try your hook. Oh! would that I could still stand by, Or with the net in triumph kneel, While o'er the brawling turmoil sings My best Kentucky reel ! But I have said my last farewell To all the streams I used to know, Content, if you will sometimes stop And think a while of Angler Joe, Lie on some bank we used to love, And let old memories o'er you steal, Meantime a tear, that shall not rust, Dries on my best Kentucky reel. James Buckham. Permission of "The Independent and The Weekly Review." MY FAVORITE BOOK Of all books in my library, the one I cherish most Is a book of ringing poems, and I read them o'er and o'er; They sing to me of the woodland, they whisper of the coast, When I watched the sounding river dash its waters on the shore. MY FAVORITE BOOK 63 Tis a fly-book, old and battered, and to its covers cling The scales of good fish captured in riffle and in pool ; And when I part those covers, the birds begin to sing, And the south wind on my forehead blows lovingly and cool, And the low of homing cattle is borne up from the lea. How the murmur of the river is musical, yet strange, For the voice of running water has ever been to me A monition of the progress of that mighty law of change, Saying, "Come into the woodland while thy heart doth still retain Its buoyancy and freshness, and breathe these pleasant airs; To all men comes that moment when nothing will remain Of the memory of the past time but its worries and its cares." I look into my fly-book: 'tis a gallery to me Of pictures of old places, old streams, old battles, when The strong fish leaped and bounded in his struggles to be free, And I fought him through the river, past the bridge and up the glen. 64 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Thus, when weary of the city, and tired of other books, I gaze into my fly-book, and, lo! is with me now The voice of homing cattle and the murmur of the brooks, And Mother Nature's greeting is pressed upon my brow. Daniel O'ConnelL From "Songs of Bohemia," A. M. Robertson Co. THE PLEASANT'ST ANGLING The pleasant 'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait. William Shakespeare. YM*uch Ado About Nothing," III. 1. 26. GIVE ME MINE ANGLE Cleo. Give me mine angle ; we'll to the river: there My music playing far off I will betray Tawny-finn'd fishes; my bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws; and, as I draw them up, I'll think them every one an Antony, And say, 'Ah, ha! you're caught.' Char. 'Twas merry when You wager'd on your angling; when your diver Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up. Cleo. That time O times! I laugh'd him out of patience. William Shakespeare. "Antony and Cleopatra," II. 4. 10. TROLLING SONG 65 HOW MEN LIVE Third Fish. Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tumbled? they say they're half fish half flesh; a plague on them! they ne'er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea. First Fish. Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones; I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale; a plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful. Such whales have I heard on o' the land, who never leave gaping till they've swal- lowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells, and all. William Shakespeare. "Pericles," II. 1. 25. TROLLING SONG The bell-throats o' the bonny birds ring, When the angler goes a-trolling ; The south wind waves his cheery wing, And gentle rains are falling. The white thorn bears its bridal wreath, When the angler goes a-trolling ; And hark ! along the bloomy heath The plaintive plover calling ! Breezy and brown the rivers glide, When the angler goes a-trolling; The dark burns leave the green hill-side Among the pebbles brawling. 66 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Upon the meadow, by the springs The quiet herds are lolling; All earth is full of happy things When the angler goes a-trolling! Thomas Tod Stoddart. TO AN OLD FRIEND The end draws near again, and very near, The first few fluttered beech leaves fall and gleam Light skirmishers that dog the dying year But still I see you down below the weir, A shadow in the stream! Here have you lurked since spring, in sportive guise, Rallied the meadows to young April's rout, Here first I marked the marvel of your size, Here wooed you with each fleeting season's flies O alderman of trout ! Here, when the madcap cuckoo made his mock, And the rathe wild-rose blushed in earliest June, The day the mayfly hatched above the lock You nearly had it, didn't you, old cock, Save that you stopped too soon? Here have I waited as the dawn spread high, Hoping in vain the prejudice or pique That makes you obviously reject a fly Would send you hurtling through the startled fry To grab a proffered bleak! THE BLUE-NOSED WORM 67 Here likewise have my steps at eve been drawn, And, as the moon made way behind the wood (The same old moon that watched the hunting faun), I've found the lob- worm garnered from the lawn Did just as little good! And now the end is near; we part a space, You to your mud and I to mine in town; May Easter find us at the trysting-place, There where the dancing bubbles spin and race, To meet the first March Brown ! Patrick R. Chalmers. From "Green Days and Blue Days," The Norman, Remington Co. THE BLUE-NOSED WORM The good March Brown in April, May, Your labor sweet will better pay, But when the pink wild roses blow Or heather blooms, 'tis time to show The blue-nosed worm. "The thing's amiss," some critics sneer; "Tis dirty work and torture sheer," Yet empty baskets change their tune, And they discard, in leafy June, The fly, for worm. Alexander Mackie. From "The Art of Worm-fishing." 68 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE ANGLER'S BALLAD Away to the brook, All your tackle out-look, Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing; See that all things be right, For 'tis a very spite To want tools when a man goes a-fishing. Your rod with tops two For the same will not do, If your manner of angling you vary; And full well you may think, If you troll with a pink, One too weak will be apt to miscarry. Then basket, neat made By a master in's trade, In a belt at your shoulders must dangle; For none e'er was so vain To wear this to distain, Who a true brother was of the angle. Next, pouch must not fail, Stuff'd as full as a mail With wax, crewels, silk, hair, furs, and feathers, To make several flies For the several skies, That shall kill in despite of all weathers. THE ANGLER'S BALLAD 69 The boxes and books For your lines and your hooks, And, though not for strict need notwithstanding, Your scissors, and your hone To adjust your points on, With a net to be sure for your landing. All these being on, 'Tis high time we were gone, Down, and upward, that all may have pleasure; Till, here meeting at night, We shall have the delight To discourse of our fortunes at leisure. The day's not too bright, And the wind hits us right, And all nature does seem to invite us ; We have all things at will For to second our skill, As they all did conspire to delight us. On stream, now, or still, A large pannier we'll fill, Trout and grayling to rise are so willing; I dare venture to say 'Twill be a bloody day, And we all shall be weary of killing. Away, then, away, We lose sport by delay ; But first, leave all our sorrows behind us; 70 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN If Misfortune do come, We are all gone from home, And a-fishing she never can find us. The angler is free From the cares that degree Finds itself with, so often, tormented; And although we should slay Each a hundred to-day, Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repented. And though we display All our arts to betray What were made for man's pleasure and diet ; Yet both princes and states May, for all our quaint baits, Rule themselves and their people in quiet. We scratch not our pates, Nor repine at the rates Our superiors impose on our living; But do frankly submit, Knowing they have more wit In demanding, than we have in giving. Whilst in quiet we sit We conclude all things fit, Acquiescing with hearty submission; For, though simple, we know That soft murmurs will grow At the last into downright sedition FISHING 71 We care not who says, And intends it dispraise, That an angler t' a fool is next neighbor; Let him prate; what care we? We're as honest as he, And so let him take that for his labor. We covet no wealth But the blessing of health, And that greater, good conscience within; Such devotion we bring To our God and our king That from either no offers can win. Whilst we sit and fish, We do pray as we wish, For long life to our king, James the Second; Honest anglers then may, Or they've very foul play, With the best of good subjects be reckon'd. Charles Cotton. FISHING The days when I went fishing I would wake before the dawn, The moon a little lip of gold Above a silver lawn, Where, in a velvet pool of trees, A gray mist hung unstirred by breeze, Or any sound, so patiently The world bore night, it seemed to me. 72 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN The house was silent to my feet, Beneath a tip-toe tread; And I could see behind each door, Calm in a white-paned bed, An aunt, with high patrician nose, An uncle carmined ; there arose A smell of matting on the air, Sober and cooling everywhere. Beside the kitchen stove the cat Blinked twice with eyes of gold, And yawned with infinite contempt, For sleep is new, and old Is fishing; on the Nile, Once with mysterious feline guile, In moonlit, temple-shadowed bays, Were caught bright fins, in other days. The cat, the stove, the open door, Upon a miracle of sun ! O for the dew upon the grass : for the feet that dance and run ! And in the maple's tip-top spires The swaying song of passionate choirs ! 1 think that morning's finest joys Are saved for little fishing boys. Where trout lie there are white, white stones, With running water over ; And half the air is made of mint, And half is made of clover; FISHING 73 And slow clouds come and go and sail Like giant fish with lazy tail. A stream runs out a fine spun song From shadowy pools to laughter; A wood song, with a chorus clear, And a lilt and a chuckle after; For little pools with sunlight in Are like plucked notes of a violin, While through the mist of melodies Stirs ever the motif of the breeze : Some find bird carolling sweet at dawn, And some more sweet at noon ; But fishing boys like dusk, I think, For there's a hush that soon, When evening sends them homeward bound, Turns every field to tremulous sound, Where thrush and owl and meadow-lark Chant to the coming of the dark. The nights when I'd been fishing Were always very still, Save for the rustling of the leaves; A distant whippoorwill ; And in the sky a velvet-blue, The stars were golden fishes too; Swam slowly, swam into a dream Of white stones and a running stream. Maxwell Struthers Burt. From "Songs and Portraits." Published by special permission of Charles Scribner's Sons. 74 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN ANGLING Go, take thine angle, and with practised line, Light as the gossamer, the current sweep; And if thou failest in the calm still deep, In the rough eddy may the prize be thine. Say thou'rt unlucky where the sunbeams shine; Beneath the shadow, where the waters creep, Perchance the monarch of the brook shall leap For fate is ever better than design. Still persevere; the giddiest breeze that blows, For thee may blow with fame and fortune rife; Be prosperous and what reck if it arose Out of some pebble with the stream at strife; Or that the light wind dallied with the boughs? Thou are successful; such is human life. Thomas Doubleday. COROMANDEL FISHERS Rise, brothers, rise! The wakening skies pray to the morning light, The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night. Come, let us gather our nets from the shore, and set our catamarans free, To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the sons of the sea. No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea-gull's call, The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all. TO THE OCCASIONAL ANGLER 75 What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives? He who holds the storm by the hair will hide in His breast our lives. Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut-glade, and the scent of the mango-grove, And sweet are the sands at the fall of the moon with the sound of the voices we love. But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee : Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea! Sarojini Naidu. TO THE OCCASIONAL ANGLER If the times are unpropitious and you find your "catch" of fishes, As the sun is sinking westward, hasn't panned out quite the thing; There's a method, "on the quiet" ah, how many experts try it! That may, despite your failure, send you home with quite a "string." There are natives on the lookout for the man with pocketbook out, On a fun-and-fishing frolic, when the fates don't use him well; 76 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And he feels his reputation on a slippery, slim founda- tion They've a remedy convenient they have always fish to sell. Do you ask me how they get them? Why, they snare them and they net them, With the aid of vile "contraptions," which the game laws quite condemn; What they're after is your money; that's their manna, milk and honey, And the "modus operandi" matters not a jot to them. If, by look or by suggestion, you their plans should seem to question, You are simply wasting time, my friend; the truth they cannot speak. Ananias isn't "in it," they can tell more lies per minute Than that star prevaricator could engender in a week. Though of aspect dull and drowsy, though of locks unkempt and frowsy, Though of soiled and freckled cuticle, and costume rude and strange; In their frowziness and freckles, they're as keen in quest of sheckles, As the diamond-decked deceivers that vociferate "on change." In their nasal, jangling jargon, they're the boys to drive a bargain, And their weird and woful bearing knocks expostu- lation dumb; TO THE OCCASIONAL ANGLER 77 As they swear in gibbering gammon, they're the prey of pinching famine, Though their beards and breaths betoken much tobacco-juice and rum. Well, ignoring their devices, be prepared to pay their prices ; For, with india-rubber consciences, they'll "salt" you every time; Promptly pour them forth your treasure (you can curse them at your leisure), At the rate of, say, a dollar for a fish that's worth a dime. Then, triumphant, home returning, you will gratify the yearning, Of admiring friends and family, and thrilling tales you'll tell; Of the deep pools where you sought them, how they "struck" and how you "fought" them, While you picturesquely pose, a perfect Izaak Walton swell. So, when cometh your vacation, and, as means of recreation, You proceed to plot and plan a piscatorial "jam- boree"; Bear in mind no bait nor tackle, fluttering fly, nor fluffy hackle, Will be half so efficacious as the greenback marked with V. Ed. Leggo. 78 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN ANGLING The straining rod, the quivering line, And the whirr of the spinning reel, That thrill the heart like mellow wine, Are joys that fishermen feel, When a rainbow shoots, From the hollow roots Of the pine by the golden pool, And meets the sweep of the painted fly Descending out of the azure sky To rest on the waters cool. So give me a brook and a pleasant day, A line, a hook, and a bit of feather; And the world may follow its weary way, While the brook and I go trav'ling together. John W. Fisher, Jr. Permission of "Field and Stream." THE FISHERMEN MEND THEIR NETS Down by the sea when the world was young The fishermen mended their nets. Above the conqueror's banners hung From glittering minarets. Then came the conqueror's conqueror And a new flag kissed the dawn, Till another banner it fell before And the fishermen mended on. A FISHERMAN'S PETITION 79 So the kings arose and the kings went down And the new kings came to reign; And the flattened plain was a templed town And the town was a flattened plain. And the ages dawned and the ages died As the sun that rises, sets But down by the ebbing, flowing tide The fishermen mended their nets. We will take this world in our youthful hands, We will mould this world anew, We will put the people upon their lands Oh ! many the things to do ! Then the high hope fails that we hoped to be ; Then the end, and the old regrets. While down by the ebbing, flowing sea, The fishermen mend their nets. Douglas Malloch. A FISHERMAN'S PETITION O Ananias ! Father of all lies, Inspire me here beneath these summer skies, While I recline among mendacious guys, That I, too, may depict the phantom rise Of that "lost fish" of most enormous size. Give me the patience to sit calmly by, While amateurs with veterans gravely vie, Recounting deeds performed with rod and fly. Then help me tell the FINAL, CROWNING LIE! C. J. Judd. Permission of "Outing Magazine." 80 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN TO A FISH OF THE BROOK Why fleest thou away with fear? Trust me there's naught of danger here ; I have no wicked hook All covered with a tempting bait, Alas, to tempt thee to thy fate, And drag thee from the brook. harmless tenant of the flood, 1 do not wish to spill thy blood, For Nature unto thee Perchance has given a tender wife, And children dear, to charm thy life, As she hath done to me. Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish ; And when an angler for a dish, Through gluttony's vile sin, Attempts a wretch to pull thee out, God give thee strength, O gentle trout, To pull the rascal in! John Wolcot ("Peter Pindar'). FISHING I take my patent jointed pole, which cost me quite a hefty roll, and hie me to a sylvan nook, infested by a babbling brook, and there I sit, a patient scout, and fish, and fish, and fish for trout. Oh, my equipment's out of sight, in each detail exactly right. Through A BOY AND HIS DAD 81 Walton's stuff I often toil; I study up the works of Hoyle, to see just what I ought to buy, what kind of bait, what sort of fly. My reel and sinkers and my line imported are, and vastly fine. I bought my raiment at a shop where sporting vestments are on top. And so I sit and fish and fish, and think of what a princely dish we'll have at home when I return, with all the troutlets in the burn. But when at last I homeward go, I have no speckled trout to show. I have a grouch, a temper sore, my costly rig, and nothing more. And meantime Johnson's freckled lad goes toiling home- ward to his dad all burdened with a string of trout that weighs a ton, or thereabout. He caught them with a pole of pine to which was tied a cotton line. In agony my voice I lift, and ask you whither do we drift? There's something wrong with congress, sirs, when anything like this occurs. Walt Mason. Copyrighted by George Matthew Adams, 1919. A BOY AND HIS DAD A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip There is a glorious fellowship ! Father and son and the open sky And the white clouds lazily drifting by, And the laughing stream as it runs along With the clicking reel like a martial song, And the father teaching the youngster gay How to land a fish in the sportsman's way. 6 82 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN I fancy I hear them talking there In an open boat, and the speech is fair; And the boy is learning the ways of men From the finest man in his youthful ken. Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare With the gentle father who's with him there. And the greatest mind of the human race Not for a minute could take his place. Which is happier, man or boy? The soul of the father is steeped in joy, For he's finding out, to his heart's delight, That his son is fit for the future fight. He is learning the glorious depths of him, And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim, And he shall discover, when night comes on, How close he has grown to his little son. A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip Oh, I envy them, as I see them there Under the sky in the open air, For out of the old, old long-ago Come the summer days that I used to know, When I learned life's truths from my father's lips As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips Builders of life's companionships! Edgar A. Guest. From "When Day is Done." Copyrighted by and permission from Reilly & Lee Co. MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT 83 TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALI- BUT ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new-spawned, Lost in th' immensity of ocean's waste ? Roar as they might, the overbearing winds That rocked the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe And in thy minikin and embryo state, Attached to the firm leaf of some salt weed, Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and racked The joints of many a stout and gallant bark, And whelmed them in the unexplored abyss. Indebted to no magnet and no chart, Nor under guidance of the polar fire, Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, Grazing at large in meadows submarine, Where flat Batavia just emerging peeps Above the brine, where Caledonia's rocks Beat back the surge, and where Hibernia shoots Her wondrous causeway far into the main. Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st, And I not more, that I should feed on thee. Peace therefore, and good health, and much good fish, To him who sent thee ! and success, as oft As it descends into the billowy gulf, To the same drag that caught thee ! Fare thee well ! Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin Would envy, could they know that thou wast doomed To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. William Cowper. 84 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN WHEN JENNY COME ALONG Fishin' in the river, an' Jenny come along, Apern full of flowers, an' singin' of a song ; "Shame to ketch them fishes cruel 'tis an* wrong!" That wuz what she tol' me when Jenny come along. Fishin' pole wuz noddin' fish a-pullin' strong; Never had sich luck as that, when Jenny come along; Knowed she wuz a-comin', by the blossoms roun' the place; Water, like a lookin'-glass, showin' of her face. Wound up that 'ere tackle let the fishin' go: Walked with her through meadows, with daisies white as snow; Wind a-blowin' in my face the bright locks round her brow Never did like fishin' in a river, anyhow! Frank L. Stanton. Permission of "Forest and Stream." FISH STORIES What do the little fishes do That make most truthful men untrue, Whose word in all's as good as gold Until a fishing tale is told? A five-inch fish my friend pulled out His "monstrous catch" he talked about. To give its size oh wondrous charm! He measured off full half his arm. SALMON 85 It was a most elastic fish, Would stretch as far as he could wish. Each time he told the fable o'er The fish elongated the more. A crowd drew round to hear the tale; It last became a little whale. Its length he showed in all his pride His arms extended clear out wide ! Must he now give account for lies Like these, somewhere beyond the skies? Or will Saint Peter wink his eye, And understand, and let him by ? Joseph Morris. SALMON I The fish are in the river Where it cuts the greening hills ; And the murmur of the water With its precious secret thrills. The call to nature's dearest Goes forth throughout the land "Get your rod and tackle ready For the salmon are on hand." II The pool is hoarding treasure Where the rapid fails to slack. See the swirl upon the water ! There a big one showed his back. 86 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Hear the poles grit on the gravel As the boat is forced along! All the voices of the river Sound the salmon fisher's song. Ill The spray is wildly scattered And the silver lightning gleams As the king of fish leaps upward From the rainbow-riven streams. Get your Jocks and Silver Doctors, Dose, and Dusty Millers, too, And hasten to the river For the North is calling you To the click, click, clack, And the rick-a-t-tack, And the whirr of the running reel As the line rips out, Banishing doubt A big one, by the "feel." Dean Sage. THE THREE FISHERS Three fishers went sailing out into the West, Out into the West as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. WHEN THE FISHING BOATS GO OUT 87 Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down, They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night rack came rolling up ragged and brown ! But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. Charles Kingsley. WHEN THE FISHING BOATS GO OUT When the lucent skies of morning flush with dawning rose once more, And waves of golden glory break adown the sunrise shore, And o'er the arch of heaven pied films of vapor float, There's joyance and there's freedom when the fishing boats go out. The wind is blowing freshly up from far, uncharted caves, And sending sparkling kisses o'er the brows of virgin waves, 88 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN While routed dawn-mists shiver oh, far and fast they flee, Pierced by the shafts of sunrise athwart the merry sea ! Behind us, fair, light-smitten hills in dappled splendor He, Before us the wide ocean runs to meet the limpid sky Our hearts are full of poignant life, and care has fled afar As sweeps the white-winged fishing fleet across the harbor bar. The sea is calling to us in a blithesome voice and free, There's keenest rapture on its breast and boundless liberty! Each man is master of his craft, its gleaming sails out- blown, And far behind him on the shore a home he calls his own. Salt is the breath of ocean slopes and fresher blows the breeze, And swifter still each bounding keel cuts through the combing seas, Athwart our masts the shadows of the dipping sea- gulls float, And all the water-world's alive when the fishing boats go out. Lucy M. Montgomery. From "The Watchman and Other Poems." Permission of Frederick A. Stokes Co. THE ANGLER'S CAROL 89 THE ANGLER'S CAROL Our sport is with the salmon rod, Fine gut, tough ravel string, A hook of the true "Kirby bend," Dark-bodied with white wing; Dark-bodied with white wing, my boys! A yellow bob behind, And deep red hackle, fastened round With tinsel well entwined. A southwest wind that steady blows, A dark-gray, cloudy sky, A ripple o'er the water clear, To lead away the fly; To lead away the fly, my boys ! There, strike! the reel goes free! With a new run fish, as fresh and strong As ever left the seas. The yielding rod bends like a bow, And lifts him from his hold, With quivering pull and bounding leap, Or steady run so bold : The steady run so bold, my boys ! As thro' the stream he flies, Tells with what energy he fights Before a salmon dies. Reel up, reel up! one sudden plunge, He takes out line no more, Head down the stream! then haul him in! He gasps upon the shore ; 90 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN He gasps upon the shore, my boys ! His weight an English stone, As beautiful a thing in death As eye e'er gazed upon. The sport is o'er, and home we go, A bumper round we bear, And drink "The face we never saw, But may it prove as fair" ; But may it prove as fair, my boys, Each fisher drinks with glee, And benisons to-morrow's sport That it may better be. W. A. Foster. Permission of "Forest and Stream." THE CONUNDRUM OF THE AGES My mind confronts a riddle, Whenever I take note, Of the fishing tales of fellows, When hard luck got their goat. My sleep's upset by anxious doubt, Since I have heard the tales, About the fish that slipped away, "The fellows big as whales." I'm in a fearful quandary, What can a fellow do, When every friend will swear on oath, "A monstrous fish slipped through." THE BAIT 91 Now, who can solve my problem, And grant my lifelong wish, "Are fishermen all big liars? Or do only liars fish?" Theodore Sharpe. THE BAIT Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasure prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks. There will the river whisp'ring run, Warm'd by thy eyes more than the sun ; And there th' enamor'd fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath, Most am'rously to thee will swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. If thou to be so seen be'st loath, By sun, or moon, thou dark'nest both; And if myself have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee. Let others freeze with angling reeds, And cut their legs with shells and weeds, Or t reach' rously poor fish beset, With strangling snare, or windowy net: 92 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest, The bedded fish in banks outwrest; Let curious traitors, sleave-silk flies, Bewitch poor fishes' wand 'ring eyes. For thee, thou need'st no such deceit, For thou, thyself, art thine own bait ; That fish that is not catch'd thereby, Alas! is wiser far than I. John Donne. THE SALMON FLY See here! a faded, ragged, salmon-fly, "Gitana," fitly named a gypsy queen, The body tinselled gleaming silverly, The hackle parrot green. The wings ye gods! what beauty erst macaw, Sky-blue, enclosed in tippets tawny red; Beyond to end of hook without a flaw, The jungle-fowl is spread. And over all a golden rain of rays, The topping droops, with fibers blue and red, From parrot's sword at tail a topping's blaze, An ostrich herl at head. Thus was "Gitana" when I made her first, A vision of delight 'neath spring-blue skies; A poem bright of color all unversed Empress of salmon flies. THE SALMON FLY 93 And bright the morning on that crag-bound stream, In Scotia rugged land of rock and fell; When like a bar of light the fish did gleam; And rose with mighty swell, Taking "Gitana" in her rich-robed pride, Whilst I, nerve-shaken, sought to stay his course As well try stay the torrent's mighty tide, Or rein the proud wild horse. Like arrowy lightning's flash he sped to deeps That hid the caverns of his fastness there Sharp juts of rock on rock lay piled in heaps To form the salmon's lair. (Here in the somber shadows, fathoms down, Sir Salmo Salar spoilt "Gitana's" dress, Rubbing his nose against his door-post brown, Till hook held less and less.) At last, with furious rush and buoyant plunge, High out in air his burnished form he throws, And falling on the line with mighty lunge, Free once again he goes ! And thus "Gitana" faded and undone Unlucky nymph recalls his summer night, A lusty wooer lured, but all unwon Her lover and his flight. 94 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Earth's mightiest, great fish! have worshiped thee And leaving learning and the cares of state, Have sought the river's side, with joy elate, To woo thee from thy home so wild and free. From Orient climes they bring the jewelled plume Each bird of sunshine and each bird of storm The bustard from Siberian frost and gloom ; The mighty condor e'en Cathay's rare worm! All vie in luring thee unto thy doom. And if perchance, then, seeing the bright gem That glitters to thine eye, thou yieldst thy life Men have done more for less and like to them, Thou passest only from this mundane strife ! J. Harrington Keene WHEN A BASS GETS ON MY LINE When the springtime's o'er me stealing, And my heart is often thrilled With the overflow of feeling With which the world is filled, There can be no joy or privilege That's comparable to mine When I have a seven-pounder At the end of hook and line. I have tasted all the pleasures That the wells of life afford; I have feasted on the bounties That the world delights to hoard; WHEN A BASS GETS ON MY LINE 95 But I'd leave the festal table, With its wealth of ruby wine, To feel a seven-pounder "Cutting capers" with my line. I have been inspired by music By the masters in the art ; I have listened to the eloquence Of intellect and heart ; But no melody enchants me With its harmony divine, Akin to that which follows When a bass gets on my line. There is music in the woodlands, When the summer lingers there; There are carols in the meadows, When the skies are blue and fair; But all these charms of nature I would willingly resign, To hear the hum of reeling When a bass gets on my line. There is nothing nearer heaven, When a fellow's tired quite, Just patiently awaiting For a fish to come and bite, To have your rod bent double By a bass, with mad design, . And feel a seven-pounder Fiercely tugging at your line. 96 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN If I should get to heaven, I presume I'd want to know What the chances are for fishing Like the sport I knew below For, though 'mid joys supernal, I would certainly repine For a day upon the river And a bass upon my line. James Robert Allen. Permission of "Forest and Stream." THE ANGLER'S BENEDICTION Bless me with the spring-tide bland, All ye anglers of the valley ! Wave aloof the slender wand, And around the oak-tree rally. Bless the birds, that all along Send us such a cheerful greeting ; To their measures of kind song Joyously our hearts are beating. Fleeted now the winter snow From the forehead of the mountains, And the wild sweet waters flow Freshly through their several fountains. In the secret of the sod, Moss and primrose lie together; But the wild bee shoots abroad, Fonder of the April heather. THE BOY ANGLER 97 Fresh and free the breezes blow, And the amber stream runs gaily; Forth, and warble as ye go, All ye anglers of the valley! -Thomas Tod Stoddart. THE BOY ANGLER Under the bridge that spans the stream- Stream that gurgles and prattles away, Stream that flashes with many a gleam The boy would pass the holiday. I wonder if ever in all the earth A happier heart warm'd human breast; If ever such perfect, such rapturous mirth, Was known as in that Eden blest ! I wonder if ever a gorgeous king, In midst of all his jewell'd court, Royal with scepter and crown and ring, Had ever such rich, ecstatic sport. The bridge was ancient with log and beam, And over it droop' d the willow trees, Dipping their catkins in the stream, Asylum for fluttering birds and bees ; And here in this dim, secluded cave The boy would come to muse o'er the wave. He mus'd, for he lov'd all beauteous sights, All sounds delicious that charm'd the place; The insects gay, small water-sprites, That skimm'd and circled in mazy race; 98 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN The water-ouzel flitting there, The blue kingfisher, perch'd on spray, Then dropping quick from leafy lair, Shrill screaming as he seiz'd his prey. And here the poor barefooted boy, With tatter 'd jerkin and hat of straw, Enjoyed the bliss, the speechless joy, The angler's rapture, without a flaw. He watch'd the minnows' quivering fin, And silvery perch go swimming by, The sunfish darting out and in, The pickerel snap at the gaudy fly ; The little shiner, like diamond spark, Shoot through the waters deep and dark, And the trout, like glancing Indian shaft, Defying even his cunning craft. It was a pleasure to note the frog That sat open-mouth' d on a weedy log; To note the turtles, all speckled o'er, Bask on the slippery rocks of the shore; The muskrats paddling in sluggish play, And mink and the otter on their way. It was pleasant when hot midsummer days Scorch'd earth and air with fervid blaze, When the very atmosphere seem'd to swoon With the drowsy influence of the noon, To sit in his hermit cell and share The voices of nature in the air; The chirp of the cricket in the grass, SPORT ROYAL 99 .The snap of the grasshoppers as they pass, The anthems of song-birds in the hedge, The whistle of snipe across the sedge, And all the entrancing symphonies Of breeze and of wave, of birds and bees All paintings of nature's matchless art, All music of nature that thrills the heart. Isaac McLellan. THE HONEST ANGLER That man is happy in his share, Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed, Whose necessaries bound his care, And honest labor makes his bed; Who, with his angle and his books, Can think the longest day well spent, And praises God when back he looks, And finds that all was innocent. Charles Cotton. SPORT ROYAL (Allegro Vivace) A nook forsook, A goodly brook, A woodland not too dense: A fly, a try, An eager eye, Anticipation tense. 100 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN A fleck, a speck, A straining neck, A momentary gleam, A flash, a splash, A sudden dash A-down the swirling stream. A chill, a thrill, A tugging still, A quivering of the steel, A list, a twist, An aching wrist, A fumbling at the reel. A strive, a dive, The waters rive, Alas, the game is gone ! A lunge, a plunge, All doubts expunge: A glorious fight is on. At last, aghast, The quarry fast, Still struggling in the stream, Gives yet a threat, And then the net Secures a speckled dream. William E. Hundley. Permission of "Field and Stream." HAMPSHIRE FLY-FISHING 101 HAMPSHIRE FLY-FISHING Dry-Fly These two are exact descriptions of the two totally different styles. One, two, three ! and the wavy line Backward and forward flies, Four! and there falls, as a gossamer light, On the further ring of the rise, My gay quill-fly, with her wings so dry, And she sails on the flowing stream As a nautilus sails on a summer sea, Or a fairy floats in a dream! True is the cast, and she wings her way In a line as straight and true, Thro' the widening rings, as the famous "line" Cuts the sphere of the world in two! But oh! she has reached the nearer ring, And is unmolested still ! And she sails along with a doleful song, "Ah, me, I have failed to kill!" One, two, three! and she falls again, And she says to Sir Trout, "O pray Don't let me escape as my sister did, Who passed just now this way!" But ah! that she thus comes sailing on, Proves that the prayer was vain ! Sir Trout is at least of doubtful mind; Well, well, let us try him again! 102 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN One, two, three! not a shade of doubt That the fly is right to a shade ! Nor more like that he is rising at Could any quill-gnat be made ! So now, my friend, like an auctioneer, I'll wait for your little bid! Tis going, going, going gone! Ha! ha! 'twas well I did! So ho! so ho! Don't hurry away With my goods to your weedy home, Like a common thief! there's the bill to pay! So come, my beauty, come ! So ho! hysterics are out of place! Let me lead you gently, so! Ha! would you escape? turn back, my friend, That isn't the way to go! So ho! so ho! You're faint, I see, And needing a little rest ! Here's a nice little room, will fit you well, In which you make your nest ! Don't make such a fuss ! lie down, lie down ! That's better ! Come here to me On this grassy bank, and hear from my lips How proud I am of thee ! Cotswold Isys. NORTH COUNTRY FLY-FISHING 103 NORTH COUNTRY FLY-FISHING Wet-Fly Let your Southron stand with rod in hand, Fishing as in a dream, In his one green meadow, the morning long, By his clear, still, chalky stream ; But ever let me in the North Countree, Wander my burn beside, Where it winds thro' the mead and the rocky gorge, And the moorland wild and wide ! No thresher am I of the vexed air, Of your quiet, mantling pools, Who stands for an hour on the same green sod, 'Mid a crowd of gaping fools; Changing each little failing fly, Till all in his book are tried; My one good cast for a day will last, And on with my wand I stride ! Stretcher and dropper, one, two, three, four, With flies of various hue Meeting the taste of the connoisseur With yellow, green, brown, or blue I fling, with a shortened line, across The swirling, eddying burn, Drawing them tenderly toward my bank, With a delicate-handed turn. 104 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN They sink, and they swirl, and I cannot see My flies; but my hand can feel, My hands are the eyes that see the rise, My vision is in my reel ! Let the Southron look, like a boy on his book, For his still-stream, dimpled ring ; Tis the hand that can see in the North Countree, And hear when the reel doth sing ! I feel the pulse of the burn's bent arm, Where it lies on the gravelly strand; And under the shade of the beechen boughs, I deftly ply my wand; But most I love the eddying pools At the foot of the rock-toss'd foam, For the fat and the fair of the stream are there For the morning calls "at home!" Thus on I go from shallow to pool, And from pool to shallow again ! And all is change, and all is life, Moor, meadow, and gorge and glen! Thus keeping step with my flowing burn, My happy moments steal, And ne'er do I pause, save when I've cause To add to my filling creel. Costwold Isys. TO MY TROUT ROD 105 TO MY TROUT ROD Dear comrade of my blissful hours, New joys again we'll borrow; If skies are clear or weather lowers, We seek the brook to-morrow. Where you and I, my comrade dear, Have wandered far together, In many a happy begone year, In every kind of weather. For dreary skies we cared no rush, And oft despised their warning ; And if they smiled, then with the thrush We thrilled a song at morning. And where was care when we were out And by the stream a-fishing Save when we hooked the day's first trout For more we fell a-wishing ? Again, old friend, with cheery pluck We'll fling the barbed feather; Kind shade of Walton! grant us luck, And we'll not mind the weather. George Douglas. 106 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN KETCHIN' PICK'REL Some people call it pick'rel and some others call it pike. That is all the same to me, they can call it what they like. The name don't cut no figger; all I care about is this: That when you git one on your line it's seven kinds of bliss. I don't want to ketch no tarpon that weighs a half a ton. And feedin' clams to sheepshead isn't just what I call fun. Of salmon when it's boiled or baked I'll say that I am fond But when I'm after sport I fish for pick'rel in a pond. I don't use no fuss and feathers tied on those little hooks, All red and white and green and blue that come in fancy books. And multiplyin' reels and sich don't cut no ice with me Or dinky castin' rods that land your tackle in a tree. A chunk of pork or old red shirt, a minny or a frog ; A corncob pipe, some good black jack, a dry seat on a log. Just give me those old-fashioned tools is all I ask or wish, Then if you'll come along with me I'll show you how to fish. THE TROUT BROOK 107 If you let your frog drift over beneath that lily pad Some old pick'rel there may see it who wants his break- fast bad. You don't have to do no trampin', or cussin' sky blue flies, That you slam in all directions but never git a rise. Let the pick'rel do the guessin' while you squat there and think, And fill the corncob pipe again and take another drink. There ain't no call for hurry, you don't have to ketch no train, For if there's nothin' doin' you kin hit the jug again. By-and-by your float will wiggle and then go out of sight That's the time you git a move on and soak that pick'rel right. When you've got him on the bank you'll agree with me in this: That ketchin' pick'rel in a pond is seven kinds of bliss. Norman Jeffries. THE TROUT BROOK You see it first near the dusty road, Where the farmer stops with his heavy load At the foot of a weary hill ; There the mossy trough it overflows, Then away with a leap and a laugh, it goes At its own sweet, wandering will. 108 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN It flows through an orchard gnarled and old, Where in spring the dainty buds unfold Their petals pink and white ; The apple blossoms so sweet and pure, The streamlet's smiles and songs allure, To float off on the ripples bright. It winds through the meadow scarcely seen, For o'er it the flowers and grasses lean To salute its smiling face. And thus, half hidden, it ripples along, The whole way singing its summer song, Making glad each arid place. Just there, where the water dark and cool Lingers a moment in yonder pool, The dainty trout are at play; And now and then one leaps in sight, With sides aglow in the golden light Of the long, sweet summer day. O back to their shelves those books consign, And look to your rod and reel and line, Make fast the feathered hook; Then away from the town with its hum of life, Where the air with worry and work is rife, To the charms of the meadow brook ! Carl Waring. Permission of "Forest and Stream." UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE 109 UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE Up and down old Brandywine, In the days 'at's past and gone With a dad-burn hook-and-line And a saplin'-pole i swawn ! I've had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever anywhere ! Heaven to come can't discount mine, Up and down old Brandywine ! Hain't no sense in wishiri yit Wisht to goodness I could jes' "Gee" the blame' world round and git Back to that old happiness ! Kind o' drive back in the shade "The old Covered Bridge" there laid 'Crosst the crick, and sort o' soak My soul over, hub and spoke ! Honest, now ! it hain't no dream 'At I'm wantin', but the fa.cs As they wuz ; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks! Gimme back my bare feet and Stonebruise too! And scratched and tanned! And let hottest dog-days shine Up and down old Brandywine! In and on betwixt the trees 'Long the banks, pour down yer noon, Kind o' curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer's tune; 110 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And the smokin', chokin' dust O' the turnpike at its wusst Saturdays, say, when it seems Road's jes' jammed with country teams! Whilst the old town, fur away 'Ciosst the hazy pastur'-land, Dozed-like in the heat o' day Peaceful' as a hired hand. Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor O' the ole bridge ! grind and roar With yer blame' percession-line Up and down old Brandy wine! Souse me and my new straw hat Off the foot-log! what / care? Fist shoved in the crown o' that Like the old Clown ust to wear. Wouldn't swop it fer a' old Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold ! Keep yer King ef you'll gim-me Jes' the boy I ust to be! Spill my fishin'-worms ! er steal My best "goggle-eye!" but you Can't lay hands on joys I feel Nibblin' like they ust to do! So, in memory, to-day Same old ripple lips away At my "cork" and saggin' line, Up and down old Brandy wine! UP AND DOWN OLD BRAND YWINE 111 There the logs is, round the hill, Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift Out sunfish from daylight till Dewfall 'fore he'd leave "The Drift" And give us a chance and then Kind o' fish back home again, Ketchin' 'em jes' left and right Where we hadn't got "a bite" ! Er, 'way windin' out and in, Old path th'ough the iurnweeds And dog-fennel to yer chin Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds And cattails, smack into where Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare Us clean 'crosst the County-line, Up and down old Brandy wine ! But the dim roar o' the dam It 'ud coax us furder still To'rds the old race, slow and ca'm, Slidin' on to Huston's mill Where, I 'spect, "the Freeport crowd" Never warmed to us er 'lowed We wuz quite so overly Welcome as we aimed to be. Still it 'peared-like ever' thing Fur away from home as there Had more relish-like, i jing! Fish in stream, er bird in air ! U2 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN O them rich old bottom-lands, Past where Cowden's School-house stands ! Wortermelons master-mine! Up and down old Brandy wine ! And sich pop-paws! Lumps o' raw Gold and green, jes' oozy th'ough With ripe yaller like you've saw Custard-pie with no crust to: And jes' gorges o' wild plums, Till a feller'd suck his thumbs Clean up to his elbows! My! Me some more er lem me die! Up and down old Brandy wine! Stripe me with pokeberry-juice! Flick me with a pizen-vine And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose! Old now as I then wuz young, 'F I could sing as I have sung, Song 'ud shorely ring dee-vine Up and down old Brandy wine! James Whitcomb Riley. From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcom Riley, copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, Th Bobbs-Merrill Co. The THE FIRST FISHERMAN 113 FISH O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights, What is 't ye do? What life lead? oh, dull goggles? How do ye vary your vile days and nights? How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes and bites, And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles? Leigh Hunt. From "The Fish, the Man, and the Spirit." THE FIRST FISHERMAN Beside a vast and primal sea A solitary savage he, Who gathered for his tribe's rude need The daily dole of raw sea-weed. He watched the great tides rise and fall And spoke the truth or not at all ! Along the awful shore he ran A simple pre-Pelasgian ; A thing primeval, undefiled, Straightforward as a little child, Until one morn he made a grab And caught a mesozoic crab ! 114 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Then told the tribe at close of day A bigger one had got away ! From him have sprung (I own a bias To ways the cult of rod and fly has) All fishermen and Ananias ! Patrick Chalmers. From "Green Days and Blue Days," The Norman, Remington Co. FISHING As in successive course the seasons roll, So circling pleasures recreate the soul. When genial spring a living warmth bestows, And o'er the year her verdant mantle throws, No swelling inundation hides the grounds, But crystal currents glide within their bounds; The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake, Float in the sun, and skim along the lake, With frequent leap they range the shallow streams, Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams. Now let the fisherman his toils prepare, And arm himself with every watery snare; His hooks, his lines, peruse with careful eye, Increase his tackle, and his rod re-tie. When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain, Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain, And waters, tumbling down the mountain's side, Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide, Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise, And drive the liquid burden through the skies, FISHING 115 The fisher to the neighboring current speeds, Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds; Upon a rising border of the brook He sits him down, and ties the treacherous hook. Now expectation cheers his eager thought, His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught; Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand, Where every guest applauds his skilful hand. Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws, Which down the murmuring current gently flows ; When, if or chance or hunger's powerful sway Directs the roving trout this fatal way, He greedily sucks in the twining bait, And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat ; Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line ! How the rod bends ! behold, the prize is thine ! Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains, And trickling blood his silver mail distains. You must not every worm promiscuous use ; Judgment will tell the proper bait to choose; The worm that draws a long immoderate size The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies ; And if too small, the naked fraud's in sight, And fear forbids, while hunger doth invite. Those baits will best reward the fisher's pains, Whose polish'd tails a shining yellow stains. Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss, Cherish the sullied reptile race with moss; Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil, And from their bodies wipe their native soil. 116 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN But when the sun displays his glorious beams, And shallow rivers flow with silver streams, Then the deceit the scaly breed survey, Bask in the sun, and look into the day. You now a more delusive art must try, And tempt their hunger with the curious fly. To frame the little animal, provide All the gay hues that wait on female pride: Let Nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire The shining bellies of the fly require; The peacock's plumes thy tackle must not fail, Nor the dear purchase of the sable's tail. Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings, And lends the growing insect proper wings: Silks of all colors must their aid impart, And every fur promote the fisher's art. So the gay lady, with expansive care, Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air; Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays, Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays. Mark well the various seasons of the year, How the succeeding insect race appear ; In this revolving moon one color reigns, Which in the next the fickle trout distains. Oft have I seen a skilful angler try The various colors of the treacherous fly ; When he with fruitless pain hath skimm'd the brook, And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook, He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow, Which o'er the stream a waving forest throw; FISHING 117 When, if an insect fall (his certain guide), He gently takes him from the whirling tide ; Examines well his form, with curious eyes, His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, and size. Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds, And on the back a speckled feather binds ; So just the colors shine through every part, That Nature seems to live again in Art. Let not thy wary step advance too near, While all thy hope hangs on a single hair. The new- form' d insect on the water moves, The speckled trout the curious snare approv Upon the curling surface let it glide, With natural motion from thy hand supplied; Against the stream now let it gently play, Now in the rapid eddy roll away. The scaly shoals float by, and seiz'd with fear, Behold their fellows tossed in thinner air; But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait, Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate. When a brisk gale against the current blows, And all the watery plain in wrinkles flows, Then let the fisherman his art repeat, Where bubbling eddies favor the deceit. If an enormous salmon chance to spy The wanton errors of the floating fly, He lifts the silver gills above the flood, And greedily sucks in the unfaithful food ; Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey, And bears with joy the little spoil away. 118 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Soon, in smart pain, he feels the dire mistake, Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake; With sudden rage he now aloft appears, And in his eye convulsive anguish bears; And now again, impatient of the wound, He rolls and wreathes his shining body round; Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide, The trembling fins the boiling wave divide. Now hope exalts the fisher's beating heart, Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art ; He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes, While the line stretches with the unwieldly prize ; Each motion humors with his steady hands, And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands ; Till tired at last, despoil' d of all his strength, The game athwart the stream unfolds his length. He now with pleasure views the gasping prize Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his bloodshot eyes ; Then draws him to the shore, with artful care, And lifts his nostrils in the sickening air; Upon the burden'd stream he floating lies, Stretches his quivering fins, and gasping dies. I never wander where the bordering reeds O'erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weeds Perplex the fisher; I nor choose to bear The thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear ; Nor drain I ponds, the golden carp to take, Nor troll for pike, dispeoplers of the lake. Around the steel no tortur'd worm shall twine, No blood of living insect stain my line; GOOD FISHING 119 Let me, less cruel, cast the feather'd hook, With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook, Silent along the mazy margin stray, And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey. John Gay. From "Rural Sports." THE WAYS OF THE FISHERMAN You see the ways the Fisher-man doth take To catch the fish; what engines doth he make? Behold how he engageth all his wits; Also his snares, lines, angles, hooks, and nets. Yet fish there be, that neither hook, nor line, Nor snare, nor net, nor engine can make thine ; They must be grop'd for, and be tickled too, Or they will not be catch'd, whate'er you do. John Bunyan. From "The Author's Apology" for "The Pilgrim's Progress." GOOD FISHING Is the sun up? is't the approach of morn? Is it the moan of the cowherd's horn? Is't the shepherd's bell which greets mine ear? Is't the rustling step of fawn or deer? Is't the dancing stream where the fishes play? Or the bracing breath of a young March day ? Yes, the sun is up, and the fly is out That will tempt the eye of a golden trout. 120 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Let thy skill be good, and thy line be strong, And the prey shall be thine, ere the morn be long; Yet be cautious, and quick, nor approach too near, In this timid and early month of the year. So arouse thee, be stirring, thy tackle prepare, And prove well the strength of each separate snare. Thou hadst better be wanting a single brace, Than harness a fish with a worn-out trace. Then may joy, and success, and no ills betide The repast, and repose, of thy bright fireside. Henry Phillips. SPRING FEVER Not exactly lazy Yet I want to sit In the mornin' hazy An' jest dream a bit. Haven't got ambition Fer a single thing Regaler condition Ev'ry bloomin' Spring. Want to sleep at noontime (Ought to work instead), But along at moontime Hate to go to bed. Find myself a-stealin' Fer a sunny spot Jest that Springy feelin', That is what I've got. THE INVITATION 121 Like to set a-wishin' Fer a pipe an* book, Like to go a-fishin' In a meadow-brook With some fish deceiver, Underneath a tree Jest the old Spring fever, That's what's ailing me ! Douglas Malloch. THE INVITATION To Tom Hughes Come away with me, Tom, Term and talk are done; My poor lads are reaping, Busy every one. Curates mind the parish, Sweepers mind the court; We'll away to Snowdon For our ten days' sport; Fish the August evening Till the eve is past, Whoop like boys, at pounders Fairly played and grassed. When they cease to dimple, Lunge, and swerve, and leap, Then up over Siabod, Choose our nest, and sleep. Up a thousand feet, Tom, Round the lion's head, 122 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Find soft stones to leeward And make up our bed. Eat our bread and bacon, Smoke the pipe of peace, And, ere we be drowsy, Give our boots a grease. Homer's heroes did so, Why not such as we ? What are sheets and servants? Superfluity! Pray for wives and children Safe in slumber curled, Then to chat till midnight O'er this babbling world Of the workmen's college, Of the price of grain, Of the tree of knowledge, Of the chance of rain ; If Sir A. goes Romeward, If Miss B. sings true, If the fleet comes homeward, If the mare will do, Anything and everything Up there in the sky Angels understand us, And no 'saints' are by. Down, and bathe at day-dawn, Tramp from lake to lake, Washing brain and heart clean Every step we take. THE SONG OF THE ROD AND REEL 123 Though we earn our bread, Tom, By the dirty pen, What we can we will be, Honest Englishmen. Do the work that's nearest, Though it's dull at whiles, Helping, when we meet them, Lame dogs over stiles ; See in every hedgerow Marks of angels' feet, Epics in each pebble Underneath our feet ; Once a year, like schoolboys, Robin-Hooding go, Leaving fops and fogies A thousand feet below. Charles Kingsley. From "Poems," The Macmillan Company. THE SONG OF THE ROD AND REEL You hang them up with a saddened heart When the frosts of Autumn steal, With a wintry grip o'er the ponds and brooks, To drive the fish to their cozy nooks, Afar from your rod and reel. On the wall of your den they'll play their part, Your reel and your split bamboo, As you tell of the fish they've brought to shore, As big as whales or maybe more, When the summer zephyrs blew. 124 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Through the wintry months when the snow drifts deep On the bank of your favorite streams, By the fireside glow your thoughts will steal, Back to the song of your buzzing reel, And the biggest fish of your dreams. But a time has come when the ice cakes break, And the freshets flood the fields, Then your heart beats quick and you feel the thrill, That comes as a cure for many an ill, With the lure of your rod and reel. Allen F. Brewer. Permission of "Field and Stream." THE WICKED FISHERMAN To a Fellow-Angler, G. M. M. That man a perilous course doth keep, Swept on like tides of Funday, Who preys, while others pray (or sleep), Upon that trout on Sunday. A prayer or sermon, led by some Good psalm-tune like old "Dundee," His sinful state would more become Than catching trout on Sunday. Has he no dread of what is said By pious Mrs. Grundy ? "How ever can that wicked man Go fishing on a Sunday?" RONDEAU 125 But there's an angler shrewd as he (And craftier could none be), Who sets a bait for sinners straight That fishing go on Sunday. Then let him heed his wicked deed, Put by his rod till Monday, Or he'll be fish for the Devil's dish And served up hot some Sunday. Francis F. Browne. From "Volunteer Grain," Way & Williams, Chicago, 1895. Permission of F. G. Browne. THE BROOK I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling. Alfred Tennyson. RONDEAU In winter days, when tired out, And weary with the world without, Before the fire, burning high, I light my pipe with a happy sigh, And put my business cares to rout. Though failures oft my efforts flout, I've other things to think about,- When in my easy chair I lie, In winter days. 126 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN In dreams the streams again I scout, The foam-flecked pool, the moment's doubt, The flies, the gleam, the splash, the cry, The reel, the rush, then high and dry I land again the lusty trout, In winter days. Robert Thome Newberry. WHEN TULIPS BLOOM I When tulips bloom in Union Square, And timid breaths of vernal air Go wandering down the dusty town, Like children lost in Vanity Fair; When every long, unlovely row Of westward houses stands aglow, And leads the eyes toward sunset skies Beyond the hills where green trees grow ; Then weary seems the street parade, And weary books, and weary trade : I'm only wishing to go a-nshing; For this the month of May was made. II I guess the pussy-willows now Are creeping out on every bough Along the brook; and robins look For early worms behind the plough. WHEN TULIPS BLOOM 127 The thistle-birds have changed their dun, For yellow coats, to match the sun ; And in the same array of flame The Dandelion Show's begun. The flocks of young anemones Are dancing round the budding trees: Who can help wishing to go a-nshing In days as full of joy as these? Ill I think the meadow-lark's clear sound Leaps upward slowly from the ground, While on the wing the bluebirds sing Their wedding-bells to woods around. The flirting chewink calls his dear Behind the bush ; and very near, Where water flows, where green grass grows, Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer!" And, best of all, through twilight's calm The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm. How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing In days so sweet with music's balm ! IV 'Tis not a proud desire of mine ; I ask for nothing superfine ; No heavy weight, no salmon great, To break the record, or my line. 128 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Only an idle little stream, Whose amber waters softly gleam, Where I may wade, through woodland shade, And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream: Only a trout or two, to dart From foaming pools, and try my art : 'Tis all I'm wishing old-fashioned fishing, And just a day on Nature's heart ! Henry Van Dyke. From "Poems of Henry Van Dyke." Copyright, 1911, 1920, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers. APRIL ON TWEED As birds are fain to build their nest The first soft sunny day, So longing wakens in my breast A month before the May, When now the wind is from the West, And Winter melts away. The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill, But soft the breezes blow. If melting snows the waters fill, We nothing heed the snow, But we must up and take our will, A fishing will we go! THE HAPPY ANGLER 129 Below the branches brown and bare, Beneath the primrose lea, The trout lies waiting for his fare, A hungry trout is he; He's hooked, and springs and splashes there Like salmon from the sea. Oh, April tide's a pleasant tide, However times may fall, And sweet to welcome Spring, the Bride, You hear the mavis call ; But all adown the water-side The Spring's most fair of all ! Andrew Lang. From "Grass of Parnassus," Longsmans, Green, & Co. THE HAPPY ANGLER Below a shady hazel tree An angler trimmed his flies, Singing, hey derry ! trout that are merry No longer, no longer are wise. Of dapper make and ruddy hue 'Twas a jolly blade, I ween, With his hey derry, fresh from the ferry, Over the meadows so green. Right gladsomely he eyed the stream, And shook his wand anon, With a hey derry! brown as a berry The winding waters run. 9 130 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Oh! well I wot that jovial blade Is one of the gentle band, With his hey derry, trout that are merry, Swim to the angler's hand. Derry, hey derry! Trout that are merry Swim to the angler's hand ! Thomas Tod Stoddart. IN TROUTING TIME Now what care I for politics And all their mad and foolish tricks, And demogogic spouting? We've reached the time of year so glad When men can drop the woe and gad Of daily cares and go, my lad, With rod and reel a-trouting ! Let business cares be what they may, Let happen what may hap to-day In all this world of doubting I have no care, for free am I To take my rod, my reel, and fly, And to the distant rillets hie To ease my soul in trouting ! Prue may be cross, and Bess unkind, But naught I care! I shall not mind Their frowning and their pouting. THE WINDING STREAM 131 But from the social whirl I'll slip, And to the vales and hillsides skip, And pool, and pond, and brooklet whip, In gay and joyous trout ing. The rod, the reel, the hook, the line, And leafy ways and fish for mine ! I'm off upon my outing, 'Mid byways peaceful and serene Up in the hills so softly green Where trouble never shows his mien The while I'm at my trouting! John Kendrick Bangs. From "The Foothills of Parnassus," The Macmillan Co. THE WINDING STREAM A winding stream in a wooded vale At the close of a summer day, Where, as the light begins to fail, The trout are jumping at play; And the night winds wak'ning amid the leaves, Whispering soft and low; And the shadows deep'ning 'neath the trees, Where the ferns and the mosses grow. I can hear the voice of this winding stream, As it chatters upon its way, . I can see the pool where the waters gleam In the fading light of day; 132 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And the fringing grasses are trailing there In the eddies swirling by, Where the big trout lurks in his hidden lair, Watchful and wary and shy. Oh, for a touch of the light bamboo, And the sound of the spinning reel. And a day in the dear old haunts with you, With a rod and a well-filled creel. Oh, to escape the noise of the street, And the sight of the hurrying throng, And breathe the air of that cool retreat, Where the brook sings its evening song! Fayette Dublin. Permission of "Forest and Stream." SONG When homeward from the stream we turn Good cheer our sport replaces, There's liquor twinkling in the glass, There's joy on all our faces ! We drink sweet healths, a merry round, We talk old stories over, And sing glad staves, like summer birds Below their leafy cover. Thus cheerily our evenings pass, Till lulled below the quilting We sleep our toils off, and are forth Before the lark is lilting. THE FISHERMAN 133 All joy be with our hearts' kin bold ! May care's nets ne'er entangle, Nor woe nor poverty depress A brother of the angle ! Thomas Tod Stoddart. THE FISHERMAN Along a stream that raced and ran Through tangled trees and over stones, That long had heard the pipes o' Pan And shared the joys that nature owns, I met a fellow fisherman, Who greeted me in cheerful tones. The lines of care were on his face. I guessed that he had buried dead; Had run for gold full many a race, And kept great problems in his head, But in that gentle resting place No word of wealth or fame he said. He showed me trout that he had caught And praised the larger ones of mine ; Told me how that big beauty fought And almost broke his silken line; Spoke of the trees and sky, and thought Them proof of life and power divine. 134 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN There man to man we talked of trees And birds, as people talk of men ; Discussed the busy ways of bees; Wondered what lies beyond our ken; Where is the land no mortal sees And shall we come this way again. "Out here," he told me, with a smile, "Away from all the city's sham, The strife for splendor and for style, The ticker and the telegram I come for just a little while To be exactly as I am." Foes think the bad in him they've guessed And prate about the wrong they scan ; Friends that have seen him at his best Believe they know his every plan; I know him better than the rest, I know him as a fisherman. Edgar A. Guest. From "Just Folks." Copyrighted by and permission from Reilly & Lee Co. THE COACHMAN O, buzzy and fuzzy, dark body of herl, With thy pure, white silken wing ! The bard of the rod were indeed a churl To refuse of thee to sing, THE COACHMAN 135 Who so oft hast driven him home with glee When weary with hopeless toil, In a merry late hour when but for thee He had carried no finny spoil. With thy summer cape and thy woolly vest, Prepared for the chill night air, Like thy mates of town for night work drest, To ply for a nightly fare, Thou comest, the moths about thy head, Thy music the beetle's hum, While the stars wink out of the river bed, And the woodland sounds are dumb. Thou hast oft pulled up on my homeward way, And bid me mark a rise, Hast stealthily gone to the hidden prey And landed the golden prize; When eve to silvery moonlight wore, Thou hast crept to the darkling stream And gladdened my eyes by added store, Till thy prowess seemed a dream. O, 'tis hard to carry an empty creel At the close of a sultry day, And, trudging the homeward path, to feel All art had been thrown away! But if so vainly for trout you strive, At the gloaming never despair, Call on your coachman to give them a drive, And he will not want a fare ! Cotswold Isys. 136 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN DOWN AROUND THE RIVER Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Have to furse with Lizey Ann but lawzy! I fergive her! Drives me off the place, and says 'at all 'at she's a-wishin', Land o' gracious! time' 11 come I'll git enough o' fishin'! Little Dave, a-choppin' wood, never 'pears to notice; Don't know where she's hid his hat, er keerin' where his coat is, Specalatin', more'n like, he hain't a-goin' to mind me, And guessin' where, say twelve o'clock, a feller'd likely find me. Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Clean out o' sight o' home, and skulkin' under kivver Of the sycamores, jack-oaks, an' swamp-ash and ellum Idies all so jumbled up, you kin hardly tell 'em ! Tired, you know, but loviri it, and smilin' jes' to think 'at Any sweeter tiredness you'd fairly want to drink it ! Tired o' fishin' tired o' fun line out slack and slacker All you want in all the world's a little more tobacker! Hungry, but a-hidin it, er jes' a-not a-keerin' : Kingfisher gittin' up and skootin' out o' hearin' ; Snipes on the t'other side, where the County Ditch is, Wadin' up and down the aidge like they'd rolled their britches ! KING OF THE BROOK 137 Old turkle on the root kind o' sort o' drappin' Intoo th' worter like he don't know how it happen! Worter, shade and all so mixed, don't know which you'd orter Say, th' worter in the shadder shadder in the worter! Somebody hollerin' 'way around the bend in Upper Fork where yer eye kin jes' ketch the endin' Of the shiney wedge o' wake some muss-rat's a-makin' With that pesky nose o' his ! Then a sniff o' bacon, Corn-bread and 'dock-greens and little Dave a-shin- nin' 'Crost the rocks and mussel-shells, a-limpin' and a-grinnin', With yer dinner fer ye, and a blessin' from the giver. Noon-time and June-time down around the river! James Whitcomb Riley. From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co. KING OF THE BROOK Give me the rod and reel, The wee strong line and the keen-barbed hook; Give me the joy all true fishers feel Who vanquish the King of the Brook! He is a goodly prince In his royal robe of red and gold, Like a sultan's, rich with sheeny tints, How he darts through the water cold! 138 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN A kingly home is his: The sparkling pool in the mad spring stream! Name me the palace brighter than this In the silvery ripple's gleam. Ah, 'tis a glory rare, With footsteps soft, and with bated breath, To tempt the king from his fastness fair, And battle him unto the death ! He dies as monarchs die Who of dastardly fear give no sign, But fight for life till their latest sigh Royal proof of his royal line ! Ye who extol the town, Take its wealth, its pride, its fleeting joys, Its mansions high, with their fronts of brown, Its beauty, its fashions, its toys. But give me rod and reel, The wee strong line and the keen-barbed hook Give me the joy all true fishers feel Who vanquish the King of the Brook ! M. A. Kingsford. Permission of "Forest and Stream." I WANT TO GO FISHING TO-DAY 139 IZAAK WALTON'S PRAYER A crinkling, sun-specked stream, some kindly shade A friend who loves a chub or dappling trout, My mug of barley-wine when sport's been played, A nut-brown lass with tender-melting pout. Arcadian-homely hours, apart from men, Pursuing my sequestered, gentle art, Making my toil and pastime so to blend That peace unruffled dwells within my heart. Fish-dimpled waters that with slumbrous croon Lap banks with ladies'-smocks made fair and sweet. Keep me, O Lord, from London's loveless gloom, Let Walton lie at Severn's rustling feet. D. L. James. I WANT TO GO FISHING TO-DAY There's a languorous feeling and sultry air, In office and store and street; There's a longing for shores where the winds are fair, And cooling sands for the feet. There's the swish of the waves and the splash of the oars, The sound of a distant call ; . There's the far-away cloud that gently soars, And the blue that covers all. 140 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And, oh, as I look from my window high, And watch the clouds at play, There comes from my heart such a rising sigh I want to go fishing to-day ! I strive to banish the thought of a line That leads to the lair of the bass ; I think of the dangers that may be mine, Ere the island's head I pass; But, oh, that bare-footed boy that comes With his rod, has stirred me again And I sing once more the song that he hums And I long to be in his train. For memory launched a silvery boat On a sea that is bright and gay The happiest man I would be afloat, Could I but go fishing to-day ! John Charles Shea. THE HIDDEN POOL High in the Sierras, where the pines Drop their cones by the rock-ribb'd stream, Under a tangle of ferns and vines, There lies a pool where the brook trout teem. 'Tis rimm'd by willows and alders green, And banked by boulders and golden sand; Dark it lies, and it hides unseen, Waiting the cast of the master hand. THE FISH 141 And often a buck at eventide Mirrors his crest in the crystal pool, To see himself in his antler'd pride And rest in the shade of the alders cool. And sometimes, too, a shy black bear, Nosing about for a choice tidbit, Will come to feast on the berries there, For he knows the pool and the joys of it. And beyond the pool, above, below, The wild rose buds and blooms and fades, And the flaunting tiger lilies blow In this, the fairest of sylvan glades. I don't know where, by a rule and line, (Though you scale the peaks and wade the stream), To tell you to find this pool of mine, For I think myself it is just a dream. But high in the Sierras, where the pines Drop their cones down the mountain-side, Under the tangled wild grapevines, There lies a pool where the big trout hide. Robert Erskine Ross. THE FISH In a cool curving world he lies And ripples with dark ecstasies. The kind luxurious lapse, and steal, Shapes all his universe to feel 142 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And know and be ; the clinging stream Closes his memory, glooms his dream, Who lips the roots o' the shore, and glides Superb on unreturning tides. Those silent waters weave for him A fluctuant mutable world and dim, Where wavering masses bulge and gape Mysterious, and shape to shape Dies momently through whorl and hollow, And form and line and solid follow Solid and line and form to dream Fantastic down the eternal stream; An obscure world, a shifting world, Bulbous, or pulled to thin, or curled, Or serpentine, or driving arrows, Or serene slidings, or March narrows. There slipping wave and shore are one, And weed and mud. No ray of sun, But glow to glow fades down the deep (As dream to unknown dream in sleep) ; Shaken translucency illumes The hyaline of drifting glooms ; The strange soft-handed depth subdues Drowned color there, but black to hues, As death to living, decomposes Red darkness of the heart of roses, Blue brilliant from dead starless skies, And gold that lies behind the eyes, The unknown unnameable sightless white That is the essential flame of night, Lustreless purple, hooded green, THE FISH 143 The myriad hues that lie between Darkness and darkness ! . . . And all's one, Gentle, embracing, quiet, dun, The world he rests in, world he knows, Perpetual curving. Only grows An eddy in that ordered falling, A knowledge from the gloom, a calling Weed in the wave, gleam in the mud The dark fire leaps along his blood; Dateless and deathless, blind and still, The intricate impulse works its will ; His woven world drops back; and he, Sans providence, sans memory, Unconscious and directly driven, Fades to some dank sufficient heaven. O world of lips, O world of laughter, Where hope is fleet and thought flies after, Of lights in the clear night, of cries That drift along the wave and rise Thin to the glittering stars above, You know the hands, the eyes of love! The strife of limbs, the sightless clinging, The infinite distance, and the singing Blown by the wind, a flame of sound, The gleam, the flowers, and vast around The horizon, and the heights above You know the sigh, the song of love ! 144 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN But there the night is close, and there Darkness is cold and strange and bare; And the secret deeps are whisperless ; And rhythm is all deliciousness; And joy is in the throbbing tide, Whose intricate fingers beat and glide In felt bewildering harmonies Of trembling touch ; and music is The exquisite knocking of the blood. Space is no more, under the mud ; His bliss is older than the sun. Silent and straight the waters run, The lights, the cries, the willows dim, And the dark tide are one with him. Rupert Brooke. From "Collected Poems," The John Lane Co. MODERN SPORT One day I went a-gunning With turkey on my brain; But, dazzled by the sunlight, Brought down an aeroplane. Thought I: "Behind yon woodshed Is where the fish- worms are"; But digging there, I captured A wriggling subway car. At length my trusty fish-hook I baited with a bean. Alas! from calm, blue water I dragged a submarine. St. Clair Adams. THEY WENT A-FISHING 145 THEY WENT A-FISHING One morning, when Spring was in her teens, A morn to a poet's wishing, All tinted in delicate pinks and greens, Miss Bessie and I went fishing; I in my rough and easy clothes, With my face at the sunshine's mercy; She with her hat tipped down to her nose, And her nose tipped vice verse. I with my rod and reel and hooks, And a hamper for lunching recesses; She with the bait of her comely looks, And the seine of her golden tresses. So we sat down on the sunny dike, Where the white pond lilies teeter, And I went to fishing, like quaint old Ike, And she like Simon Peter. All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes, And dreamily watched and waited; But the fish were cunning and would not rise, And the baiter alone was baited. And when the time for departure came, The bag was flat as a flounder; But Bessie had neatly hooked her game A hundred-and-eighty pounder. Anonymous. 146 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN A RHYME OF LITTLE FISHES For even little fishes let The Red Gods have your thanks. Though all you want you do not get, Rejoice you don't draw blanks. For better men than you, by far, Have fished the whole day through- Yea, fished like what someone called war And caught far less than you. To-morrow can't bring luck more bad To you, and anyway You should be glad that you have had A chance to fish to-day. So e'en for little fishes give The Gods your hearty praise That they, in turn, may let you live A heap more fishing days. C. L. Oilman. Permission of "Outing Magazine." THE ANGLER'S DELECTATION Let me live harmlessly; and near the brink Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink With eager bite of oerch, or bleak, or dace ; THE ANGLER'S DELECTATION 147 And on the world and my Creator think: Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace* And others spend their time in base excess Of wine, or, worse, in war and wantonness. Let them that list, these pastimes still pursue, And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; So I the fields and meadows green may view, And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, Among the daisies and the violets blue, Red hyacinth, and yellow daffodil, Purple narcissus like the morning rays, Pale gander-grass, and azure culver-keys. I count it higher pleasure to behold The stately compass of the lofty sky, And in the midst thereof, like burning gold, The flaming chariot of the world's great eye; The watery clouds that in the air up-roll'd, With sundry kinds of painted colors fly, And fair Aurora, lifting up her head, Still blushing, rise from old Tithonus' bed. The hills and mountains raised from the plains ; The plains extended, level with the ground ; The grounds, divided into sundry veins, The veins, enclos'd with rivers running round; These rivers, making way through nature's chains, With headlong course into the sea profound ; The raging sea, beneath the valleys low, Where lakes and rills and rivulets do flow. 148 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN The lofty woods, the forests wide and long, Adorn'd with leaves, and branches fresh and green, In whose cool bowers the birds with many a song, Do welcome with their quire the summer's Queen ; The meadows fair, where Flora's gifts among Are intermix'd, with verdant grass between; The silver-scal'd fish that softly swim Within the sweet brook's crystal watery stream. All these, and many more, of His creation That made the heavens, the Angler oft doth see, Taking therein no little delectation, To think how strange, how wonderful they be ! Framing thereof an inward contemplation, To set his heart from other fancies free; And whilst he looks on these with joyful eye, His mind is rapt above the starry sky. John Dennys. From "Secrets of Angling. " THE SPECKLED TROUT With rod and line I took my way That led me through the gossip trees, Where all the forest was asway With hurry of the running breeze. I took my hat off to a flower That nodded welcome as I passed; And, pelted by a morning shower, Unto its heart a bee held fast. THE SPECKLED TROUT 149 A head of gold one great weed tossed, And leaned to look when I went by; And where the brook the roadway crossed The daisy kept on me its eye. And when I stooped to bathe my face, And seat me at a great tree's foot, I heard the stream say, "Mark the place: And undermine it rock and root." And o'er the whirling water there A dragonfly its shuttle plied, Where wild a fern let down its hair, And leaned to see the water's pride A speckled trout. The spotted elf, Whom I had come so far to see, Stretched out above a rocky shelf, A shadow sleeping mockingly. And I have sat here half the day Regarding it. It has not stirred. I heard the running water say "He does not know the magic word. "The word that changes everything, And brings all Nature to his hand : That makes of this great trout a king, And opes the way to Faery land." Madison Cawein. From "The Poet and Nature and the Morning Road," John P. Morton &Co. 150 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL "Resigned, I kissed the rod." Well! I think it is time to put up! For it does not accord with my notions, Wrist, elbow, and chine, Stiff from throwing the line, To take nothing at last by my motions. I ground-bait my way as I go, And dip in at each watery dimple; But however I wish To inveigle the fish To my gentle they will not play simple ! Though my float goes so swimmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish ; It would seem that the Bream Must be scarce in the stream, And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish! Not a Trout there can be in the place, ' Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention ; And although at my hook With attention I look, I can ne'er see my hook with a Trench on ! At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now; Have they taken advice, Of the "Council of Nice," And rejected their "Diet of Worms" now? THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL 151 In vain my live minnow I spin, Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought, I had better have bought A good rope that was used to Jack-Ketching! Not a nibble has ruffled my cork, It is vain in this river to search then; I may wait till it's night, Without any bite, And at roost-time have never a Perch, then ! No Roach can I meet with no Bleak, Save what in the air is so sharp now ; Not a Dace have I got, And I fear it is not Carpe diem, a day for the Carp now ! Oh ! there is not a one-pound prize To be got in this fresh- water-lottery ! What then can I deem Of so fishless a stream But that 'tis like St. Mary's ottery? For an Eel I have learned how to try, By a method of Walton's own showing But a fisherman feels Little prospect of Eels, In a path that's devoted to towing! 152 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN I have tried all the waters for miles, Till I'm weary of dipping and casting, And hungry and faint Let the fancy just paint What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting ! And the rain drizzles down very fast, While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell So, wet to the skin, I'll e'en back to my inn, Where at least I'm sure of a Bar-bell! Thomas Hood. FISHIN' TIME Dig sum bait, it's time I'm fishin', it's 'bout time I'd wet my line; I can feel it creepin' o'er me an' I'm gittin' so's I pine! When the ice upon the big lake gits all saggin' down an' wet Dig sum bait, it's time I'm fishin*, an' it's time to cure this fret! When the saw gits dull and creaky an' it won't cut worth a cent, An' I ain't got spunk enough to, in the log make one deep dent; Then I know that lazy feelin' it comes creepin' up my spine, An' my mind it gits to wander, for it's time to wet my line! FISHIN' TIME 153 I can feel it stealin* o'er me an' the saw hangs weary- like, An' ambition gits to dyin* when I ought to fish for pike; Yes, for pike Gosh, an' all blame it, what's the use to saw in wood When the ice is out an' wiltin' an' the fish are bitin' good? Wish that I could hold this here saw quite as steady as this pole- Wish that I could saw this woodpile in an hour but bless my soul: When I'm started I git to thinkin' that the fish are out for bait, So I lay my saw beside me an' I sit me down to wait! Such a day an' here it's passin' when I'd oughto be down there, Sittin' on the bank a-smilin', speculative-like an' fair; Oh, this Toil, this Grim Hard Slavery, an' the saw is Rusted Good An' it binds before I'm started in this nameless Birchen Wood! O that I were strong an' husky with one hand could push this saw; Heave away the severed timbers into Toil's wide- gaping maw But I'm weak, an' I am sleepy I could sleep right where I sit, While around me flying fishes ever by me softly flit. 154 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN it's thus when spring is on us, an' the sun is warm an' high It is thus when we are wishin', an' when fishin' is our cry; When the line is dry and dusty and needs wettin' bad or worse An' to saw wood in the springtime, anyhow is but a curse! Dig sum wums, it's time I'm nshin', it's 'bout time I'd wet my line; 1 can feel it creepin' o'er me an' I 'm gittin' so's I pine ! When the ice upon the big lake gits all saggin' down an' wet Dig sum wums, it's time I'm nshin', an' it's time to cure this fret! Robert Page Lincoln. Permission of "Forest and Stream." THE CALL OF THE STREAM I am sitting to-day at the desk alone, And the figures are hard to tame I'd like to shift to a mossy stone Nor bother with pelf and fame. I know a pool where the waters cool Rest under the brawling falls, And the song and gleam of that mountain stream Oh, it calls, and calls, and calls! THE CALL OF THE STREAM 155 There are hooks and lines in a wayside store Where the grangers buy their plug, And the loggers swap their river-lore For a jag they can hardly lug. I wonder how long that tackle will lie As useless as any dumb fool, Unless I happen along to buy, And sneak for that mountain pool. Oh, bother the flies, I guess I've enough, I know where the worms are thick By Billy's old barn oh, they are the stuff You can dig a quart with a stick. The reel is all right and the line is tight, And if they should happen to fail There's little birch rods that are fit for gods When they follow the trout-brook trail. I jing! the demon has rung me up The "central" up in the woods Waders, and creel, and a pocket-cup! I'm after the only goods. Wire for Hank, and the old buckboard The secret, I guess, is out Don't bother me now you'll get in a row I'm catching the train for trout. -Charles H. Crandall. From "Wayside Music," G. P. Putnam's Sons. 156 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN WHEN THE FISH BEGIN TO BITE There's a feel in' comes a-stealin' Sorta shamefaced-like an' queer, An' my heart '11 sorta startle Just about this time o' year. Like a robin that's a-throbbin' With the matin' time delight, When the days are gettin' longer, An' the sun is gettin' stronger, An' the fish begin to bite. Every daisy seems as lazy, Just a-noddin' in the sun, As a feller feelin' meller When his evenin' chores are done, An' a-knowin' where he's goin' With his fishin' pole, all right, When the days are gettin' longer, An' the sun is gettin' stronger, An' the fish begin to bite. Ain't no other feelin', nuther, That'll grip you just like this. Can't outgrow it. Don't you know it? Then you don't know what you miss. When you're fishin', well, you're wishin' Every other feller might, When the days are gettin' longer, An' the sun is gettin' stronger, An' the fish begin to bite. Sam S. Stinson ("Silent Sam'). Permission of "The American Angler." JUST KEEP FISHIN* 157 WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE COMPLEAT ANGLER" While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign! Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort To reverend watching of each still report That Nature utters from her rural shrine. Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline He found the longest summer day too short, To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, The cowslip-bank and shady willow tree; And the fresh meads where flowed, from every nook Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety ! William Wordsworth. JUST KEEP FISHIN' When a feller's feelin' lazy when the springtime's comin' 'round, When the sun is gettin' friendly sorter warmin' up the ground; It is then I get the fever an' I hunt my pole an' line, An' I've got to go a-fishin' fer I know they're bitin' fine. When the work has all been finished an' we're foot- loose fer a week, Then I gather up my tackle fer a full day at the creek 158 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN To sprawl out there, contented, with my old cob pipe alight, An' smoke an' dream an' patient be while waitin' fer a bite. I like to land one now an' then it helps a feller's fame, But if I don't I make no kick, but go on jest the same; An' like all good fishermen when I get home, I say: "I hooked a powerful big one but I let him get away." Now when we're called from this old world to join the angels' band, I hope the thing will work out so I'll somehow be on hand; An' if the good Lord lets me have the job fer which I'm wishin', I want to find some shady spot an' jest keep on a-fishin'. Harry M. Dean. Permission of "Outing Magazine." SUMMER ON THAMES A rushy island guards the sacred bower, And hides it from the meadow, where in peace The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower, Robbing the golden market of the bees : And laden barges float By banks of myosote; And scented flag and golden flower-de-lys Delay the loitering boat. WHEN THIS OLD ROD WAS NEW 159 Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hook Within its hidden depths, and 'gainst a tree Leaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book, Forgetting soon his pride of fishery, And dreams, or falls asleep, While curious fishes peep About his nibbled bait, and scornfully Dart off and rise and leap. Robert Bridges. From "Shorter Poems." FISHING IS FINE WHEN THE POOL IS MUDDY Oho! Oho! Above, below, Lightly and brightly they glide and go! The hungry and keen to the top are leaping, The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping ; Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy. Winthrop Mackworth Praed. From "The Red Fisherman." WHEN THIS OLD ROD WAS NEW When this old rod was new, 'Twas in the vanish'd time, When step was light and eye was bright, And youth was in its prime. Oh ! bright were then the skies In the glory of the dawn, . When the dews that gemm'd the grass Shone in the rosy morn. 160 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Then oped the garden gate, And down the bowery lane, Hedg'd in with elm and chestnut, My hasty path was ta'en ; And to the brawling brooks That thro' the meadows twine I hurried fast, with heart elate, With the new rod and line. When this old rod was new, Full oft by the mill-dam edge, Where the water-lilies grew And the cat-tails and the sedge, I stood on the bank, and threw My line for the perch and bream, In the cool, transparent stream, When this old rod was new. And up where the mountain brook Pour'd swift over stone and sand, Over yellow sand and crystal stone I've stood with this rod in hand. Then, where the dark eddies whirl'd, In the shadow of pine and yew, I cast my silken tackle, When this old rod was new. I knew that under the bank, Where deep was the pool scoop'd out, Where the black tree-roots were hidden, There lurk'd the spotted trout. THE SALMON RUN 161 Then cautious and muffled my step, And skilful the cast that I threw, And glorious captive prizes When this old rod was new. And oft on the ocean border, Where the salt sea-surges beat, On weedy and slippery boulder, Have I stood my daring feet; And there from profound abysses The bass from their caves I drew, Rejoicing in my triumphs When this old rod was new. And now that the silver circlet Of Time on my head is laid, And years with their wintry blossoms My furrow'd brow invade, I still by the brook and seaside, Those early sports renew, And find the sport as pleasant As when this old rod was new. Isaac McLellan. THE SALMON RUN Oh! away to the Tweed, To the beautiful Tweed, My much loved native stream, Where the fish from his hold, 'Neath some cataract bold, Starts up like a quivering gleam. 11 162 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN To the Tweed, then, so pure, Where the wavelets can lure The king of the waters to roam, As he shoots far and free, Thro' the boundless sea, To the halls of his silvery home. From his iron-bound keep, Far down in the deep He holds on his sovereign sway; Or darts like a lance, Or the meteor's glance, Afar on his bright-winged prey. As he roves thro' the tide, Then his clear, glittering side Is burnished with silver and gold, And the sweep of his flight Seems a rainbow of light, As again he sinks down in his hold. Oh! then hasten with speed To the clear running Tweed, The river of beauty and song, Where the rod swinging high, Throws a Coldstream dress'd fly O'er the hold of the salmon so strong. With a soft western breeze That just thrills thro' the trees, And ripples the beautiful bay, THE SALMON RUN 163 Throw the fly for a lure That's a rise ! strike him sure A clean fish, with a burst he's away. Hark ! the ravel line sweel, From the fast whirling reel, With a music that gladdens the ear; And the thrill of delight, In that glorious flight, To the heart of the angler is dear. Hold him tight! for the leap; Where the waters are deep, Give out line in the far, steady run; Reel up quick, if he tire, Tho' the wheel be on fire, For in earnest to work he's begun. Aroused up at length How he rolls in his strength, And springs with a quivering bound; Then away with a dash, Like the lightning's flash Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground. Tho' he strain on the thread, Down the stream with his head, That burst from the run makes him cool, Then spring out for the land, On the road change the hand, And draw down for the deepening pool. 164 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Mark the gleam of his side As he shoots thro' the tide Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair? Fatigue now begins, For his quivering fins On the shallows are spread in despair. His length now we'll stretch On the smooth sandy beach, With the flap from his gills waxing slow ; The sport of an hour Spent the strength of his power, And the fresh-water monarch lies low. -W. A. Foster. Permission of "Forest and Stream." THE HOLY-WELL POOL When the month is happy June, And her horns forsake the moon When she greets us round and full, Then we'll haunt the Holy-well pool, Where I ween, 'Neath willow green, Bright fins are ever gliding; 'Mong the reeds And water-weeds They hold their wary hiding. Not by moonlight need we tread Mossy bank or river-bed; No living things 'neath moonlight prowl, Save beetle and bat and solemn owl ; THE HOLY-WELL POOL 165 As she rides The old trout hides, Under the still bank deeper; Nor sweet fly Nor minnow shy Can rouse the silent sleeper. Rather at morn-tide we shall go To the Holy-well when the sun is low, Ere the bee visits the new-burst flower Or the noon breeze shakes the bower; Then the trout Sails round about Beyond the osier bushes, Or descries His winged prize Among the whispering rushes. Then we'll seek the Holy-well, Or when eve glides up the dell, And the cushat all unseen Coos among the larch-wood green, Stealing soft Along the croft We'll beat the shady water, Till to rest With arm opprest Night turns us from the slaughter. Thomas Tod Stoddart. 166 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN FISHING LINES When spring comes and the days are warm, Then I begin to squirm To hie me out with spade and hoe And dig a little worm. Then to the river's brink I haste And sit beneath the oaks, Where slowly through my trousers' seat The sticky dampness soaks. I spit upon the wriggling bait, I cast the hook afar; And then mosquitoes, flies, and gnats Apprise me where they are. They swarm and sally up and down, They're surely out for blood; But round me clings a glorious smell, The fishy smell of mud. I get about a million bites Upon my hook, I mean ; A million worms lay down their lives, Worms medium, fat, and lean. Yet nothing landed. Finny brains My utmost skill o'ermatch. But fishing is the thing that counts, And not the fish you catch. For going home I'm hungry, yet My hunger's satisfied; I've thought the thoughts of men of old; I've dreamed; I've brushed aside THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT 167 Small moods and cares; I've lived, for once, As every heart must wish; And thus, you see, I've caught a world Of bigger things than fish. St. Clair Adams. THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHT The air is still, the night is dark, No ripple breaks the dusky tide; From isle to isle the fisher's bark, Like fairy meteor, seems to glide, Now lost in shade, now flashing bright; On sleeping wave and forest tree, We hail with joy the ruddy light, Which far into the darksome night Shines red and cheerily. With spear high poised and steady hand, The center of that fiery ray, Behold the skilful fisher stand, Prepared to strike the finny prey. "Now, now!" the shaft has sped below, Transfixed the shining prize we see; On swiftly glides the birch canoe, The woods send back the long halloo In echoes loud, and cheerily! Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides The noisy rapids from our sight, Another bark! another glides! Red spirits of the murky night ! 168 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN The bosom of the silent stream With mimic stars is dotted free; The tall woods lighten in the beam, Through darkness shining cheerily. Susanna Moodie. From "The Treasury of Canadian Verse." Permission from E. P. Dutton &Co. FLY CASTING A sport that lures the angler on Amid the silvery glint and gleam Of eddy cool, or silent pool Along the shady fishing stream. The pastime with a thousand thrills, Where in their haunts the gamy bass Bring keen delight to speed the flight Of golden hours that swiftly pass. A pleasure that revives the soul Depressed by work and worry's sting, For near the gleams of rippling streams Cares take their flight and Joy is king! George B. Staff. Permission of "Field and Stream." SPEARING The lake's gold and purple have vanish'd from sight, The glimmer of twilight is merged into night, The woods on the borders in blackness are mass'd, The waters in motionless ebony glass'd, SPEARING 169 The stars that first spangle the pearl of the west Are lost in the bright blazing crowds of the rest ; Light the torch! launch the boat! for to-night we are here, The salmon, the quick-darting salmon, to spear. We urge our light craft by the push of the oar Through the serpent-like stems of the lilies near shore, And turn the sharp prow at yon crescent-shaped cove, Made black by the down-hanging boughs of its grove; The meek eddy-gurgle that whirls at our dip, Sounds low as the wine-bead which bursts on the lip; On the lake, from the flame of our torch, we behold A pyramid pictured in spangles of gold, And the marble-like depths on each side of the blaze Are full of dark sparkles, far in as we gaze; The loon from his nook in the bank, sends a cry; The night-hawk darts down, with a rush, through the sky; In gutturals hoarse, on his green shiny log To his shrill piping tribe, croaks the patriarch frog; And bleat, low, and bark, from the banks, mingle faint With the anchorite whippoorwiU's mournful complaint. We glide in the cove; let the torch be flared low! The spot where our victim is lurking, 'twill show; Midst the twigs of this dead sunken tree-top he hies, Poise, comrade, your spear! or farewell to our prize! It darts; to the blow his best efforts are bent, A white bubbling streak shows its rapid descent; He grasps it as upward it shoots through the air, Three cheers for our luck! the barb'd victim is there! Give way, boys! give way, boys! our prow points to shore, 170 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Give way, boys! give way, boys! our labor is o'er. As the black mass of forest our torchlight receives, It breaks into groups of trunks, branches, and leaves: Low perch'd on the hemlock, we've blinded with light Yon gray-headed owl! See him flutter from sight! And the orator frog, as we glide with our glow, Stops his speech with a groan, and dives splashing below; One long and strong pull the prow grates on the sand, Three cheers for our luck, boys! as spring we to land. Alfred Billings Street. THE ANGLER'S POSSESSIONS He has rods built of greenheart, of ash, and of cane, And though some may be short and some may be long, Still it is a display he can show when he's vain, Of anglers and angling and rods that are strong. He has reels and has lines of various sizes, Which have aided him well with salmon and trout; His children adorned are with sundry won prizes, Which time and good fortune have caused come about. He has creels and has nets and has gaffs quite a lot, And waders and oilskins to weather the storms; He has Phantoms and Devons and split leaden shot, And traces and tapers in many good forms. THE ANGLER'S POSSESSIONS 171 He has flies in abundance his store of delight Encased in a book which is bulky and stout, Which can always ensure him a leisure hour bright When he's pensive at home or else when without. He has boxes in number for minnows and casts; A selection of minnows, gold, blue, and red; Some lures made of rubber, a substance which lasts, And sinkers in plenty formed of pure lead. He has hand-lines and bait-cans for fishing the sea, And the rods with the rings of porcelain white; Paternosters with swivels and hooks that will be Able to hold any fish that may bite. He has baskets for lunch and has flasks for hot tea, And luxuries many with sport fit to blend; He has full stocks of joy and of happiest glee, With a big share of everything angling can lend. But, alas ! all too soon with his gear he must part, And leave it behind for another to get ; And all he can hope for is that it will impart The silent, deep joy which he cannot forget. Erskine Houston. Permission of "Forest and Stream.'! 172 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE RIVER Through sun-bright lakes, Round islets gay, The river takes Its western way, And the water-chime Soft zephyrs time Each gladsome summer day. The starry trout, Fair to behold, Roameth about On fin of gold; At root of tree His haunt you may see, Rude rock or crevice old. And hither dart The salmon grey, From the deep heart Of some sea-bay ; And herling wild Is here beguiled To hold autumnal play. Oh ! 'tis a stream Most fair to see, As in a dream Flows pleasantly; And our hearts are woo'd To a kind sweet mood By its wondrous witchery. Thomas Tod Stoddart. THE TROUT SEASON WIDOW 173 THE TROUT SEASON WIDOW Your wife's often wishing In May or in June You didn't need fishing To keep you in tune. It really is rotten To lead such a life You've almost forgotten The fact you've a wife. And so you go wander With rod and with line Some woodland up yonder Of spruce or of pine And leave her complaining At home all alone, Each moment maintaining How heartless you've grown. But, gee, how they're calling! The woods and the stream, Where waters are falling, A-glitter, a-gleam. Of course you still love her You love, without doubt, But one thing above her, And that is a trout. It's just the old Adam, Man back in his groove. To quiet the madam It's easy to prove 174 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN In the Bible you read in, As all can perceive, That Adam loved Eden Before he loved Eve! Douglas Malloch. CASTIN' My mind, sech as it is, ain't nowise plural, I'm what they call "A man o' one idee," An' that's to set where things is ca'm an' rural, An' cast, an' cast, an' ketch a fish maybe. When daown the road the City folks come glidin', Their autymobiles don't appeal to me; I'd ruther see braown, dimpled water slidin' Where I c'n cast, an' ketch a fish maybe. An' when fer me the heavenly bells are ringin', I'll gladly set beside the Jasper Sea, An' let the other angels do the singin', Ef I c'n cast, an' ketch a fish maybe. Elsie D. Willis. Permission of "Outing Magazine." SPRING Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks, Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away : And, whitening, down their mossy-tinctured stream Descends the billowy foam; now is the time, While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile, To tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly, SPRING 175 The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring, Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line, And all thy slender watery stores prepare. But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm, Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds: Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep, Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast Of the weak, helpless, uncomplaining wretch, Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand. When, with his lively ray, the potent sun Has pierced the streams, and roused the finny race, Then issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair; Chief should the western breezes curling play, And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds. High to their fount, this day, amid the hills, And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks ; The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze, Down to the river, in whose ample wave Their little naiads love to sport at large. Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank, Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly; And, as you lead it round in artful curve, With eye attentive mark the springing game. Straight as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or urged by hunger, leap, Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook: Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, 176 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And to the shelving shore slow dragging some, With various hand proportion'd to their force. If yet too young, and easily deceived, A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space He has enjoy 'd the vital light of heaven, Soft disengage, and back into the stream The speckled infant throw. But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, Behooves you then to ply your finest art. Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly; And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death, With sullen plunge. At once he darts along, Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line; Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode; And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage, Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore You gaily drag your unresisting prize. James Thomson. From "The Seasons." WHERE THE REDEYES BITE 177 WHERE THE REDEYES BITE When the redeyes bite, Down along the little stream, Where the quiet pools are waiting, And the singing riffles gleam, Where the angler seeks the outdoors With a thrill of new delight, As he finds again the old haunts Where the redeyes bite. When the redeyes bite, And the baited line will shoot With a sort of zigzag jerking Down among the willow root, Where a big old husky fellow That is hooked and full of fight, Has opened up the season When the redeyes bite. When the redeyes bite, With the city far behind, Just a day of plain old fishing Where the rippling waters wind, As they lure the care-free angler From the early dawn till night, To the shady pools and driftwood, Where the redeyes bite ! George B. Staff. Permission of "Field and Stream." 12 178 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE REAL BAIT To gentle ways I am inclined; I have no wish to kill. To creatures dumb I would be kind ; I like them all, but still Right now I think I'd like to be Beside some rippling brook, And grab a worm I'd brought with me And slip him on a hook. I'd like to put my hand once more Into a rusty can And turn those squirmy creatures o'er Like nuggets in a pan ; And for a big one, once again, With eager eyes I'd look, As did a boy I knew, and then Impale it on a hook. I've had my share of fishing joy, I've fished with patent bait, With chub and minnow, but the boy Is lord of sport's estate. And no such pleasure comes to man So rare as when he took A worm from a tomato can And slipped it on a hook. I'd like to gaze with glowing eyes Upon that precious bait, To view each fat worm as a prize To be accounted great. A FISHERMAN IN TOWN 179 And though I've passed from boyhood's term, And opened age's book, I still would like to put a worm That wriggled on a hook. Edgar A. Guest. From "A Heap o* Livin'." Copyrighted by and permission from Reilly & Lee Co. A FISHERMAN IN TOWN I jest set here a-dreamin' A-dreamin' every day, Of the sunshine that's a-gleamin' On the rivers fur away; An' I kinder fall to wishin' I was where the waters swish; Fer if the Lord made fishin', Why a feller orter fish! While I'm study in', or writin', In the dusty, rusty town, I kin feel the fish a-bitin' See the cork a-goin' down ! An' the sunshine seems a-tanglin' Of the shadows, cool an' sweet; With the honeysuckles danglin', An' the lilies at my feet! 180 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN So, I nod, an' fall to wishin' I was where the waters swish ; Fer if the Lord made fishin', Whya feller orter fish! Frank L. Stanton. Printed in and permission from "The Atlanta Constitution." SPRING IS ON THE WIRE When wistful, balmy breezes whisper to you in the air, And breath of green grass growing finds its way o'er building tops, And ghosts of apple blossoms drift in from the vague somewhere, You know that Spring is nearing by these little hints she drops. Oh to be a kid again, Do the things you did again, And shake from off your weary shoulders Time's increasing load; Tramp with sun-tanned feet again Free as air to greet again The olden golden sunshine spread along the dusty road. Now you should not have raised that window and let Spring Fever in She's at the old transmitter and she's sent a call for you; 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 fish- ing's fine!" Yes, Spring is on long-distance, and she's calling calling 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! 182 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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. McQurg & Co. 184 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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 185 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 ! -William E. Elliott ("Pwcator"). 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 186 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN There is no trace Of fear For skill or fishing-gear. Somewhere and time on shore I've seen that look of confidence before. At last the line becomes less tight, The rushes now are weak and few. The gamy victim comes to view; He's almost given up the fight: There's a last quick flip; But a sudden dip Of the net, and neat, Lands the fish at my lady's feet. Somewhere and time upon the shore I've seen the look of triumph that she wore. Frederick Getcheli Permission of "The Century Magazine." ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun, 'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, And seek the heath-frequenting brood Far through the noonday solitude ; By many a cairn and trenched mound, Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound, And springs, where grey-hair'd shepherds tell That still the fairies love to dwell. ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN 187 Along the silver streams of Tweed, Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead, When to the hook the salmon springs, And the line whistles through the rings; The boiling eddy see him try, Then dashing from the current high, Till watchful eye and cautious hand Have led his wasted strength to land. 'Tis blithe along the midnight tide, With stalwart arm the boat to guide; On high the dazzling blaze to rear, And heedful plunge the barb&d spear; Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright, Fling on the stream their ruddy light, And from the bank our band appears Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears. Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale, How we succeed, and how we fail, Whether at Alwyn's lordly meal, Or lowlier board of Ashestiel; While the gay tapers cheerly shine, Bickers the fire, and flows the wine Days free from thought, and nights from care, My blessing on the Forest fair ! Walter Scott. 188 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN BY THE STREAM Where the river seeks the cover Of the trees whose boughs hang over, And the slopes are green with clover In the quiet month of May; Where the eddies meet and mingle, Babbling o'er the stony shingle, There 1 angle There I dangle, All the day. Oh, 'tis sweet to feel the plastic Rod, with top and butt elastic, Shoot the line in coils fantastic, Till, like thistle-down, the fly Lightly drops upon the water, Thirsting for the finny slaughter, As I angle And I dangle, Mute and sly. Then I gently shake the tackle, Till the barbed and fatal hackle In its tempered jaws shall shackle That old trout so wary grown. Now I strike him! joy elastic! Scouring runs! leaps acrobatic! So I angle, So I dangle, All alone. FISHING 189 Then when grows the sun too fervent, And the lurking trouts, observant, Say to me, "Your humble servant! Now we see your treacherous hook!" Maud, as if by hazard wholly, Saunters down the pathway slowly, While I angle, There to dangle With her hook. Then somehow the rod reposes, And the book no page incloses; But I read the leaves of roses That unfold upon her cheek ; And her small hand, white and tender, Rests in mine. Ah! what can send her Thus to dangle, While I angle? Cupid, speak! Fttz-James O'Brien. Permission of "Forest and Stream." FISHING On the cooling bank Patiently musing, all intent I stand To hook the scaly glutton. See ! down sinks My cork, that faithful monitor; his weight My taper angle bends; surprised, amaz'd, He glitters in the sun, and struggling, pants For liberty, till in the purer air He breathes no more. William Somerville. 190 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE FISHERMAN A many men there be that go, Free-booted, wandering to and fro, Athwart God's open, sun-kissed ways, Their hearts o'erbrimming with the praise Of all the wilding things that are Beneath the steadfast sun and star; And foremost of this roving clan I love the ardent fisherman ! He carries still within his breast An incommunicable zest A fervor that may never tire, A flame unwavering, a desire Unquenchable as is the dawn, That leads him on and ever on; And though he's fain of spoil, at root His primal passion is pursuit ! His pulses throb and thrill to feel The vibrant whirring of his reel ; Elation fills him when he spies Upon his line the gleaming prize; Yet when the sunset embers burn Low in the twilight's purple urn, And he has no reward to show, Is he dark-browed and doleful ? No ! Another day, another hour, Fortune may yield her shining shower ! THE INVETERATE ANGLER 191 Still in his bosom bides the lure As fixed as is the cynosure. It is the striving, not the gain, That lifts us to the loftiest plane; The quest, although we miss the goal, That stays the fiber of the soul ! And so, whate'er his class or clan, I love the ardent fisherman ! Clinton Scollard. From "The New York Sun." THE INVETERATE ANGLER Barefoot and freckled he began, A boy, in old Ohio's holes, To fish with wriggling worms for cats And yank them out with hickory poles. With added years, young manhood's pride Plebian catfish learned to flout ; He tossed the humble worm aside, And cast the fly for bass and trout. Time passed, and now upon the brine That washes California's isles, He matched his strength and tackle fine Against the leaping tuna's wiles. Strength fails ; the frost is on his locks, And trembling age his frame doth warp, But slow he hobbles to the docks And fishes for the sluggish carp. 192 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And when, with trumpet to his lip, The herald angel stands in sight, He'll hook another worm and call, "Wait, Gabriel! just another bite!" -W. H. Johnson. Permission of "Field and Stream." WHAT BOTHERS HIM There ain't so much o' pleasure In fishin' South in May, Or any other blessed month No matter what they say ! Because the river bank is green; The grass is soft an' deep, An' where the shady willows lean A feller falls to sleep. An' jest when he begins to nod 'Longside his empty cup, A fish comes jerkin' at his rod An' always wakes him up! Frank L. Stanton. Printed in and permission from "The Atlanta Constitution." BLACK-BASS-FISHING IN WESTERN STREAMS In Western rivers dark and deep That flow thro' open prairie land, Past sandy bluff and wooded steep, Thro' solemn forests lone and grand, The dusky black bass float and swim, Or o'er the placid surface skim. KING AND KID 193 In shallows of the river-reach Where rock and pebbles chafe the tide, Where o'er white gravel and the sand The rushing waters foam and glide, There oft the angler with his fly Takes the black rovers where they lie. But often in the middle deeps Where fathomless the water sleeps, Or where some stony dam or pier, Obstructs the currents' swift career, There oft the struggling, finny spoil Rewards the angler's patient toil. Isaac McLellan. KING AND KID The King sat up on his jeweled throne, and he heaved a sigh that was like a groan, for his crown was hard, and it bruised his head, and his scepter weighed like a pig of lead; the ladies smirked as they came to beg; the knights were pulling the royal leg. The King exclaimed: "If I had my wish, I would cut this out, and I'd go and fish. For what is pomp to a weary soul that yearns and yearns for the fishing pole ; the throne's a bore and the crown a gawd, and I'd swap the lot for a bamboo rod, and a can of worms and a piece of string but there's no such luck for a poor old king!" And a boy who passed by the palace high, to fish for trout in the streamlet nigh, looked up in .awe at the massive walls, and caught a glimpse of the marble halls, and said to himself: "Oh, hully chee! Wisht I was the 13 194 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN king, and the king was me ! To reign all day with your crown on straight is a whole lot better'n diggin' bait, and fishin' round when the fish won't bite, and gettin' licked for your luck at night!" Walt Mason. From "Walt Mason: His Book," Barse & Hopkins. AN OLD SONG Man's life is but vain; For 'tis subject to pain, And sorrow, and short as a bubble: Tis a hodge-podge of business, And money, and care; And care, and money, and trouble. But we'll take no care, When the weather proves fair ; Nor will we vex now tho' it rain ; We'll banish all sorrow, And sing till to-morrow, And angle and angle again. Anonymous. THE FISHERMAN The crystal current streams continually I keep, Where every pearl-pav'd ford and every blue-ey'd deep, With me familiar are; when in my boat being set, My oars I take in hand, my angle and my net About me, like a prince myself in state I steer, Now up, now down the stream, now am I here, now there, THE FISHERMAN 195 The pilot and the fraught myself; and at my ease Can land me when I list, or in what place I please; The silver-scaled shoals, about me in the streams, As thick as ye discern the atoms in the beams, Near to the shady bank where slender sallies grow, And willows their shagg'd tops down towards the waters bow, I shove in with my boat to shield me from the heat, Where, choosing from my bag some prov'd especial bait, The goodly, well-grown trout I with my angle strike, And with my bearded wire I take the ravenous pike, Of whom when I have hold, he seldom breaks away, Though at my line's full length so long I let him play, Till by my hand I find he well-near weari'd be, When softly by degrees I draw him up to me. The lusty salmon too, I oft with angling take, Which me above the rest most lordly sport doth make, Who, feeling he is caught, such frisks and bounds doth fetch, And by his very strength my line so far doth stretch, As draws my floating cork down to the very ground, And, wresting of my rod, doth make my boat turn round. I never idle am; sometimes I bait my weels, With which by night I take the dainty silver eels ; And with my draught-net then I sweep the streaming flood, And to my trammel next and cast-net from the mud I beat the scaly brood; no hours I idly spend, But wearied with my work I bring the day to end. Michael Drayton. From "The Muses' Elysium." 196 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN FISHING With hickory switch and linen twine He sits upon the country bridge; Below him, where the sun-rays shine, Across the water glides a midge; The cat-tails to the ripples tip, And crawfish mould their cells of clay, And wandering swallows downward dip An instant there and then away. Beside him is the homely can That holds the bait, and by his side A yellow dog a rataplan Beats on the oaken timbers wide; Slow swims the cork and then it drifts, And bobs and sinks and wavers there, While bends the switch as quick he lifts A wriggling sunfish through the air. The meadows ring with melody From rapturous fluttering bobolinks, And on a blackened fallen tree Is stretched, as solemn as the Sphinx, An old mud-turtle's awkward form, And dragon flies about him skim, Out where the sunlight dances warm, And in where shadows hover dim. I grant you all you else may claim When manhood seeks its fullest due, I grant you honor, place and fame, I grant that she you loved was true; FISHING 197 I grant you gray in year, and rich, So that you but could give me then The brook, the fish, the hickory switch, And time to be a boy again. Ernest McGaffey. FISHING Oh, fishing isn't fishing, If fishing doesn't mean A generous lot of loafing In a pleasant rural scene. With a baited hook to dangle In the waters, up and down, A thousand miles from trouble And a half day's ride from town. Where the endless line of waters Unfailing vigil keep, And it isn't counted treason If you chance to fall asleep. Oh, fishing isn't fishing, If fishing doesn't mean A joy in dancing waters And vistas, cool and green. With a slender pole to cling to Lest Izaac Walton frown, A thousand miles from trouble And a half day's ride from town. 198 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN For then Life's worth the living With less of woe than weal, Though you homeward turn at nightfall With just an empty creel. Lalia Mitchell. Printed in and permission from "Rod and Gun in Canada." A BOY'S SONG Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the grey trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me. But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay, Up the water and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. James Hogg. WE'VE ALL SEEN HIM 199 WE'VE ALL SEEN HIM Have you seen our Izaac Walton, With his bamboo posed with grace, And his casting-lines and flies around his hat, But the quarters to buy fish with Kept discreetly out of sight, With the pennyroyal to keep away the gnat? Have you seen his natty creel, too A square hole in its lid, Showing sandwiches and milk and lemonade? But his flask of Four Crown whisky Kept discreetly out of sight To prevent the influenza, should he wade? Have you seen him lug his fish home, And heard him spin the yarns 'Bout his fighting them, and pile up lie on lie? But the boy who sold them to him Kept discreetly out of sight, While he posed "a holy terror" with the fly? Why, of course, you've often seen him, And you've been there, too, yourself, And you've done the great prevaricating act; But the quarters that you've squandered Kept discreetly out of sight, As you've passed off whooping lies for solid fact. D. G. Smith. 200 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN A FISHER ONCE WAS I What glorious scenes, what winsome sounds, The world of nature doth impart To that fond rover midst her wilds Disciple of "the gentle art." He knows the mountains, knows their moods The waters kissed by osier wands ; And forests where the moose bird dreams Of tidbits tossed by angler's hands. While stretched beside the campfire's blaze, In twilight's dim and mystic air, He hears the river's stately song The thrush's blended hymn and pray'r. The shores of tranquil, lilied lakes, Where sable loons at evening call The night winds' anthem through the pines He hears and sees, and loves them all. His shelt'ring tent among the trees, With light canoe upon the streams; The nomad Indian's life he leads, While romance tinges all his dreams. Such music sweet of wind and wave, Apollo's lyre-strings never knew; Such sunset hues as he beholds, The hand of painter never drew. THE OLD HOME HAUNTS 201 For aye may all his outings tend Where waters laugh and croon and drowse; Where spruce and hemlock throw their shade, With odors from their balsam boughs. And when before the pearly gates, His earthly fishing days gone by, His honest soul should prompt the speech: "Perhaps, some little, harmless lie" St. Peter '11 shake his golden keys And say with meaning wink so sly: "Forbear, my son, forbear, pass in, Pass in. A fisher once was I !" Sam Parker. Permission of "Field and Stream." THE OLD HOME HAUNTS There's a sound that rings in my ears to-day, That echoes in vague refrain, The ripple of water o'er smooth-washed clay, Where the wall-eyed pike and the black bass play, That makes me yearn, in a quiet way, For my old fly-rod again. Back to the old home haunts again, Back where the clear lake lies: Back through the woods Where the blackbird broods, Back to my rod and flies. 202 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN I'm longing to paddle the boat to-day, Through water-logged grass and reeds: Where the musk-rat swims, and the cat-tails sway; Where the air is cool, and the mist is gray; Where the ripples dance in the same old way, Under the tangled weeds. Back on the old oak log again, Back by the crystal brook; Back to the bait, And the silent wait, Back to my line and hook. I wish I could wade by the water's edge, Where the fallen leaves drift by; Just to see, in the shadow of the ledge, How dark forms glide, like a woodman's wedge, Through driftwood piles and the coarse marsh sedge, And to hear the bittern cry. Back where the tadpoles shift and sink, Back where the bull-frogs sob; Back just to float In the leaky boat, Back to my dripping bob. Oh, it's just like this on each misty day, It's always the same old pain That struggles and pulls in the same old way To carry me off for a little stay By the water's edge, in sticky clay, To fish in the falling rain. THE ANGLER'S AWAKENING 203 Back to my long black rubber boots, Back to my old patched coat; Back to my rod And the breath of God Home and my leaky boat! Frederick Colburn Clarke. THE ANGLER'S AWAKENING Great is the joy when the summer has 'wakened, Lifted herself from the ice and the snow, Out to the stream to go hunting the sly ones Payment in full for the days of our woe; Out where the waters are sounding and calling, And there is peace in the breezes that blow! Out where the stream is a pathway of silver Flashing its smile to the face of the sun ; Out where the day is a harvest of gladness, Out where the hour-sands too soon are run; Out where we leave all the aching behind us, Out where the rest and the comfort is won! There we shall live as the Maker has made us, Strip from ourselves all the scheming and guile; Throw from our shoulders the unequal burden, Pause to recover and think for a while; Sit by the ferns by the musical river Gloom and despair giving way to a smile! 204 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN There to forget all the hum and the turmoil ; There to forget all the clatter and rush There to restore all the courage that's left us, There to arise from the toil and the crush; There to be great by the might of our dreaming, Solitude near us the coolness, the hush! Over the woodway and down to the streamside, Fishing we go in the bright-early morn Now is the heart bravely singing, and gayly, Gone is the sorrow, the visage forlorn ; There through the trees is the limpid lane shining, Over the air is the harmony borne! There is the pool by the low-drooping alders; There to the boulder the light fly is cast- Now has the speckled one risen to take it, Now is the battle on, cunning and fast ! See how he fights in the swirl of the current Now the net lifts him the worry is past. Home then at even the sun in its glory, Gilding the clouds into billows of flame; Sound of the whip-poor-will deep in the coverts, Telling the world all his musical name; While the pines sound with the notes of the vesper, This shall be gain over Trouble and Fame! Robert Page Lincoln. Permission of "The American Angler." FISHING SONG 205 FISHING SONG Come, boys, get down your dusty poles, Your reels and flies and lines; We're off to where the Brule rolls Among the northern pines To where the sparkling Brule rolls Among the fragrant pines. Before our tent beside the stream We'll sit and smoke at eve; The nights shall pass with ne'er a dream The days with naught to grieve Clear nights whereon the pale moon's beam Shall linger loath to leave. The fish? Alas! again must I Confess I know them not. Guides named them all when I was by But I have clean forgot ; (Or else the poteen held my eye So that I heard them not.) Enough it is that I declare Earth has no fairer scene No joy not held in that crisp air Deep in the wildwood green, Where gleams the Brule debonair Her vineclad banks between. 206 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN So come, get down your fishing poles, Your patent reels and lines, And we'll go where the Brule rolls Among the northern pines To where the sparkling Brule rolls Among the fragrant pines. Frank Putnam. From "Living in the World," Rand, McNally & Co. AN APPEAL FROM OUR FINNY FRIENDS As one of the tribe, I speak for the rest, And this is the message we send: Just play with us fair and then in the test, Let the cleverest win in the end. An even chance should be ours, that's sure, So don't be mean with your snares, For at best we're fooled by your tempting lure, And are caught so oft unawares. And while we're but fish, we're game to the end, No quarter from you will we pray, So be a good sport and also our friend, And use but one hook in the fray. Charles H. Bracken. Permission of "Field and Stream." ON A BANK AS I SATE A-FISHING This day dame Nature seem'd in love : The lusty sap began to move ; Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, And birds had drawn their valentines. THE FISHER'S CALL 207 The jealous trout that low did lie, Rose at a well-dissembled flie ; There stood my friend, with patient skill, Attending of his trembling quill. Already were the eaves possest With the swift Pilgrim's daubed nest; The groves already did rejoice In Philomel's triumphing voice, The showers were short, the weather mild, The morning fresh, the evening smiled. Joan takes her neat-rubb'd pail, and now She trips to milk the sand-red cow, Where, for some sturdy football swain, Joan strokes a syllabub or twain, The fields and garden were beset With tulip, crocus, violet; And now, though late, the modest rose Did more than half a blush disclose. Thus all looks gay, and full of cheer, To welcome the new-livery'd year. Sir Henry Wotton. THE FISHER'S CALL The moor-cock is crowing o'er mountain and fell, And the sun drinks the dew from the blue heather-bell ; Her song of the morning the lark sings on high, And hark, 'tis the milk-maid a-carolling by. Then up, fishers, up! to the waters away! Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey. 208 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN O what can the joys of the angler excel As he follows the stream in its course through the dell ! Where ev'ry wild flower is blooming in pride, And the blackbird sings sweet, with his mate by his side. Then up, fishers, up! to the waters away! Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey. Tis pleasant to walk at the first blush of morn, In spring when the blossom is white on the thorn, By the clear mountain stream that rolls sparkling and free, O'er crag and through vale, its glad course to the sea. Then up, fishers, up! to the waters away! Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey. In the pools deep and still, where the yellow trout lie, Like the fall of a rose-leaf we'll throw the light fly; Where the waters flow gently, or rapidly foam, We'll load well our creels and hie merrily home. Then up, fishers, up! to the waters away! Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey. William Andrew Chatto ("Stephen Oliver"). YE WARDERS OF THE WATERS Ye warders of the waters ! Is the alder'd stream-side free? Hath the salmon sped From his winter bed YE WARDERS OF THE WATERS 209 Adown to the azure sea ? Rideth afloat The fisher's boat Below the white-thorn tree? Go forth, ye anglers jovial ! The waters are open wide; No longer we ward From vernal sward The glittering salmon glide; Free at your will The crystal rill, And tuneless torrent-side. Ho ! warders of the waters ! Is the yellow trout at feed? And the March flies brown Are they sailing down Where current and zephyr lead? See you abroad With pliant rod Some gentle brother speed ? Go forth, ye anglers jovial ! The ring of the trout we spy, And the south winds pour In a pleasant shower The merry March-brown fly ; With vigorous wand The fisher band Among the dark pools ply. -Thomas Tod Stoddart. 14 210 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE FISHERMEN Hurrah ! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the anchor ! Run up the sail again! Leave to the lubber landsmen The rail-car and the steed ; The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed. From the hill-top looks the steeple, And the lighthouse from the sand; And the scattered pines are waving Their farewell from the land. One glance, my lads, behind us, For the homes we leave one sigh, Ere we take the change and chances Of the ocean and the sky. There we'll drop our lines, and gather Old Ocean's treasures in, Where'er the mottled mackerel Turns up a steel-dark fin. The sea's our field of harvest, Its scaly tribes our grain ; We'll reap the teeming waters As at home they reap the plain ! Though the mist upon our jackets In the bitter air congeals, And our lines wind stiff and slowly From off the frozen reels ; THE ANGLER 211 Though the fog be dark around us, And the storm blow high and loud, We will whistle down the wild wind, And laugh beneath the cloud ! In the darkness as in daylight, On the water as on land, God's eye is looking on us, And beneath us is His hand! Death will find us soon or later, On the deck or in the cot ; And we cannot meet him better Than in working out our lot. Hurrah! hurrah! the west- wind Comes freshening down the bay, The rising sails are filling; Give way, my lads, give way ! Leave the coward landsman clinging To the dull earth, like a weed ; The stars of heaven shall guide us The breath of heaven shall speed ! John Greenleaf Whittier. THE ANGLER Speak not to him of days that mark The conquest of the air. He has no wish to dwell in space, He finds the world so fair. He loves the field ; he loves the wood ; The very scent of earth is good. His rod and line are rare. 212 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN He could not bear to live apart From gentle, winding stream Wherein he casts his baited hook, And then sits down to dream. No quicker thrill can touch his soul Than that which darts along the pole, At sudden rise and gleam. So leave him to his good, green earth * His shady woodland nook. No Music of the Spheres can charm Like that of babbling brook. Go soar aloft as swallows skim, If you desire, but as for him Just leave him with his hook! Blanche Elizabeth Wade. From "The New York Sun." THE UNATTAINABLE I know a pool where the river, Sunlit and still, Slips by a bank of wild roses Down from the mill ; There do I linger when summer makes glorious Valley and hill. Somewhere the song of a skylark Melts into air, Butterflies float through the sunshine, June's everywhere ; Nature in fact, shows an amiable jollity I do not share. THE UNATTAINABLE 213 For in the shade of the alders, Scornful of flies, There is a trout that no cunning Coaxes to rise, Sly as Ulysses, and doubtful as Didymus, Mammoth in size. And when the Mayfly battalions Flutter and skim, When all the others are filling Baskets abrim, I spend the cream of a fisherman's carnival Casting at him; Seeing in fancy my hackle Seized with a flounce, Hearing the reel racing madly Under his pounce, Knowing at last all the pounds of his magnitude (Eight of an ounce !) But of my drakes and my sedges None make the kill, None tempt him up from his fastness Under the mill, And, for I saw him as lately as Saturday, There he is still. Thus do Life's triumphs elude us, Yet it may be 214 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Some afternoon, when the keeper Goes to his tea, That, if a lob-worm were dropped unofficially Well, we shall see. Patrick Chalmers. From "Green Days and Blue Days," The Norman, Remington Co. THE FISHER'S WELCOME We twa hae fish'd the Kale sae clear, An' streams o' mossy Reed ; We've try'd the Wansbeck and the Wear, The Teviot an' the Tweed ; An' we will try them ance again, When summer suns are fine ; An' we'll thraw the flies taegither yet, For the days o' auld lang syne. 'Tis mony years sin' first we sat On Coquet's bonny braes, An' mony a brither fisher's gane, An' clad in his last claes. An' we maun follow wi' the lave, Grim death he heuchs us a' ; But we'll hae anither fishing bout Afore we're ta'en awa'. For we are hale an' hearty baith, Tho' frosty are our pows, We still can guide our fishing graith, An' climb the dykes and knowes; THE FISHER'S WELCOME 215 We'll mount our creels and grip our gads, An' thraw a sweeping line, An' we'll hae a splash amang the lads, For the days o' auld lang syne. Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still, He's green below the knee, Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad, An' gang awa' wi' me. Come busk your flies, my auld compeer, We're fidgin' a' fu' fain, We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year, An' we'll fish her ance again. An' hameward when we toddle back, An' nicht begins to fa', An' ilka chiel maun tell his crack, We'll crack aboon them a'. When jugs are toom'd and coggens wet, I'll lay my loof in thine; We've shown we're gude at water yet, An' we're little warse at wine. We'll crack how mony a creel we've fill'd, How mony a line we've flung, How mony a ged an' saumon *kill'd, In days when we were young. We'll gar the callants a' look blue; An' sing anither tune; They're boasting, aye, o' what they'll do, We'll tell them what we've dune. Thomas Doubleday. 216 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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, Wf 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 ! Thomas Tod Stoddart. FISHING NOOKS 217 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. 218 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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. FISH IS COIN' TO BITE 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' 11 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. THE POMPANO OF FLORIDA 219 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. -Claude Hillel Permission of "Field and Stream." THE POMPANO OF FLORIDA (Trachynotus carolinus) The jpompano 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. 220 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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. Isaac McLellan. THE BROOK TROUT 221 THE BROOK TROUT How swift and strong its waters glide The brook a clear, resistless tide, And slowly down the mountain side The angler goes. The soft air drifts through solemn pines And dreamily the sunlight shines, And past the alders, rocks, and vines The current flows. Above the depths that now conceal What tempting lures may yet reveal An instant whirls the nimble reel, Then drops the fly, And by the glancing ripples caught A moment, there the line is taut, And then, as suddenly as thought, Goes whirling by. And where the swift brook turning trends, Just as the broadening ripple ends, There comes a tug, a thrill that sends Along the rod, A message from the slender tip From whence the liquid diamonds drip, That violently makes it dip And downward nod. And then it bends from tip to .butt, While through the pools the ripples cut, And close and closer yet is shut, Then upward flies, 222 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN As drawn from out his pebbly hold, Brightly against the forest mould, Vermilion, silver, black, and gold, The brook trout lies. Ernest McGaffey. THE FIRST WORM This morning as I went to work (For work I was not wishing), A worm crawled briskly out and said: "Come on, let's go a-nshing!" I wonder how that worm knew me, My thoughts, my inmost wishes, Which ran, not slow to tasks, but swift To brooks and little fishes. Instead of toil and noisy streets, Sad hearts and anxious feeling, There came a haze of golden dreams With blessing on me stealing. I felt the warm, rich tide of spring Mount in me with elation; I heard the call of earth and sky, The red-gods' invitation. I saw the lights, the wimpled gleams Of amber waters flowing; I smelted the fragrance of the woods With birch and spice-buds blowing. THE BONNY TWEED FOR ME 223 I heard the wind's low symphonies, The partridge drum-call rolling, In every hidden copse a thrush His silver bell was tolling. Over moor, beside the singing stream, Lost boyhood came to meeting, And life was as a timeless day That ends with mother's greeting. Once more I built my midday fire And broiled a trouty treasure, And ate and drank and praised the Lord For life and simple pleasure. I've had, thanks be, a happy hour Of dreams and idle wishing, And all because one early worm Said, "Come, let's go a-fishing." Anonymous. Permission of "The Independent and The Weekly Review." THE BONNY TWEED FOR ME! The hunter's e'e grows bright as the fox frae covert steals, The fowler lo'es the gun, wi* the pointer at his heels, But of a' the sports I ken, that can stir the heart wi' glee, The troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny Tweed for me. 224 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Wi' the gowan at the waterside, the primrose on the brae, When sheets o' snawy blossom cleed the cherry and the slae, When sun and wind are wooin' baith, the leaflet on the tree; Then the troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny Tweed for me. When the fresh green sward is yieldin' wi' a spring aneath the fit, And swallows thrang on eager wing out ower the waters flit; While the joyous laverocks, toorin' high, shoot out their concert free Then the troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny Tweed for me. Cheer'd wi* the honest ploughman's sang, that mak's his wark nae toil The flocks o' sea-gulls round him as his coulter tears the soil, When the craw-schule meets in council grave upon the furrowed lea Then the troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny Tweed for me. The modest wagtail joukin past, wi' saft and buoyant flight, And gurglin' streams are glancin' by, pure as the crystal bright, THE BONNY TWEED FOR ME 225 When fish rise thick and threefauld as the drake or woodcock flee Then the troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, the bonny Tweed for me. I like the merry spring, wi' the bluid in nature's veins, The dancin' streamlet's music, as it trinkles through the stanes, The silver white upon the hook, my light gad bending free Wha wadna visit bonny Tweed and share sic sport wi' me? While there! time wings wi' speed o' thought, the day flees past sae sune, That wha wad dream o' weariness till a the sport is dune? We hanker till the latest blink is shed frae gloamin's e'e, Laith, laith to quit the troutin' stream, the fishin' gad, and flee! W. A. Foster. THE STRIPED BASS (Roccus Lineatus) The taking of the striked bass is what the salt-water fisherman claims the right of terming the high-water mark of all angling. Van Dorne in. The Fishes of the East Atlantic Coast. There in great deeps of ocean floods Where narrow, rock-strewn channels sweep, The strip'd bass hold their paradise Unrivall'd roamers of the deep. 15 226 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN There the surf-fisher casts the bait, There the scaled warrior meets his fate, Where matchless skill and tackle fine Conquer those heroes of the brine. Stong be the line and firm the hand To drag such champion to the strand. Pois'd on the rock's extremest verge The angler like a sentry shows, Swings the lithe rod and whirls the bait Seaward where frothy billow flows; Then comes the strike the splendid fish, Full of the rush and dash of waves, His muscles trained by many a shock And battle in deep ocean-caves, Makes fiercer fight while life remain Than bravest ranger of the main. Isaac McLellan. THE ANGLER'S WISH I in these flowery meads would be : These crystal streams should solace me, To whose harmonious bubbling noise I with my angle would rejoice, Sit here and see the turtle dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love: Or, on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty: please my mind, WORM-FISHING 227 To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, And, then, wash'd off by April showers : Here, hear my Kenna sing a song, There see a blackbird feed her young, Or a laverock build her nest : Here give my weary spirits rest, And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love: Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice: Or with my Bryan, and a book Loiter long days near Shawford Brook; There sit by him, and eat my meat; There see the sun both rise and set ; There bid good morning to next day; There meditate my time away ; And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave. -Izaak Walton ("John ChalkhilT). WORM-FISHING Now as an angler melancholy standing Upon a greene banke yielding room for landing, A wriggling yellow worme thrust on his hooke, Now in the midst he throws, then in a nooke: Here pulls his line, there throws it in again, Mending his croke and baite, but all in vaine, He long stands viewing of the curling streame ; At last a hungry pike, or well-growne breame 228 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Snatch at the worme, and hasting fast away, He, knowing it a fish of stubborn sway, Pulls up his rod, but soft (as having skill), Wherewith the hook fast holds the fishe's gill. Then all his line he freely yieldeth him, Whilst furiously all up and downe doth swimme Th' insnared fish, here on the toppe doth scud, There underneath the bankes ; then in the mud ; And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal, That each one takes his hyde or starting hole : By this the pike, cleane wearied, underneath A willow lyes, and pants (if fishes breathe) ; Wherewith the angler gently pulls him to him, And, lest his haste might happen to undoe him, Layes downe his rod, then takes his line in hand, And by degrees getting the fish to land, Walkes to another poole: at length is winner Of such a dish as serves him for his dinner. William Browne. From "Britannia's Pastorals," i. 5. THE BONNIE TWEED Let ither anglers chuse their ain, An' ither waters tak' the lead; O' Hielan' streams we covet nane, But gie to us the bonnie Tweed ! And gie to us the cheerfu' burn That steals into its valleys fair The streamlets that at ilka turn Sae saftly meet an' mingle there. THE BONNIE TWEED 229 The lanesome Talla and the Lyne, An' Manor wi' its mountain rills, An' Etterick, whose waters twine Wi' Yarrow frae the forest hills ; An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright, An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed ; Their kindred valleys a' unite Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed. There's no a hole abune the Crook, Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath, Nor drumlie rill nor faery brook, That daunders thro' the flowery heath, But ye may fin' a subtle troot, A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead, An' mony a sawmon sooms about Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed. Frae Holylee to Clovenford, A chancier bit ye canna hae; So gin ye tak' an angler's word, Ye'd through the whins an' ower the brae, An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand Yer birzy hackles, black and reid ; The saft sough o' a slender wand Is meetest music for the Tweed ! Oh the Tweed! the bonnie Tweed! O' rivers it's the best; Angle here, or angle there, . Troots are soomin' ilka where, Angle east or west. Thomas Tod Stoddart. 230 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE TROUT Curved like an Indian bow, Bow and arrow in one, Spotted with crimson, with gold aglow, And bright as a summer sun, With fins like a lady's fan, Yet strong as a canvas sail, Cleaving the stream as a cutter can The sea in a Biscay gale. Like a boat to an anchor fast, Thou'rt pois'd by a power within, Yet swift as lightning thou flashest past, By a flap of thy potent fin, If my rod shall catch thine eye Or my cast shall show its sheen: A water-fox in thy subtlety; Thy sight as an eagle's keen. Thou lovest the crystal streams Where the flowering cresses blow, Or the freshets dancing in sunny gleams, O'er gravelly pebbles flow; And even in lazier hours, Thou scornest an earthly screen, But couchest beneath the bank's wild flowers, Or the stream-weeds, waving green. How I love to see thee lie In the green, clear watery lane, In wait for the dainty, floating fly Thou hopest so soon to gain! THE TROUT 231 I would that it might be mine, But how hard to make it sail Adown in that straight, unwavering line That shall make deceit prevail ! How hard to suit thy whim, So varying with the hour, Fancying this when the day is dim, And that in shine or shower ! If "out of season" my fly, Thou daintiest epicure, Tho' plied with skill, thy critic eye Will scornfully abjure. A cunning like thine I need When I seek to make thee mine; I must overmatch thee in greed In order to conquer thine : I must study and watch thy ways As thou dost mine, with zeal, Thou valiant foe I yield thee praise, Foe worthy of my steel. I strike, and the barb is fast! The battle has now begun ! We wrestle together at last, But the battle is not yet won ! No lover that conquers the fair Who long has seemed cold and coy, Is prouder than I when I draw with a hair Thy form to my feet with joy! Cotswold hys. 232 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE BALLADE OF THE BASS When the dewdrops bright in the dawning gleam, And the dimpling waters in beauty shine; When the breathings of morn with odors teem, With my rod and reel and a silken line, And a feathered hook of quaint design, I stand on the bank in the dewy grass, At the foot of a giant Norway pine And cast the fly for the gamy bass. When smooth as a mirror are lake and stream, And the shady pools hold the quiet kine, With the lilies afloat in the noontide dream, I lay down the rod and the reel and line On the shelving shore, and grandly dine In the sylvan shades that far outclass The dwellings of man; then lie supine, And muse on the fly and the gamy bass. When the setting sun, with his crimson beam, Transmutes the waters to ruby wine; Again I return to the glowing theme The glory of rod and reel and line; And there in the hour of day's decline, As the exquisite moments swiftly pass, With a joy that no language can define, I cast the fly for the gamy bass. ANGLING REVERIES 233 L Envoi No joy, dear fellow, can e'er be thine, Like the curving rod and the whistling line; Then let us pledge in a brimming glass The far-cast fly and the gamy bass. Anonymous. ANGLING REVERIES When the trees get kinder yellar, And the air grows kinder cool, And the trout get kinder frisky, Down in yonder shady pool, You can be darn sure it's Autumn, And the fishin' laws forbid Your anglin' any further, When they clamp the legal lid. Yup; your fishin' days are over, And you might as well decide To put away your tackle, And by the law abide. Ah, yes, my brother Walton, I will do as you advise, As for putting 'way the tackle, I shall sure do otherwise. For the rod that's done good service The attic is too base. It is worthy of more honor, And shall have the chimney-place. Ah, yes, my brother fisherman, You surely are discreet, 234 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN For at that hearth, on wintry nights, 'Neath rods we'll take our seat. The snow may swirl around the place, May whiten all the ground ; But it won't disturb our reveries. We'll find music in the sound. Aye, my brother Izaak, boy, We'll fondle both the rods, And talk of summer outings That were envied of the Gods. With line, the leader and the fly, That caught the biggest fish, For one sweet vision of that fight Will be our only wish. And when age marks our locks with white, And feeble we become, Then 'round the hearth, we'll gather 'round, 'Till Father Time doth come. C. N. Ward. Permission of "Field and Stream." HO, FOR THE KANKAKEE! Ho, for the marshes, green with Spring, Where the bitterns croak and the plovers pipe, Where the gaunt old heron spreads his wing, Above the haunt of quail and snipe ; For my gun is clean and my rod's in trim, And the old wild longing is roused in me ; Ho, for the bass-pools cool and dim ! Ho, for the swamps of the Kankakee ! THE CLAM MAN 235 A hut by the river, a light canoe, My red and my gun and a sennight fair, A wind from the South and the wild fowls due, Be mine. All's well. Come never a care. A strain of the savage fires my blood, And the zest of freedom is keen in me ; Ho, for the marsh and the piled flood ! Ho, for the sloughs of the Kankakee ! Maurice Thompson. From "Poems." By permission of and arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers. THE CLAM MAN Across the white-capped reach of bay, His battered vessel slaps and slams, Though calm or stormy be the day He clams. The littered deck beneath him rolls, The salt gale cuts him like a knife, Spray drenched he sails the wind-lashed shoals Of life. For him love is a tuneless lay; Ambition flaunts no lure to foil ; Night is a soundless sleep, and day Is toil. Wealth never claimed him, fear ne'er knew The thrill to wake him from his way; Courage alone is his, to do To-day. 236 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Sometimes when black winds sweep the night He hears across the wrack of years Dead voices, and his eyes grow bright With tears. As faithful, steadfast o'er the bay His battered vessel slaps and slams, So he will face his God To-day He clams. Percy M. Gushing. Permission of "Outing Magazine." WALTON'S "COMPLEAT ANGLER" What, not a word for thee, O little tome? Brown-jerkined, friendly-faced of all my books The one that wears the quaintest, kindliest looks Seems most completely, cosily at home, Amongst its fellows. Ah! if thou couldst tell Thy story how, in sixteen fifty-three, Good Master Marriot, standing at his door, Saw anglers hurrying fifty nay, threescore, To buy thee, ere noon pealed from Dunstan's bell : And how he stared and . . . shook his sides with glee. One story, this, which fact or fiction weaves. Meanwhile, adorn my shelf, beloved of all Old book! with lavender between thy leaves, And twenty ballads round thee on the wall. Thomas Westwood. CHANNEL BASS FISHING 237 CHANNEL BASS FISHING i Bass fishing is mighty uncertain sport, For the game is shy and capricious, Quite likely to try the experienced hand And weary the more ambitious: But when the mysterious conditions are fit And the fish all eager to bite, It will fill with rapture the patient soul And thaw the ice of an anchorite. One pins his faith on the waxing moon, While another prefers the waning ; But the scorner of signs, in the dark of the moon Goes angling without complaining: Some look for success in the falling tide While others prefer the rising, But the hopeful soul angles every tide With indifference most surprising. The novice yearns for a speedy strike, Which failing he speaks of the "Sin Oh!" And quickly relapsing from high emprise Impatiently goes for the minnow: But loving the shock and the song of the reel And despising both minnow and flounder, I will cheerfully angle for days, aye for weeks, In the quest of a hundred pounder. William E. Simmons. Permission of "The American Angler." 238 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN MICHIGAN AGAIN When Spring has come The thing has come That's sure to come to me : The call of Spring That's all of Spring Spring fever, don't you see? In weary toil In dreary toil, It whispers now and then, "Awake! Away! Come break away To Michigan again!" The care of life, The wear of life, Lie heavy on the heart; But yonder now They wander now In fairyland apart. For over there The clover there Will deck the ways of men And then I long, Again I long, For Michigan again. The cherry tree, The fairy tree, Will soon be all a-blush; THE SEA-TROUT GREY 239 The winging bird, The singing bird, Will warble in the hush. The flashing trout, The splashing trout, Is waiting in the fen I wish again To fish again In Michigan again! Douglas Malloch. THE SEA-TROUT GREY The sea-trout grey Are now at play, The salmon is up, hurra ! hurra ! For the streamlets brown Are dancing down ; So quicken the cup, hurra ! hurra ! The cloud-cap still Is on the hill, And the showers fall fast, hurra! hurra! But sun and breeze Will scatter these, So drink while they last, hurra ! hurra ! We'll start at dawn, O'er lea and lawn, Through thicket and thorn, hurra ! hurra ! On merriest limb With rods in trim, Come, drink a sweet morn, hurra ! hurra ! Thomas Tod Stoddart. 240 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE BLUEFISH (Pomatomus Saltatrix) It is a brave, a royal sport, Trolling for bluefish o'er the seas; Fair skies and soaring gulls above, A steady blowing breeze; A shapely yacht whose foaming prow The billowy plain divides, That like a gallant courser speeds Far, free o'er ocean tides. First from West India seas they came, Haunting the Cuban coast, Cruel as Spanish buccaneers, A fierce, rapacious host. But now by Northern seaboard shores Their murderous way they take, From Mexico Gulf to Labrador, Wherever billows break. The weaker tenants of the main Flee from their rage in vain, The vast menhaden multitudes They massacre o'er the flood ; With lashing tail, with snapping teeth They stain the tides with blood. Rakish are they, like pirate craft, All matchless to assail, With graceful, shapely, rounded sides And the sharped, forked tail; 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: 16 242 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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 ! Francis Aiken. Permission of "Field and Stream." 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. 244 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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 stream- ing And brace of palmers fine, As ever decked a line, Dubbed with herl, and ribbed with gold, in the sun- light 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! encroach- ing 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; 246 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN As if earth and sky Took a tenderer dye, And as if within my heart fifty larks were trilling. Oh, the pleasant roaming Homeward through the gloaming! Oh, the heavy creel, alack! Oh, the joyful greeting! Oh, the jokes and laughter, And the sound sleep after, And the happy, happy dreams, all the sport repeating ! I'm an old man now, Stiff limb and frosty pow, But stooping o'er my flickering fire, in the winter weather, Oft I see this vision Of a time elysian And I cast my crutch away, and escape my tether! Thomas Westwood. THE TAKING OF THE SALMON A birr! a whirr! a salmon's on, A goodly fish ! a thumper ! Bring up, bring up the ready gaff, And if we land him we shall quaff Another glorious bumper! Hark ! 'tis the music of the reel, The strong, the quick, the steady ; The line darts from the active wheel, Have all things right and ready. THE TAKING OF THE SALMON 247 A birr! a whirr! the salmon's out Far on the rushing river; Onward he holds with sudden leap, Or plunges through the whirlpool deep, A desperate endeavor ! Hark to the music of the reel ! The fitful and the grating; It pants along the breathless wheel, Now hurried now abating. A birr! a whirr! the salmon's off! No, no, we still have got him ; The wily fish has sullen grown, And, like a bright embedded stone, Lies gleaming at the bottom. Hark to the music of the reel ! Tis hushed, it hath forsaken; With care we'll guard the slumbering wheel, Until its notes rewaken. A birr! a whirr! the salmon's up, Give line, give line and measure; But now he turns ! keep down ahead, And lead him as a child is led, And land him at your leisure. Hark to the music of the reel! Tis welcome, it is glorious; It wanders round the winding wheel, Returning and victorious. 248 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN A birr! a whirr! the salmon's in, Upon the bank extended; The princely fish lies gasping slow, His brilliant colors come and go, All beautifully blended. Hark to the music of the reel ! It murmurs and it closes; Silence falls on the conquering wheel, Its wearied line reposes. No birr ! no whirr ! the salmon's ours, The noble fish the thumper: Strike through his gill the ready gaff, And bending homewards, we shall quaff Another glorious bumper! Hark to the music of the reel ! We listen with devotion; There's something in that circling wheel That wakes the heart's emotion. Thomas Tod Stoddart. ANGLING In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade, When cooling vapors breathe along the mead, The patient fisher takes his silent stand, Intent, his angle trembling in his hand: With looks unmov'd, he hopes the scaly breed, And eyes the dancing cork and bending reed. Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, THAT TROUT 249 The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the watery plains. Alexander Pope. From "Windsor Forest." THAT TROUT I've watched that trout for days and days, I've tried him with all sorts of tackle; With flies got up in various ways Red, blue, green, gray and silver-hackle. Sometimes I've had a vicious bite, And as the silk was tautly running, Have been convinced I had him quite; But 't wasn't him he was too cunning. I've tried him when the silver moon Shone on my dew-bespangled trousers, With dartfish; but he was "too soon"- Though, sooth to say, I caught some rousers; And sadly viewed the ones I caught, They loomed so small and seemed so poor, 'Twas finding pebbles where one sought A gem of price a Kohinoor. I've often weighed him (with my eyes), As he with most prodigious flounces Rose to the surface after flies. (He weighs four pounds and seven ounces.) 250 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN I tried him Heaven absolve my soul With some outlandish heathenish gearing A pronged machine stuck on a pole A process that the boys call spearing. I jabbed it at his dorsal fin Six feet beneath the crystal water Twas all too short. I tumbled in, And got half drowned just as I'd orter. Adieu, O trout of marvelous size, Thou piscatorial speckled wonder. Bright be the waters where you rise, And green the banks you cuddle under. George W. Sears ("Nessmuk"). Permission of "Forest and Stream." TROUTING With slender rod, and line, and reel, And feather fly with sting of steel, Whipping the brooks down sunlit glades, Wading the streams in woodland shades, I come to the trouter's paradise : The flashing fins leap twice or thrice : Then idle on this gray boulder lie My crinkled line and colored fly, While in the foam-flecked, glossy pool The shy trout lurk, secure and cool. A rock-lined, wood-embosomed nook, Dim cloister of the chanting brook! TROUTING 251 A chamber within the channelled hills, Where the cold crystal brims and spills, By dark-browed ledges blackly flows, Falls from the cleft the crumbling snows, And purls and plashes, breathing round A soft, suffusing mist of sound. Under a narrow belt of sky Great boulders in the torrent lie, Huge stepping-stones where Titans cross ! Quaint broideries of vines and moss, Of every loveliest hue and shape, With tangle and braid and tassel drape The beetling rocks, and veil the ledge, And trail long fringe from the cataract's edge. A hundred rills of nectar drip From that Olympian beard and lip! And see ! far on, it seems as if In every crevice along the cliff Some wild plant grew : the eye discerns An ivied castle: feathery ferns Nod from the frieze and tuft the tall Dismantled turret and ruined wall. Strange gusts from deeper solitudes Waft pungent odors of the woods. The small, bee-haunted basswood-blooms Drop in the gorge their faint perfumes. Here all the wild-wood flowers encamp That love the dimness and the damp. 252 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN High overhead the blue day shines ; The glad breeze swings in the singing pines. Somewhere aloft in boughs is heard The fine note of some warbling bird. In the alders dank with noonday dews A restless catbird darts and mews. Dear world ! let summer tourists range Your great highways in quest of change, Go seek Niagara and the sea This little nook suffices me ! So wild, so fresh, so solitary I muse in its green sanctuary, And breathe into my inmost sense A pure, sweet, thrilling influence, A bliss, even innocent sport would stain, And dear old Walton's art profane. Here, lying beneath this leaning tree, On the soft bank, it seems to me, The winds that visit this lonely glen Should soothe the souls of sorrowing men, The waters o'er these ledges curled Might cool the heart of a fevered world ! John Townsend Trowbridge. From "Poetic Works." By permission of and arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers. THE ANGLER 253 THE ANGLER He rises ere the dews at dawn Like diamonds gleam upon the lawn, And down the fragrant pasture goes Through buttercups and wild primrose; The bobolinks amid the grass Laugh merrily to see him pass. O foolish gossips, in the midst He speeds to keep no morning tryst! With fixed intent, he does not heed The mottled moth, a fairy steed, That seeks the wood till night enfold The day, and steals its wealth of gold. He gains the grove where woodbines twine Around the boles of elm and pine, Nor pauses till he stands amid The reeds where Pan the piper hid. What joy is his to see the gleam Of silvery fin within the stream, To hold in leash each eager sense With silence breathless and intense, To mark an arrowy flash, and feel The sudden pulsing of the reel, As with electric current fine He sends his nerve along the line! Companioned by a keen desire, His sturdy patience does not tire; 254 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Through waning hours, in sun or rain, He smiles, content with meager gain; Breathing the perfect calm and broods In nature's secret solitudes, Gleaning from river, wood, and sky, A deep and broad philosophy. Clinton Scollard. From "The New York Sun." FISHIN' Jest fishin' ! Yep don't care a rap 'Bout ketchin' any, Been restin' awhile had a nap An' drempt so many Dif runt kind o' dreams (An' it wan't mor'n a minit I dropt off) but seems Like those apple blossoms Droppin' on my face Took me back to years ago ! I c'd see the very same place We boys went swimmin' down below The gris'-mill (bull-pout's there, y'know) Funny! how dreams work so fast; 'Bout times 'seems went so slow; Times so far off back in the past. THE SALMON FISHERMAN 255 Then I felt her hand brush mine; Plain 's if I was wide awake! 'Spose 'twas jes' a blade o' grass Just touchin' me by mistake. She didn't 'prove o' fishin' Reckoned hooks hurt 'im some Anyway jes' finds me wishin' More o' them dreams'd come. Constance Fassett Wilbur. Permission of "Outing Magazine." THE SALMON FISHERMAN Near where sea meets river He wets his net World weight of water laves His floating domicile, Falling as Neptune's lungs intake, Rising as they expel. With barricade of oiled twine, Made taut from buoy to buoy, Along a bobbing horizon of corks, He lies in eager wait For silvery salmon red, In jumping, joyous race . To answer Nature's urge To propagate. 256 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Alone, a fisher through the night, 'Mid crash of ghostly silences, Mere blur upon God's canvas, He seeks his futile soul, Nor asks for aught but luck To match his native skill and gear 'Gainst instinct unsuppressed, Since birth of time. Comrade is he to Caliban. Mermaids pull his floats adown With fish fresh captive by the gills, To coax a caress from his lips, In vain; One all absorbing thing he thinks, While beauty's arrayed on every hand, Tis this What is the price of fish? W. Hamar Greenwood. KEEP FISHIN' Hi Somers was the durndest cuss For ketchin' fish he sure was great! He never used to make no fuss About the kind o' pole er bait Er weather neither he'd jes' say, "I got to ketch a mess to-day," An' toward the creek you'd see him slide A-whislin' soft and walkin' wide. KEEP FISHIN' 257 I sez one day to Hi, sez I, "How do you allers ketch 'em, Hi?" He give his bait another swish in An' chucklin' sez, "I jes' keep fishinY' Hi took a-readin' law at night, An' purty soon, the first he knowed, He had a lawsuit, won his fight, An' was a lawyer I'll be blowed! He knowed more law than Squire McNab, An' though he had no gift o' gab To brag about, somehow he made A sober sort o' talk that played The mischief with the other side. When asked how he got in condition, He laughed an' said, "I jes' keep fishinY' Well, Hi is Governor Somers now, A big man roun' the State, you bet ! To me, the same old Hi, somehow The same old champeen fisher yet. It wasn't so much the bait er pole, It wasn't so much the fishin' hole, But jes' his fishin' an' I guess, A sober, stiddy, cheerful kind O' keepin' at it don't you mind? An' that is why I can't help wishin' That more o' us would jes' keep fishin'. Ray Clarke Rose, n 258 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN LEVEN WATER Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave, No torrents stain thy limpid source; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave the crystal flood; The springing trout in speckled pride, The salmon, monarch of the tide, The ruthless pike intent on war, The silver eel, the mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, And edges flower'd with eglantine. Tobias Smollett. From "Ode to Leven Water." THE SMALL-MOUTH BLACK BASS The little-mouth has little scales, There's red in his handsome eye, The scales extend on his vertical fins, And his forehead is round and high. His forehead is round and high, my boys, And he sleeps the winter through ; He likes the rocks in the summer time Micropterus dolomieu. Fred Mather. THE ANGLER'S VINDICATION 259 THE BIG-MOUTH BLACK BASS The big-mouth has the biggest scales, And a pit scooped in his head ; His mouth is cut beyond his eye, In which is nary a red. In his eye is nary a red, my boys, But keen and well he sees ; He has a dark stripe on his side Microjpterus salmoides. Fred Mather. THE ANGLER'S VINDICATION Say not our hands are cruel, What deeds provoke the blame? Content our golden jewel, No blemish on our name : Creation's lords, We need no swords To win a withering fame. Say not in gore and guile We waste the livelong day: Let those alone revile Who feel our subtle sway, When fancy-led The sward we tread, And while the morn away. 260 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Oh ! not in camp or court Our best delights we find, But in some loved resort With water, wood, and wind, Where nature works And beauty lurks In all her craft enshrined. There captive to her will, Yet, 'mid our fetters free, We seek by singing rill The green and shady tree, And chant our lay To flower and fay, Or list the linnet's glee. Thus glides the golden hour, Until the chimes of toil Recall from brook and bower; Then, laden with our spoil, With beating heart We kindly part And leave the haunted soil. Thomas Tod Stoddart, THE FISHING OUTFIT You may talk of stylish raiment, You may boast your broadcloth fine, And the price you gave in payment May be treble that of mine. THE FISHING OUTFIT 261 But there's one suit I'd not trade you Though it's shabby and it's thin, For the garb your tailor made you : That's the tattered, Mud-bespattered Suit that I go fishing in. There's no king in silks and laces And with jewels on his breast, With whom I would alter places. There's no man so richly dressed Or so like a fashion panel That, his luxuries to win, I would swap my shirt of flannel And the rusty, Frayed and dusty Suit that I go fishing in. 'Tis an outfit meant for pleasure; It is freedom's raiment, too; It's a garb that I shall treasure Till my time of life is through. Though perhaps it looks the saddest Of all robes for mortal skin, I am proudest and I'm gladdest In that easy, Old and greasy Suit that I go fishing in. Edgar A. Guest. From "Just Folks." Copyrighted by and permission from Reilly & Lee Co. 262 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN TO MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. IZAAK WALTON Whilst in this cold and blust'ring clime, Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, We pass away the roughest time Has been for many years before: Whilst from the most tempest'ous nooks The chillest blasts our peace invade, And by great rains our smallest brooks Are almost navigable made : Whilst all the ills are so improv'd Of this dead quarter of the year, That even you, so much belov'd, We would not now wish with us here: In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this You, our dear friend, have more repose: And some delight to me the while, Though Nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may do so again. If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these Foul days in one fine fishing day: IZAAK WALTON 263 We then shall have a day or two, Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly: A day without too bright a beam, A warm, but not a scorching sun, A southern gale to curl the stream, And, master, half our work is done. There, whilst behind some bush we wait The scaly people to betray, We'll prove it just with treach'rous bait To make the preying trout our prey: And think ourselves in such an hour Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like leviathans, devour Of meaner men the smaller fry. This, my best friend, at my poor home Shall be our pastime and our theme ; But then, should you not deign to come, You make all this a flatt'ring dream. Charles Cotton. TO MY DEAR BROTHER IZAAK WALTON Erasmus in his learned colloquies Has mixt some toys, that by varieties He might entice all readers: for in him Each child may wade, or tallest giant swim. 264 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And such is this Discourse: there's none so low Or highly learn'd, to whom hence may not flow Pleasures and information ; both which are Taught us with so much art, that I might swear, Safely, the choicest critic cannot tell Whether your matchless judgment most excell In angling or its praise: where commendation First charms, then makes an art a recreation. Twas so to me: who saw the cheerful spring Pictur'd in every meadow, heard birds sing Sonnets in every grove, saw fishes play In the cool crystal springs, like lambs in May; And they may play, till anglers read this book; But after, 'tis a wise fish 'scapes a hook. John Floud. THE LAST CAST The Angler s Apology Just one cast more ! how many a year Beside how many a pool and stream, Beneath the falling leaves and sere, I've sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream! Dreamed of the sport since April first, Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow, Adown the pastoral valleys burst Where Ettrick and the Teviot flow. Dreamed of the singing showers that break, And sting the lochs, or near or far, And rouse the trout, and stir "the take," From Urigil to Lochinvar. THE LAST CAST 265 Dreamed of the kind propitious sky O'er Ari Innes brooding grey; The sea trout, rushing at the fly, Breaks the black wave with sudden spray ! Brief are man's days at best ; perchance I waste my own, who have not seen The castled palaces of France Shine on the Loire in summer green. And clear and fleet Eurotas still, You tell me, laves his reedy shore, And flows beneath his fabled hill Where Dian drave the chase of yore. And "like a horse unbroken" yet The yellow stream, with rush and foam, 'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet, Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome! I may not see them, but I doubt If seen I'd find them half so fair As ripples of the rising trout That feed beneath the elms of Yair. Nay, Spring I'd meet by Tweed or Ail, And Summer by Loch Assynt's deep, And Autumn in that lovely vale Where wedded Avons westward sweep. 266 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Or where, amid the empty fields, Among the brackens of the glen, Her yellow wreath October yields, To crown the crystal brows of Ken. Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal, Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide, You never heard the ringing reel, The music of the watertide ! Though Gods have walked your woods among, Though nymphs have fled your banks along ; You speak not that familiar tongue Tweed murmurs like my cradle song. My cradle song, nor other hymn I'd choose, nor gentler requiem clear Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim, Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear! Andrew Lang. From "Rhymes a la Mode," Longmans, Green, & Co. VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while, With your lips double-reefed in a snug little smile, I leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep, The shells you may drop, but the pearls you may keep. VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER 267 The fish called the FLOUNDER, perhaps ycu may know, Has one side for use and another for show; One side for the public, a delicate brown, And one that is white, which he always keeps down. A very young flounder, the flattest of flats, (And they're none of them thicker than opera hats,) Was speaking more freely than charity taught Of a friend and relation that just had been caught. "My! what an exposure! just see what a sight! I blush for my race, he is showing his white! Such spinning and wriggling, why, what does he wish? How painfully small to respectable fish!" Then said an old SCULP IN, "My freedom excuse, But you're playing the cobbler with holes in your shoes; Your brown side is up, but just wait till you're tried And you'll find that all flounders are white on one side." There's a slice near the PICKEREL'S pectoral fins, Where the thorax leaves off and the venter begins; Which his brother, survivor of fish-hooks and lines, Though fond of his family, never declines. He loves his relations; he feels they'll be missed; But that one little titbit he cannot resist; So your bait may be swallowed, no -matter how fast, For you catch your next fish with a piece of the last. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 268 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN FISHIN' TIME Along about this time o' year, When frosty nights are o'er, I sneak up in the attic, And I lock the attic door. Then I open up my old trunk That's collected dust for years, And I start to snoopin' round a bit While weepin' joyful tears. The reason for this strategy Need not be put in rhyme. The fact about the matter is, It's now near fishin' time. I look my good old waders o'er, And fix my wicker creel ; Next put some hob-nails in my shoes, And lubricate my reel. My fly box may need mending, And more leaders must be tied; To be sure my flies need sorting, That's a fact can't be denied. Then too there is my tapered line, All oiled with loving care, And every inch inspected, Just to see no kinks are there. FISHIN' TIME 269 The net needs fixing on the frame, Which brings to mind the time I stood in water to my waist, And fought the fight sublime. Then lastly comes my fav'rite rod, A present from my wife ; I joint it up and lo! that rod Becomes a thing of life. Coachmen, hackles, Parmacheene, Recall, as does my rod, Some scene in wild secluded spot When I communed with God. There's more than fish to fishin', For you come to realize How small a fellow really is In Mother Nature's eyes. It puts the red blood in your veins, And sets you right with men ; That's why the time can't come too soon For fishin' once again. P. S. Peck. Permission of "The American Angler." 270 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN WATCHING THE MINNOWS Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, And watch intently Nature's gentle doings ; They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend; Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass Slowly across the chequered shadows pass ; Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. If you but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain ; But turn your eye, and they are there again. John Keats. TROUT FISHING Across the fields and through the dew Still sparkling on the blossoming clover, We lightly trudge, with all the blue Broad arch of morning beaming over; TROUT FISHING 271 The woods before are dark and cool, With here and there a golden glimmer, And over many a wayside pool A gleam, a flash, a shade, a shimmer. By winding paths and mossy lanes, All brightly fringed with flower and berry, We pass, nor pause to note the strains Of woodland warblers blithe and merry. Our thoughts are bent on "cast" and "play." We hardly heed the splendor o'er us, But haste with quickening steps away To reach the glorious sport before us. With lisping, low- voiced monotone, The brook flows by in curves and sallies, And bears its rippling music down To daisied slopes and verdant valleys; Through serried pines the sunlight falls, Like grains of gold thro' emerald drifted, And near, the cleft and towering walls Of ledge and cliff to heaven are lifted. Soft winds blow down from ridge and grove Where balsam boughs are gently swaying, And round a silvery beech above Two heedless squirrels briskly playing. But now to work with rod and line, And dainty flies on trusted leader; We'll take the first auspicious sign, And cast below yon slanting cedar. 272 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN A gleam, a splash! By George, he's fast! A lusty fellow and how he rushes, Now here, now there, now swiftly past A bend of fern, and alder-bushes ! The whistling line spins merrily out; He leaps and flings a sparkling torrent Of crystals round, then wheels about, And heads straight up the foamy current! Behind a boulder now he darts, And now across to deep recesses Beneath a balmy bank, then starts For sheltering beds of tangled cresses ; But vain, all vain, subdued at last, He yields and faintly gasps and flounders; 'Tis o'er your sportive hour is past, O royal prince of plump two-pounders ! Again with feathery touch the flies Dance lightly over pool and shallow, And, darting through reflected skies, The wary trout retreat or follow; A "coachman" now their fancy takes, Or now a "miller" or now a "hackle" And many a plungin' beauty breaks, To try our skill and test our tackle. Still higher, higher mounts the sun, The morn hastes on and noon is nearing; Now varying sounds come borne upon The breeze that blows o'er copse and clearing; TROUT FISHING 273 The far cock-crow, the jangling bells That tells where browsing herds are straying; The quail's clear pipe in lonely dell, The woodman's call, the hounds' deep baying. Still down the grassy marge we go, Now list'ning to the tall trees moaning, Now catching from a glade below A drowsy mill's perpetual droning. Still on: the miller's brown-faced boy Stands knee-deep in the shining water, And near, with startled glance and coy, The miller's comely, dark-eyed daughter. So through the long, bright balmy days In shade and sun alternate ranging We speed the hastening hours away, Where scene and sound are ever changing, Till all the hills are dashed with gold, That pales eve's dimly dawning crescent, And twilight falls on field and wold, Like veiling gauze o'er forms quiescent. Soft, soothing calm of summer woods, Of streams that chant in rhythmic numbers, Of fragrant, flowery solitudes Where peace with folded pinions slumbers, Full oft to thee doth fancy take Her airy flight from burdened highways, To roam again by brook or lake, Or dream in leafy paths and byways. Daniel Connolly. 18 274 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN BRING THE ROD, THE LINE, THE REEL! Bring the rod, the line, the reel ! Bring, oh bring, the osier creel ! Bring me flies of fifty kinds, Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds ! All things right and tight, All things well and proper, Trailer red and bright, Dark and wily dropper Casts of midges bring, Made of plover-hackle, With a gaudy wing, And a cobweb tackle. Lead me where the river flows, Show me where the alder grows, Reeds and rushes, moss and weed, To them lead me quickly lead, Where the roving trout Watches round an eddy, With his eager snout Pointed up and ready, Till a careless fly On the surface wheeling, Tempts him rising sly From his safe concealing. There, as with a pleasant friend, I the happy hours will spend, Urging on the subtle hook, O'er the dark and chancy nook, FISHIN' WITH AN OLD BAMBOO 275 Where a hand expert Every motion swaying, And on the alert When the trout are playing; Bring me rod and reel, Flies of every feather, Bring the osier creel- Send me glorious weather ! Thomas Tod Stoddart. FISHIN* WITH AN OLD BAMBOO Is there any fun like fishin' In yer pockets not a sou Is there any fun like fishin*, With an old bamboo? With a rusty spike fer sinker, With a bobber some old cork ; Some old clothes that look 's tho' Noah Wore 'em out while in the ark. Big straw hat on top an air hole, Red bandanna 'round yer neck, Look jist like a bloomin' scare-crow Without carin' not a speck. Maybe slick, this expert cast in' Fancy reels an' silk lines too, ' But there's no fun jist like fishin' With an old bamboo. 276 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Get yer line caught on a snag, an' Jerk it out an' catch a branch, Swear, an' know there's no one listenin' An' y' own the whole ranch. Get your cow-hides good an' muddy, Get yer nose all sun-burnt red, Lookin's tho' y' had a jag on Fer a week'd been raisin' Ned. If y' catch 'em, course it's better, If y' don't don't care a sou, What's the difference when yer fishin' With an old bamboo? T. R. Shaw. Permission of "Field and Stream." THE ANGLER'S SONG Once more I tread thy pebbly shore, Fairbrook! And view the scenes I saw lang syne, Accoutred, as so oft before, With tapering rod and silken line And barbed hook. The mill dilapidated stands ; And see Its moss-grown wheel, forever still, All choked with weed and drifting sands, O'er which the water's dancing rill Made melody. THE OLD MILL BY THE RIVER 277 There, where the overhanging tree Bends low, The naiad of the brook to woo, Patient, from care and trouble free How oft the fatal snare I threw, Long days ago! Again I angle in the pool, Or troll The ripples' murm'ring, eddying flow; The while the sweet south-wind doth cool The sultry heat of noontide's glow As on I stroll. What though successless? Still I fish And wait; And still the winding brooklet trace ; No happier pastime might I wish, Than thus to tempt the finny race, And meditate! Charles Dexter. THE OLD MILL BY THE RIVER Here in the years when life was bright With dewy mornings and sunset light, In the pleasant season of leafy June, In each idle, holiday afternoon I lov'd to wander with willow wand I lov'd on the river border to stand And take the trout or the yellow bream That leap'd, that glanc'd athwart the stream. 278 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN With broken window, with hingeless door, Thro' which the slanting sunbeams pour; With leaning gable, and settling wall, O'er which the draperied ivies fall ; With rafter moldy, worm-eaten beam, O'er which the silken cobwebs stream, Fast by the river-banks serene The old forsaken mill is seen. Its roof shows many a chasm and rent, Its creaking vane is crack'd and bent, In and out the swallows fly, Under the eaves their dwellings lie. The leather-wing' d bats, when day is dim, Thro' vacant rooms and granaries skim; Its shingles that ages ago were new, Splendid with painters' lavish hue, Are faded now and swing in the gale, Scarce held by the loosen' d rusty nail ; The clapboards rattle and clank amain In gusts of the snow-fall and the rain, For the dust of many a lapsing year Hath writ its wasteful chronicles here. The dam o'er which the waters pour Is settling and crumbling by the shore; The slippery logs and mossy stone Yield to the current one by one; And swift thro' many a rent abyss The spouting rivulets foam and hiss, And soon must the crazy fabric decay, And the torrent sweep uncheck'd away. THE SALMON 279 The water-wheel so black and vast, With beam like a battle-vessel's mast That once would churn with mighty sweep The boiling waters so dark and deep, Lies now a wreck in humbled pride, Trembling with each assault of the tide. Under the crumbling, blacken' d wheel The crystal bubbles circle and reel ; Over and under the eddies boil Round molder'd timber and rotting post; In many a circling ripple they coil In sudden plunge, in wild turmoil, Now seen an instant, then quickly lost. Isaac McLellan. THE SALMON Shaft of living silver, chased With Nature's lines of beauty; Strength with agile lightness graced, Like Love when linked with Duty; Glistening with a rainbow sheen When the sunray tender Lights thy scales of pearly green With a gleaming splendor. Native of pure, inland streams, Why an ocean lover Thou becom'st in early dreams, Who shall e'er discover? 280 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Why, when grown to grilse, of sea Thou so soon art sated, And returnest only He Knows who thee created ! Who hath given thee power to know Thine own native river, From all streams that downward flow Into ocean ever ? Instinct is a name; no more, Not the potence causing ; Let the faithless that explore; I adore while pausing. Oh, when home, sweet home's thy song, From the sea returning, With maternal instinct strong In thy bosom burning, What can check thine arrowy course ? Neither fall nor boulder, Curving with an innate force O'er each barrier's shoulder. But, O swimmer strong ! beware, Resting on thy journey, Seeking sweet, delicious fare, Him who seeks a tourney ! 'Ware thee, lest he should deceive E'en thine eye sagacious, Making thee a lie believe With a fly fallacious ! BALLADE THE FALSE AND THE TRUE 281 Fly to please thy varying mood, Suiting sky and water, Robed in colors many-hued, Like a sultan's daughter! Or, together blended, show Like a young moon crescent, Rising o'er the sunset glow, Softly opalescent. Ah, beware lest thou espy The Castle-Connell bending! Feel that strange, mysterious fly With thy strength contending ! Taste it not, it means thee harm ! Tail it hath O fear it! Link'd with yonder stalwart arm, And the gaff is near it ! Oh, thy terror when his barb Shall thy fears awaken, And that fly in gaudy garb Cannot be outshaken! Rush, and leap, and dive! ah me! Vain thy mad endeavor! No more river, lake, or sea Home of thine for ever. Cotswold Isys. BALLADE OF THE FALSE AND THE TRUE When virgin Spring puts on her bridal veil To wed hot-blooded Summer, I am fain To join their nuptial feast in woodland dale, 282 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Whose rippling brooks no other feet profane; And there, where trout to wondrous size attain, And some are caught and some, though pricked, go free, Far from the city's many-tongued refrain, My old fly rod has ne'er been false to me. And once I sang of Love, of knights in mail, Of maidens with the eyes of sunny Spain, Of pallid moon, of warbling nightingale, The adolescence of an amorous swain. Let others sing to Julia, Jennie, Jane, Their puny passions making piteous plea; True to maturer love I will remain; My old fly rod has ne'er been false to me. Erstwhile in song I praised stone mugs of ale, The wit-inspiring sparkle of champagne, The flowing bowl, the merry quip, the tale Told round the board ere Bacchus bold was slain. The kindred spirits, all in sportive vein, With luring laughter held life's golden key. Ah, yesterday! I know this morning's pain. My old fly rod has ne'er been false to me. Companion, sweetheart, friend, why should I deign Thy virtue to expose, thy loyalty? Wine, woman, song, what profiteth to gain? My old fly rod has ne'er been false to me. Sam S. Stinson ("Silent Sam'). Permission of "The American Angler." THE ANGLER'S TOAST 283 THE ANGLER'S TOAST When men meet to drink to those they love most, Let anglers fill up their cups for a toast, Touch lip to no glass To proud dame or lass Who from gentle sport will tempt you to stray ; But your cups clink, Ye anglers, and drink A health to the fish, To the biggest fish, The fish that got away ! You lured him by craft; he fought you at odds In fair fight or foul, he splintered your rods. Barbed weapon of steel You've oft made him feel ; But, valiant and strong, he won every fray. Then fill to the brim And drink deep to him A toast to the fish, To the biggest fish, The fish that got away ! What others you've killed with cunning and skill You've never caught him and never you will. In brook, lake or sea The monarch is he Ye anglers, stand up and due homage pay. 284 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Let every glass ring, A toast to the King ! Long life to the fish, To the biggest fish, The fish that got away ! Norman Jeffries. EEL-SPEARING BY TORCHLIGHT (Anguilla) The skies are dark; the moon is hid Behind the dusky cloud of night ; A bank of drift-fog from the surge Hangs heavy on the sea-shore height ; No hovering breeze uplifts its wing Aside the musty gloom to fling. But see ! a star along the wave Moves slow and devious, to and fro ; Now like a blazing camp-fire flares, Now, flickering, trembles faint and low. Anon it steady grows and burns As hither thro' the gloom it turns. Tis the eel-spearer's pitchy torch That like a lightship's lantern flings Its ruddy, quivering bar of light, As in the rigging high it swings. Nearer and nearer, thro' the dusk, The smoky flambeau slow doth float, And now the gnome-like fisherman Shows dimly in his drifting boat. SAINT PATRICK 285 Standing with trident spear uprais'd, All shadowy on his task intent, He shows like goblin of the mine On some weird, fiendish orgie bent. He pauses, for the shooting flame Reveals the slippery prey below ; With sudden plunge he thrusts the spear, Then draws it upward to the glow ; And see! the captives twist and coil, Dark victims of his midnight toil. Isaac McLellan. SAINT PATRICK No doubt, St. Patrick was an angler Of credit and renown, sir, And many a shining trout he caught, Ere he built Dublin town, sir. Old story says, (it tells no lies) He fished with bait and line, sir, At every throw he had a bite, Which tugged and shook his twine, sir. In troubled streams he loved to fish, Then salmon could not see, sir, The trout, and eels, and also pike, Were under this decree, sir. And this, perhaps, may solve a point, With other learned matters, sir, Why Irishmen still love to fish Among troubled waters, sir. 286 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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 ; 288 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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 Carry/. FISHING 289 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. 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, 19 290 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN 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, THE ANGLER'S CONTENTMENT 291 And the folk in fur and feathers pass you by and never mind you It is good sometimes in summer to forget you are a man. It may be he's a coward who forsakes a world of trouble, Who runs away from duty for a day or so to dream ; Who instead of shouts of victory would rather hear the bubble Of a willow's fingers trailing in the current of a stream. Yet I know one day He passed me. I am still uncer- tain whether I saw Him or I dreamed Him. Yet I heard the grasses swish, And saw Him stand with Peter there, good fishermen together, And remembered that He turned away from Destiny to fish. Frederic F. Van de Water. Permission of "The New York Tribune." THE ANGLER'S CONTENTMENT No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright; No begging wants his middle fortune bite: But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets and rich content; The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him With coolest shade, till noon-tide's heat be spent: 292 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seas, Or the vexatious world, or lost in slothful ease : Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. ...... 4 . ..... His bed, more safe than soft, yields quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face. His humble house or poor state ne'er torment him; Less he could like, if less his God had lent him; And when he dies, green turfs do for a tomb content him. Phineas Fletcher. THE FISHER'S JOYS Ah! would thou knew'st how much it better were To 'bide among the simple fisher-swains; No shrieking owl, no night-crow lodgeth here; Nor is our simple pleasures mixt with pains: Our sport begins with the beginning year; In calms, to pull the leaping fish to land; In roughs, to sing and dance along the golden sand. Phineas Fletcher. THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side, His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide; The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim, Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him. THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN 293 It was a pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid, Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade; He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say, "I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away." Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, "I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see; I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont, and I will swim this here." And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain, But they have heard her father's steps, and in he leaps again ! Out spoke the ancient fisherman, "O what was that, my daughter?" "Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water." "And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swim- ming past." 294 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Out spoke the ancient fisherman, "Now bring me my harpoon ! I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon." Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb, Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like seaweed on a clam. Alas for those two loving ones ! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned; But fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below. Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE ANGLER'S PRAYER Grant me the gentle effacement of malicious envy, The peaceful retrospection of the true angler's spirit, Fulfilment of modest, fair-fought and appreciative victory, And the ever-keen delight in a fellow angler's Good fortune and accomplishment. This be my prayer! J. Auburn Wiborn. THE ANGLER'S SONG 295 THE ANGLER'S SONG As inward love breeds outward talk, The hound some praise, and some the hawk ; Some, better pleased with private sport, Use tennis; some a mistress court: But these delights I neither wish Nor envy, while I freely fish. Who hunts, doth oft in danger ride; Who hawks, lures oft both far and wide; Who uses games, shall often prove A loser; but who falls in love, Is fetter'd in fond Cupid's snare: My angle breeds me no such care. Of recreation there is none So free as fishing is alone; All other pastimes do no less Than mind and body both possess : My hand alone my work can do ; So I can fish and study too. I care not, I, to fish in seas; Fresh rivers best my mind do please ; Whose sweet calm course I contemplate And seek in life to imitate: In civil bounds I fain would keep, And for my past offences weep. 296 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN And when the tim'rous trout I wait To take, and he devours my bait, How poor a thing, sometimes I find, Will captivate a greedy mind: And when none bite, I praise the wise, Whom vain allurements ne'er surprise. But yet, though while I fish I fast, I make good fortune my repast ; And thereunto my friend invite, In whom I more than that delight, Who is more welcome to my dish Than to my angle was my fish. As well content no prize to take, As use of taken prize to make; For so our Lord was pleased, when He fishers made fishers of men ; Where (which is in no other game) A man may fish and praise His name. The first men that our Saviour dear Did choose to wait upon Him here, Blest fishers were; and fish the last Food was, that He on earth did taste: I therefore strive to follow those, Whom He to follow Him hath chose. William Basse. OFF TO THE FISHING GROUND 297 OFF TO THE FISHING GROUND There's a piping wind from a sunrise shore Blowing over a silver sea, There's a joyous voice in the lapsing tide That calls enticingly; The mist of dawn has taken flight To the dim horizon's bound, And with wide sails set and eager hearts We're off to the fishing ground. Ho, comrades mine, how that brave wind sings Like a great sea-harp afar ! We whistle its wild notes back to it As we cross the harbor bar. Behind us there are the homes we love And the hearts that are fond and true, And before us beckons a strong young day On leagues of glorious blue. Comrades, a song as the fleet goes out, A song of the orient sea ! We are the heirs of its tingling strife, Its courage and liberty. Sing as the white sails cream and fill, And the foam in our wake is long, Sing till the headlands black and grim Echo us back our song! Oh, 'tis a glad and heartsome thing To wake ere the night be done And steer the course that our fathers steered In the path of the rising sun. 298 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN The wind and welkin and wave are ours Wherever our bourne is found, And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep When we're off to the fishing ground. Lucy M. Montgomery. From "The Watchman and Other Poems." Permission of Frederick A. Stokes Co. THE ANGLER'S DELIGHT A rod in his hand and brogues on his feet, With waders adorned, and outfit complete, He is ready to fish from morning till night, And who can compare with him for delight? A fast-running stream, beside birch trees and firs, With currents and pools where the breeze gently stirs The surface to carry the lure to the prey, Which cannot be seen in the light of the day. A rise and a pull, a tightening line, A running of reel, no words can define The thrill of emotion and pleasure supreme When angling is good from the banks of a stream. The chirping of birds, the scene all around Is full of the peace which there can be found, And the angler, alone, finds solace and rest Deep-seated and full in the depths of his breast. Erskine Houston. Permission of "Forest and Stream." THE STRIPED BASS CRANK 299 THE STRIPED BASS CRANK I've been thinking, sadly thinking, As these winter evenings pass, Of my time and money wasted In pursuing striped bass, For the cash that I have spent on bait And tackle, I'll be bound, I could buy a whole fish market And put in a private pound. Shedder crabs and bloodworms I've purchased by the ton; I've stood for hours on the beach, Been parboiled in the sun. I've tramped the sands in rubber boots Till I was nearly dead, Digging big holes in the ocean With a four-ounce chunk of lead. I've fouled and "busted" rod and reel, And cast along the shore Of leaders, seivels, hooks and leads, A million, maybe more. I've neglected friends and relatives, My business, home and wife, I've bought tackle till John Seger Has a mortgage on my life. And what have I to show For waste of energy, After flirting all last summer With this measly, stingy sea ? 300 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Toadfish, skates and robins, (I can always yank them in), Dog sharks by the thousand, But of stripers not a fin ! At night I dream of zebras, And convicts of all types, American flags and barber poles Everything with stripes. I dream I'm fishing for them all I'm a Jonah, sure, it seems It's pretty tough, for I can't even Catch them in my dreams. And then I sit and listen For hours at a stretch, While the old-time anglers round here Tell of fish they used to catch. One begins and tells you How he started out at noon, And by six had eighty-seven Stripers on the flume. Another says, "That's nothing! When the wind was in the south, I could always drop a bloodworm In a sixty-pounder's mouth." I listen and say nothing After all, they're not to blame; When I've fished as long as they have I suppose I'll lie the same! THE STRIPED BASS CRANK 301 The bass ran fine last summer, No one stopped them, you can bet, And from Seger's list I reckon That they're running somewhere yet. It's really quite pathetic How we fishermen hope on For a year of real good fishing, Like we had in seasons gone ! I have sworn by all the gods That I will never fish again; But if I'm alive next summer It's a good bet, just the same, You'll find me somewhere on the beach, And perhaps you'll hear me swear, As I stand and fish for hours For the bass that isn't there. And when my time has come To shuffle off this mortal coil, And I leave behind my fishing days And other care and toil, When I cross the River Jordan, If it's rough or smooth as glass, I'll be sitting in the sternsheets Trolling for a bass. Joseph B. Cawthorn. Permission of "Forest and Stream." 302 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN A "RISE" Under the shadows of a cliff, Crowned with a growth of stately pine, An angler moors his rocking skiff And o'er the ripples casts his line. And where the darkling current crawls Like thistle down the gay lure falls. Then from the depths a silver gleam Quick flashes like a jewel bright, Up through the waters of the stream An instant visible to sight As lightning cleaves the somber sky A black bass rises to the fly. Ernest McGaffey. IN SUMMER Behind my desk I sit and dream, The mail is big, I've lots to do, But on a distant mountain stream I wander with a split bamboo; I have to see at half past nine, A man of wealth and hard as stone, But I've a big trout on the line Who rushes madly, Damn that phone. "What's that? He's here? Well show him in." He's coming, wish he had been late. My mind at last was reeling in That trout who fiercely fought his fate. PISCATOR, DON'T BRAG 303 My wits have surely taken wings, My thoughts are nothing but a blur, How can I talk to him of things My mind won't grasp. "Good morning, sir." "Ahem, Aha, I sure do wish That I could leave this city heat With rod and gun, . . . You like to fish? Well . . . have you had the luck to meet Old Injun Jim of Squamish Lake? Get him next time you land a bunch. Let's go next week? ... All right. . . . We'll take A month . . . By jove, it's time for lunch." Donald C. Kerr. Permission of "The American Angler." PISCATOR, DON'T BRAG! Wan tarn', mon pere, he catch a feesh So beeg she look lak whale; She's mos' so long as t'ree, four feet, From wan end to her tail. Mon pere, he pull zat feesh right up He Ian' her on ze shore, An' zen, mon Dieu ! she flop her tail, An' he don't see her some more. Mon pere, he brag some 'bout zat feesh, W'en he go to ze store, An' tell how beeg an' long she vas Bymeby he brag some more. 304 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Till pretty soon ol' man Brosseau He laugh an' say, "It's wrong To brag much 'bout ze feesh you catch 'Less you bring zat feesh along." Mon pere, he's mad, an' jump up queek, An' bang him on ze head ; 'Till w'en they pick ol' Brosseau up By Gar ! you tank he's dead. Mon pre, he's go to jail for zat, An' he find forty dol' ; He's stay lock up for wan long tam, So he. can't go feesh at all. Maitland LeRoy Osborne. TO A TROUT Thou solitary tenant of my creel, Thou only victim of my feathered hook, Though "skunked" I scarce could more disgusted feel Wert thou still swimming in thy native brook. For thee alone I've walked ten weary miles, And, what is worse, must walk them back again; For thee alone I've crawled through stinging brush And clambered over harsh barb-wire stiles, Slept troubled slumber in the ice-cold rain, And soaked myself in grasses all too lush. And what art thou, thou slim and speckled mite? Scarce large enough to save thee from the act That makes it crime for five-inch trout to bite, A worthy "speckled beauty," for a fact! SALMON OF LABRADOR 305 Where, tell me where, were all thy sluggard kind, That I could not inveigle them to rise? In all the summer season they will find No more persistent fisherman than I, No bait more tempting than my high-priced flies, Yet thou alone art here. Dost thou know why? And now my tired footsteps must I turn Along that hilly road that homewards trends, And spent and footsore, bear with unconcern The jibes and jeers of all my loving friends. For once they cast their scornful eyes on thee, Thou smallest of thy kindergarten school, They'll take a keen delight to point me out For all the mocking, scoffing world to see As that weak-minded, idiotic fool, Who fished two days, and only caught one trout. T. T. Montague. SALMON OF LABRADOR , (Salmo salar) By the wild Canadian shore, By the sandy Labrador, By the rocky Mingan Isles, And where Anticosti smiles, Numberless the salmon shoals Gather where the salt tide rolls. Rivers, streams of crystal clearness, Pour through that far-reaching strand, 20 306 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN From the river-mouth, St. Lawrence, To the coast of Newfoundland, Far as where the Belle- Isle strait Opens to the seas its gate. Cold, those rivers, as the fountains From the wilderness that flow, Cold as waters of the mountains Gelid with the ice and snow. There amid the salt abysses, Or the river's spring fresh tide, Gleaming, flashing, leaping, diving, Shoals of lordly salmon glide. Where the river of St. John Mingles with the ocean surf, Brown with weedy rocks and sand-drifts, Green with bordering velvet turf, There the angler with his tackle, When the July suns ride high, From the dawning to the sunset Goes to angle with the fly. Near thy alder-skirted border, Where the Rattling Run doth twine, He erects his hut of branches, Branch of hemlock and of pine ; Floors it with the cedar saplings Fragrant, soft as couch of kings ; There enjoys the forest pleasures And the sleep that labor brings. PROTEST OF THE BROOK TROUT 307 Morning with its dewy freshness, With its rosy, smiling skies; Calls him to the brimming river, River of transparent crystal, Where in ripple and in eddy, Or in pool, to cast his flies. Isaac McLellan. PROTEST OF THE BROOK TROUT I am Salmo Fontinalis To the sparkling fountain born; And my home is where oxalis, Heather-bell and rose adorn The crystal basin in the dell : (Undine the wood-nymph knows it well) That is where I love to dwell. There was I baptised and christened, 'Neath the somber aisles of oak; Mute the cascade paused and listened, Never a word the brooklet spoke; Bobolink was witness then, Likewise grosbeak, linnet, wren, And the fairies joined, "Amen!" Noted oft in ancient story, Erst from immemorial time, Poets, anglers, hermits hoary, Confirm my vested rights sublime. All along the mountain range 'Tis writ in living symbols strange : "Nought shall abrogate or change." 308 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN Thus as Salmo Fontinalis Recognized the wide world o'er, In my limpid crystal palace, Content withal, I ask no more. Leaping through the rainbow spray, Snatching flies the livelong day, Nought to do but eat and play. No fulsome titles do I covet; Science holds no bribe for me ; Slavery for those who love it From Nomenclature leave me free! Yet they call me Salvelinus (This a muttered word between us), Can you fancy sin more heinous? Pity, votaries of the angle ! Rescue for the fountain-born ! Better trenchant barb and fangle Than livery on Science worn! Midst the modest violet's bloom, Where the lilies spread perfume, Let me bide my speedy doom. Charles Hallock. AN ANGLER'S GRAVE Sorrow, sorrow, bring it green! True tears make the grass to grow; And the grief of the good, I ween, Is grateful to him that sleeps below. FISHING 309 Strew sweet flowers, free of blight Blossoms gathered in the dew; Should they wither before night, Flowers and blossoms bring anew. Sorrow, sorrow, speed away To our angler's quiet mound, With the old pilgrim, twilight grey, Enter thou on the holy ground ; There he sleeps, whose heart was twined With wild stream and wandering burn, Wooer of the western wind! Watcher of the April morn! Sorrow to the poor man's hearth! Sorrow in the halls of pride ! Honor waits at the grave of worth And high and low stand side by side. Brother angler, slumber on, Haply thou shalt wave the wand, When the tide of time is gone, In some far and happier land. Thomas Tod Stoddart. FISHING It isn't laziness at all, Whatever women say ; Why don't we have it in the fall, Instead of only May ? 310 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN It's only in the Spring you feel This yearning and desire For tree and trail, for rod and reel, A blanket and a fire. It isn't laziness that gives The sun a velvet touch, That finds a fellow where he lives And labors overmuch, That finds him, be it boulevard Or tenement of gray, And pulls his heart, and pulls it hard, To woodlands far away. It isn't laziness that makes You get your tackle out And dream of muskies in the lakes Or brooks of speckled trout, Of paths beside the river's rim, Adventures of delight While still the westward sky is dim With memories of night. It isn't laziness but just The Man-Heart, good and clean, Grown weary of the world of dust And longing for the green It's just the man inside of you That hears the forest call, The love of woods and skies of blue, That man loved first of all ! Douglas Malloch. OUR BIGGEST FISH 311 WHEN THE FISHIN' POLE IS NODDIN* Through the scented woodland, far away from town, Rest in the world, and you will win it; The cork's a-goin' down, boys, the cork's a-goin' down, For the fishin' pole's a-noddin' every minute! Wish time, And fish time; Don't call me back to town, Fishin' pole's a-noddin', An' the cork's a-goin' down ! I hear the far-off tinkle of drowsy cattle-bells, The river keeps the oak's cool shadow in it ; To the trouble of the city I am waftin' my farewells, For the fishin' pole's a-noddin' every minute! Beams here And dreams here Don't call me back to town, Fishin' pole's a-noddin', An' the cork's a-goin' down ! Frank L. Stanton. Printed in and permission from "The Atlanta Constitution." OUR BIGGEST FISH When in the halcyon days of eld, I was a little tyke, I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like ; And oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraught 312 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN When I rambled home at night with the puny string I'd caught! And, oh, the indignation and the valor I'd display When I claimed that all the biggest fish I'd caught had got away! Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines, And many times the treacherous reeds would foil my just designs; But whether hooks or lines or reeds were actually to blame, I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same I never lost a little fish yes, I am free to say It always was the biggest fish I caught that got away. And so it was, when later on, I felt ambition pass From callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass; I found it quite convenient, when the beauties wouldn't bite And I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night, To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gay How the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away. And really, fish look bigger than they are before they're caught When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut, OUR BIGGEST FISH 313 When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throat And he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat ! Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I say That it always is the biggest fish you catch that gets away! Tis even so in other things yes, in our greedy eyes The biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize ; We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife ; And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray, We own the biggest fish we've caught are those that got away. I would not have it otherwise; 'tis better there should be Much bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea; For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game May by his arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same; Which, having done, perchance he'll bless the man who's proud to say That the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away. Eugene Field. From "Poems of Eugene Field." Copyright, 1910, by Julia S. Field. Charles Scribner's Sons. 314 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN THE FISHING-PARTY Wunst we went a-fishin' Me An' my Pa an' Ma, all three, When they wuz a picnic, 'way Out to Hanch's Woods, one day. An' they wuz a crick out there, Where the fishes is, an' where Little boys 'taint big an' strong Better have their folks along ! My Pa he ist fished an' fished ! An' my Ma she said she wished Me an' her wuz home; an' Pa Said he wished so worse'n Ma. Pa said ef you talk, er say Anything, er sneeze, er play, Hain't no fish alive er dead, Ever go' to bite! he said. Purt' nigh dark in town when we Got back home; an' Ma, says she, Now she'll have a fish fer shore! An' she buyed one at the store. Nen at supper, Pa he won't Eat no fish, an' says he don't Like 'em. An' he pounded me When I choked! . . . Ma, didn't he? James Whitcomb Riley. From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co. THE FISHING CURE 315 THE FISHING CURE There's nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul Like a day on a stream, Back on the banks of the old fishing hole Where a fellow can dream. There's nothing so good for a man as to flee From the city and lie Full length in the shade of a whispering tree And gaze at the sky. Out there where the strife and the greed are forgot And the struggle for pelf, A man can get rid of each taint and each spot And clean up himself; He can be what he wanted to be when a boy, If only in dreams; And revel once more in the depths of a joy That's as real as it seems. The things that he hates never follow him there The jar of the street, The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair For the open is sweet. In purity's realm he can rest and be clean, Be he humble or great, And as peaceful his soul may become as the scene That his eyes contemplate. 316 SONGS FOR FISHERMEN It is good for the world that men hunger to go To the banks of a stream, And weary of sham and of pomp and of show They have somewhere to dream. For this life would be dreary and sordid and base Did they not now and then Seek refreshment and calm in God's wide, open space And come back to be men. Edgar A. Guest. From "A Heap o' Livin'." Copyrighted by and permission from Reilly & Lee Co. INDEX BY AUTHORS ADAMS, ST. CLAIR. Born in Arkansas, 1883. Literary and editorial work. Fishermen Three, 59; Fishing Lines, 166; Modern Sport, 144; On the Hook, 242. AIKEN, FRANCIS. The Song of the Running Reel, 241. ALLEN, JAMES ROBERT. When a Bass Gets on My Line, 94. ANONYMOUS. An Old Song, 194; Just a Chance That's All, 243; The Ballade of the Bass, 232; The First Worm, 222; They Went A-Fishing, 145. APPLETON, JACK. Born at Charleston, W. Va., 1872. Newspaper man, miscellaneous writer, and poet. Poor Feeshl 51. BANGS, JOHN KENDRICK. Born at Yonkers, N. Y., 1862; died 1921. Humor- ist, poet, lecturer, editorial staff of various magazines. Fishin', 44; In Trouting Time, 130. BASSE, WILLIAM. Died about 1653. English poet, best known for his "Epitaph on Shakespeare." The Angler's Song, 295. BLAKEY, ROBERT. Born at Morpeth, Northumberland, Eng., 1795; died 1878. Philosopher and miscellaneous writer. Saint Patrick, 285. BRACKEN, CHARLES H. An Appeal from Our Finny Friends, 206. BREWER, ALLEN F. The Song of the Rod and Reel, 123. BRIDGES, ROBERT. Born 1844. English physician, critic, scholar, and poet; appointed to the laureateship, 1913. Summer on Thames, 158. BROOKE, RUPERT. Born 1887; died 1915. English poet and soldier; died in the World War. The Fish, 141. BROWN, L. F. Born at Wheatland, Mich., 1849. Lawyer and in railroad busi- ness; writer of many articles on angling. The Angler's Dream of Spring, 58. BROWNE, FRANCIS F. Born at South Halifax, Vt., 1843; died 1913. Editor of "The Dial" from 1880 until his death. Author of many books and com- pilations. The Wicked Fisherman, 124. BROWNE, WILLIAM. Born at Tavistock, Devonshire, Eng., 1591; died about 1643. His best known book of verse is "Britannia's Pastorals." Worm- Fishing, 227. BUCKHAM, JOHN. My Best Kentucky Reel, 60. BUNYAN, JOHN. Born at Elstow, Eng., 1628; died at London, 1688. A tinker by trade; in jail as nonconformist preacher, 1660-1672; author of "Pilgrim's Progress." The Ways of the Fisherman, 119. BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. Born at Philadelphia, Pa., 1882. Edu- cated at Princeton and Oxford. Reporter; instructor in English; now in cattle-ranching business in Wyoming. One of the leading short-story writers of to-day. Fishing, 71. CARRYL, GUY WETMORE. Born in New York City, 1873; died 1904. Gradu- ated at Columbia University, 1895; editor of "Munsey's Magazine," 1895-96; abroad as literary representative of several American publications, 1897-1902. Had an extraordinary ability at punning. Fate of the Fatuous Fisherman, 287. CAWEIN, MADISON. Born at Louisville, Ky., 1865; died 1914. Published an enormous amount of verse, much of it dealing with nature. Called by some "the Keats of Kentucky." The Speckled Trout, 148. CAWTHORNE, JOSEPH B. Born at New York City, 1869. Actor and musical comedy star. The Striped Bass Crank, 299. CHALMERS, PATRICK. A present-day English writer and editor; author of "Green Days and Blue Days" and "Pipes and Tabors." The First Fisherman, 113; The Unattainable, 212; To an Old Friend, 66. CHATTO, WILLIAM ANDREW. Born at Newcastle-on-Tyne, Eng., 1799; died 1864. First followed a business career, which he relinquished in 1834 to de- vote himself to fishing, sports, and miscellaneous writing. The Fisher's Call, 207. CLARKE, FREDERICK COLBURN. The Old Home Haunts, 201. 317 318 INDEX BY AUTHORS COCHRANE, ALFRED. Born in England, 1865; educated at Oxford; author of many articles and poems in magazines and newspapers. Fresh Run. 56 CONNOLLY, DANIEL. Trout Fishing, 270. COTTON, CHARLES. Born at Beresford, Staffordshire, Eng., 1630; died at Westminster, 1687. Translator of Montaigne's "Essays"; enjoyed a long friendship with Izaak Walton; wrote the second part of "The Compleat Angler." The Angler's Ballad, 68; The Honest Angler, 99; To My Dear and Most Worthy Friend, Mr. Izaak Walton, 262. COWPER, WILLIAM. Born at Great Berkhampstead, Hertfordshire, Eng, 1731; died at East Dereham, Norfolk, 1800. Afflicted early with melancholia and suicidal mania, and insane the last years of his life. "The Task" is his best known poem. To the Immortal Memory of the Halibut on Which I Dined This Day, 83. CRANDALL, CHARLES H. Born at Greenwich, N. Y., 1858. Has followed mercantile pursuits; been a reporter, correspondent, and editor. The Call of the Stream, 154. GUSHING, PERCY M. The Clam Man, 235. DEAN, HARRY M. Just Keep Fishin', 157. DENNYS, JOHN. Born at London, 1657; died 1734. Critic and playwright; incurred the enmity of Pope, who ridiculed him in the "Dunciad." The Angler's Delectation, 146. DEXTER, CHARLES. The Angler's Song. 276. DONNE, JOHN. Born at London, 1573; died 1631. Won the favor of James 1., 1610; took holy orders, 1615; appointed to the deanery of St. Paul's, 1621. One of Walton's personal friends. His poetry is characterized by extravagant figures and far-fetched conceits. The Bait, 91. DOUBLED AY, THOMAS. Born at Newcastle-on-Tyne, Eng., 1790; died 1870. Poet, dramatist, biographer, radical politician, political economist. He was a laborious student and worked in almost every field of literature. Angling, 74; The Fisher's Welcome, 214. DOUGLAS, GEORGE. To My Trout Rod, 105. DRAYTON, MICHAEL. Born at Hartshill, Warwickshire, Eng., 1563; died at London, 1631. Buried in Westminster Abbey, his epitaph probably having been written by Ben Jonson. He wrote a number of books of poetry. The Fisherman, 194. DUBLIN, FAYETTE. The Winding Stream, 131. DUNBAR, PAUL LAWRENCE. Born at Dayton, Ohio, 1872; died there, 1906. Negro poet. Darky's Rainy Day, 38. ELLIOTT, WILLIAM E. Born at Beaufort, S. C., 1788; died there, 1863. En- tered Harvard at 18, but left on account of ill health. Member of S. C. Senate, 1832; retired to his farm and wrote of agricultural pursuits and rural sports. A well-known writer in angling literature. The Old Angler's Dream, 184. FIELD, EUGENE. Born at St. Louis, Mo., 1850; died 1895. Journalist and poet; especially known for his poems of childhood. Our Biggest Fish, 311; The Fisherman's Feast, 33. FISHER, JOHN W., JR. Angling, 78. FLETCHER, PHINEAS. Born at Cranbrook, Kent, Eng., 1582; died about 1650. "The Purple Island" is his best known work. The Angler's Content- ment, 291; The Fisher's Joys, 292. FLOUD, JOHN. One of Izaak Walton's contemporaries. The poem appearing in this book was inserted in the second edition of "The Compleat Angler," published in 1655. To My Dear Brother Izaak Walton, 263. FOLEY, JAMES W. Born at St. Louis, Mo., 1874. Newspaper man, lecturer, and poet. The Lad and the Dad, 36. FOSTER, W. A. Born 1801; died 1862. The Angler's Carol, 89; The Bonny Tweed for Me! 223; The Salmon Run, 161. GAY, JOHN. Born at Barnstaple, Eng., 1685; died at London, 1732. "The Beg- gar's Opera" is his most widely known work. Fishing, 114. INDEX BY AUTHORS 319 GETCHELL, FREDERICK. My Lady Fishes, 185. OILMAN, C. L. Contributor of verse to various American periodicals of the day. A Rhyme of Little Fishes, 146. GREENWOOD, W. HAMAR. Born at Whitby, Ontario, Canada, 1870. Received B. A. degree from Toronto University; served in the World War. The Salmon Fisherman, 255. GUEST, EDGAR A. Born at Birmingham, Eng., 1881; brought to the United States by his parents, 1891. His daily syndicated poems are used by several hundred newspapers. A Boy and His Dad, 81; Fishing Nooks, 217; Out Fishin', 24; The Fisherman, 133; The Fishing Cure, 315; The Fishing Outfit, 260; The Real Bait, 178. HALLOCK, CHARLES. Born at New York City, 1834; died at Washington, D. C., 1917. Journalist, author, and naturalist. Editor of a number of papers; founder of "Forest and Stream"; founded International Association for the Protection of Game, 1874; formulated uniform game laws, known as the "Hal- lock Code," which were used as the basis of legislation in many states. Author of 17 books on varied subjects; several of his works are angling classics. Pro- test of the Brook Trout, 307. HAWES, WILLIAM POST. Born at New York City, 1803; died there, 1842. Graduated from Columbia; admitted to the bar, 1824; contributed freely to the periodical press of his day. The Long Island Trout, 55. HILLEL, CLAUDE. Fish Is Coin' to Bite, 218. HOGG, JAMES. Born in Selkirkshire, Scotland, 1770; died at Eltrive Lake, 1835. A well-known poet of his day; called the "Ettrick Shepherd" from his occupation. A Boy's Song, 198. HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. Born at Cambridge, Mass., 1809; died there, 1894. Physician, professor of anatomy, essayist, novelist, and poet. The Ballad of the Oysterman, 292 ; Verses for After-Dinner, 266. HOOD, THOMAS. Born at London, 1799; died there, 1845. Editor, humorist, and poet. The Angler's Farewell, 150. HOUSTON, ERSKINE. The Angler's Delight, 298; The Angler's Possessions, 170. HUNDLEY, WILLIAM E. Sport Royal, 99. HUNT, LEIGH. Born at Southgate, Eng., 1784; died at Putney, 1859. Im- prisoned for his radical political views. Poet and essayist. Fish, 113. ISYS, COTSWOLD. A well-known English fisherman, who prefers to write under this pseudonym. Hampshire Fly-Fishing, 101; North Country Fly- Fishing, 103; The Coachman, 134; The Music of the Reel, 48; The Salmon, 279; The Trout, 230. JAMES, D. L. Izaak Walton's Prayer. 139. JEFFRIES, NORMAN. Ketchin' Pick'rel, 106; The Angler's Toast, 283. JOHNSON, W. H. The Inveterate Angler, 191. JUDD, C. J. A Fisherman's Petition, 79. KEATS, JOHN. Born at London, 1795; died at Rome, 1821. Druggist and medi- cal student from 1811 to 1817. Failing health took him to Italy in 1820. Watching the Minnows, 270. KEENE, J. HARRINGTON. A well-known writer on angling subjects. The Salmon Fly, 92. KERR, DONALD C. In Summer, 302. KINGSFORD, M. A. King of the Brook, 137. KINGSLEY, CHARLES. Born at Holne, Devonshire, Eng., 1819; died at Eversley, Hampshire, 1875. Professor, clergyman, novelist, and poet. The Angler's Question, 26; The Invitation, 121; The Three Fishers, 86 LANG, ANDREW. Born at Selkirk, Scotland, 1844; died at Banchory, Kin- cardineshire, 1912. Writer and translator of a great variety of books. April on Tweed, 128; The Last Cast, 264. LEGGO, ED. To the Occasional Angler, 75. 320 INDEX BY AUTHORS LINCOLN, ROBERT PAGE. Born in Minnesota. One of the most widely known of present-day writers on out-of-doors subjects. Robert Davis says of him, "Mr. Lincoln has a rare familiarity with everything that swims, and flies, and walks." An Angler's Sonnet, 286; Fishin' Time, 152; The Angler's Awakening, 203. McCREA, JOHN R. Born in Canada, 1872; died 1918. Physician, soldier, and poet. A Change of Bait, 54. McGAFFEY, ERNEST. Born in the United States; practised law in Chicago; now resides in Victoria, British Columbia. An ardent fisherman; well-known writer of angling articles; author of two books of out-of-doors verse. A "Rise," 302; Fishing, 196; The Brook Trout, 221. MACKIE, ALEXANDER. Born in England, 1855; died 1915. Author of "The Art of Worm-Fishing, A Practical Treatise on Clear- Water Worming." The Blue-Nosed Worm, 67. McLELLAN, ISAAC. Born at Portland, Me., 1806; died 1899. Attended Bowdoin College where he was one class below Longfellow. Practised law in Boston several years; editor in Boston for some years; spent two years in Europe. Upon his return to America he withdrew to rural life, spending most of his time hunting and fishing. Moved to New York City about 1850. Longfellow was his life-long friend; and among his angling companions was the famous "Frank Forester." He is one of the few writers on sports who possesses literary ability combined with accurate observations of nature. Black-Bass-Fishing in Western Streams, 192; Eel-Spearing by Torchlight, 284; Salmon of Labrador, 305; The Angler's Chant, 47; The Blue fish, 240; The Boy Angler, 97; The Old Mill by the River, 277; The Pompano of Florida, 219; The Striped Bass, 225; When This Old Rod Was New, 159. MALLOCH, DOUGLAS. Born at Muskegon, Mich., 1877. Newspaper man, editor, and lecturer. Interested in sports and nature, and called "The Poet of the Woods." Fishing, 309; Michigan Again, 238; Spring Fever, 120; The Fishermen Mend Their Nets, 78; The Fishing Hole, 41; The Trout Season Widow, 173. MASON, WALT. Born at Columbus, Ontario, Canada, 1862. Came to the United States, 1880; connected with various newspapers; has a daily prose poem syn- dicated in several hundred papers. Fishing, 80; King and Kid, 193; The : JDying Fisherman, 42. MATHER, FRED. Born at Greenbush, N. Y., 1833; died at Lake Nebagomain, Wis., 1900. Served in the Civil and Spanish Wars; assistant U. S. fish com- missioner, 1873-77; editor of the fish department of "Forest and Stream" up to the time of his death. A fish culturist of renown; made deep study of the propagation of fish; invented hatching cone for shad and other apparatus; wrote two excellent angling books, "My Angling Friends" and "Men I Have Fished With." The Big-Mouth Black Bass, 259; The Small-Mouth Black Bass. 258. MITCHELL, LALIA. Fishing, 197. MONTAGUE, T. T. To a Trout, 304. MONTGOMERY, LUCY M. Born 1874. Canadian novelist and poet. Off to the Fishing Ground, 297; When the Fishin&Boats Go Out, 87. MOODIE, SUSANNA. Canadian writer and poet. Best known for her books, "Life on the Clearings Versus the Bush" and "Roughing It in the Bush" (1852). The Fisherman's Light, 167- MORRIS, JOSEPH. Born in Ohio, 1889. College teacher; editorial work since 1917. Fish Stories, 84; Spring Is on the Wire, 180. NAIDU, SAROJINI. Born 1879. A woman poet of India. Coromandel NEWBERRY, ROBERT THORNE. Rondeau, 125. O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES. Born in Limerick, Ireland, 1828; died at Cumber- land, Md., 1862. Came to the United States, 1852; soldier in the Civil War. Journalist, shorty-story writer, and poet. By the Stream, 188. INDEX BY AUTHORS 321 O'CONNELL, DANIEL. My Favorite Book, 62. OSBORNE, MAITLAND LEROY. Piscator, Don't Bragl 303. PARKER, SAM. A Fisher Once Was /, 200. PECK, P. S. Fishin' Time, 268. PHILLIPS, HENRY. Good Fishing, 119. POPE, ALEXANDER. Born at London, 1688; died at Twickenham, 1744. A writer of "correct verse"; a master of the rhyming couplet; but lacking in poetic fervor and imagination. Angling, 248. PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH. Born at London, 1802; died there, 1839. Educated at Eton and Cambridge; member of Parliament; one of the writers of society verse. Fishing Is Fine When the Pool Is Muddy, 159. PUTNAM, FRANK. An American newspaper man. Fishing Song, 205. RICE, GRANTLAND. Born at Nashville, Tenn., 1880. Attended Vanderbilt University; one of the best known sporting writers in America; his column, "The Sportlight," is widely syndicated. Ballade of the Gamefish, 43. RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB. Born at Greenfield, Ind., 1849; died at Indian- apolis, 1916. Public school education; received honorary degrees from several universities; called the "People's Laureate" because of the wide popularity of his poetry. At Broad Ripple, 26; Down Around the River, 136; The Fishing- Party, 314; Up and Down Old Brandy-wine, 109. ROSE, RAY CLARKE. Keep Fishin', 256; With Rod and Reel, 183. ROSS, ROBERT ERSKINE. The Hidden Pool, 140. SAGE, DEAN. Salmon, 85. SCOLLARD, CLINTON. Born at Clinton, N. Y., 1860. A well-known modern poet; author of many books of verse. The Angler, 253; The Fisherman, 190. SCOTT, SIR WALTER. Born at Edinburgh, 1771; died at Abbotsford, 1832. Novelist and poet. On Ettrick Forest's Mountains Dun, 186. SEARS, GEORGE W. Died at Williamsport, W. Va. t 1890; conductor of angling departments in magazines; a literary recluse who lived close to nature; a great deal of splendid nature verse in his book "Forest Runes." That Trout, 249. SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. Born at Stratford on Avon, 1564; died there, 1616. Dramatist and poet. Give Me Mine Angle, 64; How Men Live, 65; The Pleasant' st Angling, 64. SHARPE, THEODORE. The Conundrum of the Ages, 90. SHAW, T. R. Fishin' with an Old Bamboo, 275. SHEA, JOHN CHARLES. / Want to Go Fishing To-Day, 139. SIMMONS, WILLIAM E. One of the best known of modern anglers. Early youth spent in South Carolina; last thirty years a New York newspaper man. "The Colonel," as he is known among his angling companions, is said to be the first angler to catch shad on Long Island with an angle worm. He has had sixty years' angling experience. Channel Bass Fishing, 237. SMITH, D. G. We've All Seen Him, 199. SMOLLETT, TOBIAS. Born at Dalquhurn, Dumbartonshire, Scotland; died at Antignano, near Leghorn, Italy, 1771. Novelist and miscellaneous writer. Leven Water, 258. SOMMERVILLE, WILLIAM. Born at Edstone, Warwickshire, Eng., 1675; died there, 1742. Educated at Winchester and Oxford. Writer of verse. Fishing, 189. STAFF, GEORGE B. Contributor of angling verse to present-day magazines. Fly Casting, 168; Where the Redeyes Bite, 177. STANTON, FRANK L. Born at Charleston, S. C., 1857. Identified with the American press for years, especially with the "Atlanta Constitution," in which his poems have been a feature, and have won for ,him a wide reputation. A Fisherman in Town, 179; On a River Bank So Green, 35; What Bothers Him, 192; When Jenny Come Along, 84; When the Fishin' Pole Is Noddin', 311. STINSON, SAM S. American writer. After 14 years of daily newspaper work, he became a free lance writer in 1904, contributing to the comic weeklies and fiction magazines. Has issued two books of verse. Ballade of the False and the True, 281; When the Fish Begin to Bite, 156, 21 322 INDEX BY AUTHORS STODDART, THOMAS TOD. Born in Edinburgh, 1810; died 1880. An ex- ample of a man who devoted his entire life to angling. Once upon being asked what his occupation was, he answered, "I am an angler, Sir." He was a very expert fisherman, having a great delicacy of wrist, and a wonderful knowledge of the habits and haunts of fish. He is one of the outstanding figures in angling and angling literature, and his book upon Scottish streams is a standard in accuracy, and second only to Walton's in catching the pleasures of fishing. His books are: "The Angler's Companion to the Rivers and Lakes of Scotland," "Angling Songs," and "An Angler's Rambles and Angling Songs." An Angler's Grave, 308; Bring the Rod, the Line, the Reel! 274; Song, 132; The Angler's Benediction, 96; The Angler's Invitation, 23; The Angler's Try sting-Tree, 58; The Angler's Vindication, 259; The Bonnie Tweed, 228; The Happy Angler, 129; The Holy-Well Pool, 164; The River, 172; The Sea-Trout Grey, 239; The Taking of the Salmon, 246; The Yellow Fins o' Yarrow, 216; Trolling Song, 65; Ye Warders of the Waters, 208. STREET, ALFRED BILLINGS. Born at Poughkeepsie, N. Y., 1811; died 1881. Early writer of out-doors sports; editor; State librarian the last half of his life. Spearing, 168. TENNYSON, ALFRED. Born at Somersby, Lincolnshire, Eng., 1809; died at Aldworth House, near Haslemere, Surrey, 1892. Became poet laureate, 1850; raised to the peerage, 1884. The Brook, 125. THOMPSON, MAURICE. Born at Fairfield, Ind., 1844; died 1901. Lawyer, editor, and author. Ho, for the Kankakee! 234. THOMSON, JAMES. Born at Ednam, Roxburghshire, Scotland, 1700; died near Richmond, Eng., 1748. Best known as the author of "The Seasons." TROWBFUDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. Born at Ogden, N. Y., 1827; died 1916. Novelist, juvenile writer, and poet. Tr outing, 250. VAN de WATER, FREDERIC F. Born at Pompton Lakes, N. J., 1890. Attended New York University and Columbia. Reporter, special writer, and night city editor of the "New York Tribune." Interests mainly in tramping, rid- ing, fishing, and canoeing. Fishing, 289. VAN DYKE, HENRY. Born at Germantown, Pa., 1852. Preacher, essayist, poet, and diplomat. Has written some of the best books in modern angling literature. The Angler's Reveille, 28; When Tulips Bloom, 126. WADE, BLANCHE ELIZABETH. Frequent contributor of poetry to present- day periodicals. The Angler, 211. WALTON, IZAAK. Born at St. Mary, Stafford, 1593; died at Winchester, 1683. He was the son of a Staffordshire yeoman; as a lad he was apprenticed in Lon- don to Thomas Grinsell, an ironmonger. When a young man he set himself up in a humble half-shop in Fleet Street, as an ironmonger. The traditional statement that he was a draper has no authentic evidence in fact. While he was at Fleet Street, Dr. Donne, Dean of St. Paul's, Sir Henry Wotton, and Dr. Hales of Eton were among his friends. The friendship of these men of higher station attests the pleasingness and attractiveness of his character. In 1626 he married Rachael Floud (or Floyd) at St Mildred's, Canterbury. All seven of his children by her died in infancy. She died in 1640. About 1646 he married Anne, daughter of Thomas Ken, and half-sister of Bishop Ken. About two years later his daughter Anne, who married in 1678 William Hawkins of Win- chester and with whom Walton spent much of the last twenty years of his life was born. His second wife died in 1662. His son, Izaak, who was born in 1651, lived until 1719. Walton was buried in Winchester Cathedral in the north transept. The "Father of Angling" lived in very troublesome times, and the tide was so strong against the monarchy even as early as 1644 that he sold his shop in Fleet Street in that year and retired to the country. While a stanch royalist and member of the Anglican Church, he was very tolerant of others. His angling classic is too well known to need comment; besides this masterpiece he wrote lives of Donne, Wotton, Hooker, Herbert, and others. It is interesting that "The Compleat Angler" was issued in May, 1653, just INDEX BY AUTHORS 323 before Cromwell became Lord Protector of the Commonwealth, and its author must have been peculiarly detached from the hatreds of his age and serene in temperament to have written it in the midst of one of the greatest conflicts England ever experienced. The Angler. 31; The Angler's Wish, 226. WARD, C. N. Angling Reveries, 233. WARING, CARL. The Trout Brook, 107. WESTWOOD, THOMAS. Born in England, 1816; died at Brussels, 1888. Charles Lamb taught him his Latin, and gave him free use of his library when West- wood was a child. At 30 he was appointed secretary and afterwards director of an Anglo- Belgian railroad company, and thenceforth spent most of his life in Belgium, where he owned a large estate on which was a river with 12 miles of excellent fishing. He had an intimate correspondence with many of the lead- ing literary figures of his time, especially Mrs. Browning. Besides being an ardent angler, he made a distinct contribution to angling literature in his "Bibliotheca Piscatoria, a general catalogue of angling and fishing literature." He also wrote a bibliographical record of the various phases and mutations of "The Compleat Angler." A Lay of the Lea, 244; 1 he Trout Fisher's Pleasures, 289; Walton's "Compleat Angler," 236. WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. Born at Haverhill, Mass., 1807; died at Hampton Falls, N. H., 1892. Of Quaker ancestry; edited several magazines; ardent opponent of slavery. The Fishermen, 210. WIBORN, J. AUBURN. The Angler's Prayer, 294. WILBUR, CONSTANCE FASSETT. Fishin', 254. WILCOX, ELLA WHEELER. Born at Johnston Centre, Wis., 1855; died at her home in Connecticut, 1919. Educated at the University of Wisconsin; writer of a great deal of popular poetry. Fishing, 46. WILLIS, ELSIE D. Castin', 174. WOLCOT, JOHN. Born near Kingsbridge, Devonshire, Eng., 1738; died at Lon- don, 1819. Physician, satirist, and poet. To a Fish of the Brook, 80. WOODRUFF, PAUL H. When You, 50. WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. Born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, Eng., 1770; died at Rydal Mount, 1850. Friend of Coleridge; poet of nature; became poet laureate, 1843. Written upon a Blank Leaf in "The Compleat Angler," 157. WOTTON, SIR HENRY. Born at Bocton Malherbe, Kent, Eng., 1568; died at Eton, 1639. Diplomatist and miscellaneous writer. On a Bank As I Sate A-Fishing, 206. STREAMS MENTIONED IN THE POEMS AIL. A minor river of Scotland. ALPHEUS. Principal river of the Peloponnesus, Greece, arising in Arcadia and emptying into the Ionian Sea. Same as the modern Rufia. Some parts of its course are underground. AVON. Avon is a very common designation for rivers in Great Britain, there being four rivers in England and three in Scotland by that name. BRANDYWINE. A creek on the eastern edge of Greenfield, Indiana. BRULE. A short river in northeastern Minnesota, flowing into Lake Superior. COQUET. A river in Northumberland, England, flowing into the North Sea. ETTRICK. A river of Scotland, 32 miles long, joining the Tweed near Selkirk. EUROTAS. Chief river in Laconia, Greece, arising in Mount Boreum and flow- ing into the Laconian Gulf. Same as modern Iri or Iris. It is about 45 miles long. GALA. A river of Scotland, a tributary of the Tweed. KALE. A small river in Roxburghshire, Scotland, flowing into the Teviot. KANKAKEE. A river in northwestern Indiana and eastern Illinois, uniting with the Des Plaines to form the Illinois River. KEN. A river of Scotland, connected with the Dee. LEA (LEE). A river in England, uniting with the Thames near the Isle of Dogs, London. LEVEN. A river in Fife, Scotland, issuing from the southeast of Loch Leven and flowing eastward 14 miles into the Firth of Forth at the town of Leven. LOIRE. The largest river of France, over 600 miles long, flowing into the Bay of Biscay. LYNE. A river in Peeblesshire, Scotland, a tributary of the Tweed. MANOR. A small river in Peeblesshire, Scotland. ST. JOHN. A river in Maine and Canada, emptying into the Bay of Fundy. ST. LAWRENCE. One of the principal rivers of North America, the outlet of the Great Lakes. SEVERN. A river in England, about 200 miles long, arising in Wales and emptying into the Bristol Channel. SHAWFORD BROOK. A small stream in Staffordshire. TALLA. A minor stream in Scotland. TEVIOT. A river in Scotland, about 40 miles long, a tributary of the Tweed. THAMES. The largest river in Great Britain, about 228 miles long, arising near Cirencester and emptying into the North Sea. TRENT. A river in England, about 170 miles long, arising in Straff ordshire and uniting with the Ouse to form the Humber. TWEED. River in Scotland and on the boundary between Scotland and England, 97 miles long, entering the North Sea at Berwick. WANSBECK. River of Northumberland, England, emptying into the North Sea WEAR. River in Durham, England, flowing into the North Sea at Sunderland. 324 NOTES (Numbers in parentheses refer to lines of the poems) Page 26 AT BROAD RIPPLE. At the time this poem was written Broad Ripple was a very small town on the banks of the White River north of Indianapolis. Page 31 THE ANGLER. (13) Aurora, goddess of the dawn. (34) gentles, mag- gots or larvae of the flesh-fly, used as bait. (40) fray, an archaic word meaning frighten. p age 33THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST. (37) Chronos, Time. Page 60 MY BEST KENTUCKY REEL. Grover Cleveland and Joseph Jeffer- son, the famous actor, were for years angling companions. Page 66 TO AN OLD FRIEND. (12) rathe, pertaining to the early part of the year or season. Page 68 THE ANGLER'S BALLAD. The last four stanzas of this poem refer to definite political conditions. Cotton, as a royalist and conservative, feared a new civil war in England. Page 74 COROMANDEL FISHERS. The Coromandel Coast is off the eastern side of the Indian Peninsula. Page 79 A FISHERMAN S PETITION. (1) Ananias was a Jewish Christian who was struck dead for fraud and lying. Page 83 TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY. (15) Batavia, Holland. (16) Caledonia, Scotland. (17) Hibernia, Ireland. Page 89 THE ANGLER'S CAROL. (30) stone, a weight, formerly of varying amount, now legally fourteen pounds in Great Britain. (35) "The face," etc., the fisherman's usual drinking toast. Page 91 THE BAIT. This poem is an answer and echo to Marlowe's lyric "The Shepherd to His Love." Page 92 THE SALMON FLY. (18) Scotia, Scotland. (48) Cathay's rare worm, the silk-worm of China. Page 101 HAMPSHIRE FLY-FISHING. (11) famous "line," the equator. Page 103 NORTH COUNTRY FLY-FISHING. (1) Southron, Southerner, one living in southern England. Page 109 UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE. (58) Old Irvin' Hunt and Aunt Jane Hunt lived in a little cottage on the banks of the Brandywine. They were born slaves and the first negroes to come to Greenfield. This old negro was such a good fisherman that he was reputed to catch fish "where there weren't any." Page 113 THE FIRST FISHERMAN. (8) pre-Pelasgian, before the Pelasgians, who are mentioned by classical writers as the primitive dwellers in Greece and the eastern islands of the Mediterranean. (12) mesozoic, one of the grand divisions of geological history between the paleozoic and the cenozoic, char- acterized by the spread of reptiles. (17) Ananias, see note for page 79. Page 119 THE WAYS OF THE FISHERMAN. (2) engines, devices, inven- tions. Page 121 THE INVITATION. Tom Hughes, the author of "Tom Brown's School-Days" and "Tom Brown at Oxford." (7) Snowdon, a mountain in Carnarvonshire, Wales, the highest mountain in England or Wales, and noted for its grand view. (15) Siabod, a mountain in Wales. Page 124 THE WICKED FISHERMAN. To a Fellow-Angler, G. M. M. These verses were written in the woods near Ashland, Wisconsin, on a Sunday morn- ing when Mr. Browne was laid up with a broken .ankle, and were addressed to George M. Millard, his fishing companion. (2) Funday, an inlet, about 140 miles long and from 30 to 50 miles wide, on the Atlantic coast between New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, the tides of which reach the enormous height of from 60 to 70 feet. (6) Dundee, an old tune of the Scottish Psalter. (10) 325 326 NOTES Mrs. Grundy, one of two farmers' wives in Morton's comedy "Speed the Plough," who has bec9me the personification of conventional propriety from the frequent question in the play, "What will Mrs. Grundy say?" Page 126 WHEN TULIPS BLOOM. (1) Union Square, a park in New York City at Fourteenth Street and Fourth Avenue. Page 128 APRIL ON TWEED. (7) Eildon Hill, in Roxburghshire, Scotland, near Melrose, famous in Scottish legend. Page 146 THE ANGLER'S DELECTATION. (23-24) Aurora (Eos), goddess of the dawn, was the beloved of "old Tithonus," who was granted immortality but not eternal youth, and in hiSj extreme age he withered away and was changed into a grasshopper. Page 150 THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL. "Resigned, I kissed the rod," a line from Pope, which Hood takes in an entirely different meaning from Pope's. (3) chine, backbone. (10) The pun rests on the meaning of gentle as a mag- got used as bait and a person of high birth or rank, and simple as meaning foolish and also a person of humble birth or position, subservient to the "gentles." (15) thinnish, few or scarce. (21) brandling, a small dunghill earthworm used as bait. (24-25) Council of Nice and Diet of Worms, famous events in religious history. (30) Jack Ketch, a well-known English hangman. (40) "Carpe diem" means literally "seize the day," "take your pleasures while you can." Hood makes it mean "carp day". (45) Ottery St. Mary is a small town in Devonshire, England. Otters are enemies of fish. Page 161 THE SALMON RUN. (37) sweel, the provincial or dialectal form of squeal, sound shrilly. Page 164 THE HOLY-WELL POOL. (33) cushat, the ringdove, or wood pigeon, of Europe. Page 186 ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN. (1) Ettrick Forest, a tract of woodland along the Ettrick River. (21) scaur, an isolated or pro- jecting rock. (27) Alwyn was the seat of Lord Somerville (died 1819), who, at the time this poem was written, was Scott's nearest neighbor and intimate friend. (28) Ashestiel was the best-known of Scott's homes before he bought Abbotsford. (30) bicker, move quickly and unsteadily, as a flame. Page 194 THE FISHERMAN. (7) fraught, obsolete or Scottish form of freight, load. (11) sallies, willows. (27) weels, a weel was a kind of trap or snare for fish. Page 205 FISHING SONG. (17) poteen, illicitly distilled whisky. Page 206 ON A BANK AS I SATE A-FISHING. (4) "Birds had drawn their valentines" refers to an old notion that birds chose their mates on St. Valen- tine's Day (February 14th), as can be seen from these lines from Chaucer's Parliament of Fowls: "For this was on seynt Valentines day, whan every brid (bird) cometh ther to chese (choose) his make (mate)." (10) Pilgrim, the peregrine falcon. (12) Philomel, the nightingale. (18) syllabub, a drink of milk (often as drawn from the cow "strokes") curdled by the admixture of wine, cider, or the like, and often sweetened. Page 212 THE UNATTAINABLE. (17) Ulysses, in Greek legend, a king of Ithaca and one of the heroes of the Trojan war, was noted for his resource- fulness and craftiness; Didymus, a surname of the apostle Thomas "doubt- ing Thomas." Page 214 THE FISHER'S WELCOME. (1) twa, two; hae, have; sae, so. (7) taegither, together. (10) bonny braes, pretty banks. (11) brither, brother; gane, gone. (12) claes, clothes. (13) maun, must; the lave, the rest, the others. (14) heuchs, hooks; a', all. (17) baith, both. (18) pows, heads. (19) graith, gear, equipment. (20) knowes, mounds, hillocks. (22) thraw, throw. (25) Cheviot, the highest peak of a range of mountains in Northumber- land, England, and Roxburghshire, Scotland. (28) gang, go. (29) busk, make ready, prepare. (30) we're fidgin' a' fu' fain, we are very restless with eager- ness. (32) ance, once. (34) nicht begins to fa', night begins to fall. (35) ilka chiel, every child, fellow; crack, joke. (37) toomed, poured; cqggens, cups. (38) loof, palm of the hand. (39) gude, good. (43) ged, pike; saumon, salmon. (45) gar the callants, make the boys, lads. Page 216 THE YELLOW FINS O' YARROW. (2) kenna, do not know; gane tae, gone to. (3) troots, trouts. (4) sae, so. (5) baith gowd and spanglit, NOTES 327 both gold and spangled. (6) walth, wealth; amang, among. (8) laith, loath; wrang, wrong. (10) maun, must; wauken, waken, (ll^frae, from. (13) ilka, each, every; stane, stone. (15) lane, lone. (16) ane, one; wad hae kenn'd, would have known. (17) waes, woe is. (19) rin, run. Page 223 THE BONNY TWEED FOR ME! U) e'e, eye; frae, from. (2) lo'es, loves. (3) a', all; ken, know. (5) gowan, daisy; brae, bank, slope. (6) deed, clad; slae, sloe, blackthorn. (7) baith, both. (9) fit, foot, step. (10) thrang, busy. (11) laverocks, larks; toorin', towering. (13) sang, song; mak's his wark nae toil, makes his work no toil. (14) coulter, cutter on a plow. (15) craw-schule, crow-school. (17) joukin, dodging, ducking; saft, soft. (21) bluid, blood. (22) stanes, stones. (24) wha wadna, who would not; sic, such. (25) sae sune, so soon. (28) laith, loath. Page 226 THE ANGLER'S WISH. (11) Kenna is evidently the feminine for- mation of Ken, the maiden name of Walton's second wife, the half-sister of Bishop Ken. The marginal note gives the song as "Like Hermit Poor," a very celebrated one in Walton's time, set to music by Nicholas Laneare, an eminent schoolmaster. (13) laverock, lark. (19) Bryan has never been satisfactorily explained. An early editor gives the ambiguous note ' 'A Friend of the Author, ' ' but Moses Browne, in his edition of "The Compleat Angler" suggests that it refers to his favorite dog. Page 227 WORM-FISHING. (6) croke (crook), hook. (18) hyde, hiding place. Page 228 THE BONNIE TWEED. (1) ither, other; ain, own. (3) nane, none. (4) gie, give; bonnie, lovely. (5) burn, brook, creek. (7) ilka, every. (8) sae saftly, so softly. (9) lanesome, lonesome. (12) frae, from. (14) mony, many. (16) amang the braes, among the banks, slopes. (17) abune, above; Crook, a small inn, on the post-road from Edinburgh to Dumfries, a favorite haunt for anglers the head-waters of the Tweed affording fine trout-fishing in the neighborhood. (18) stane, stone; aneath, below. (19) drumlie, turbid, muddy. (20) daunders, meanders. (22) a' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead, all gleaming over with stars and bead. (23) sawmon sooms, salmon swims. (24) bields, shelters. (26) canna hae, cannot have. (27) gin, if. (28) whins, furze, gorse. (30) birzy, bristly; reid, red. (36; troots are soomin' ilka where, trouts are swimming everywhere. Page 230 THE TROUT. (8) Biscay, the part of the Atlantic west of France and north of Spain, noted for its storms. Page 236 WALTON'S "COMPLEAT ANGLER." (7-9) The original edition of Walton's "The Compleat Angler," issued in 1653, contains these words: "London, Printed by T. Maxey for Richard Marriot in S. Dunstan's Church- yard, Fleet Street." Page 240 THE BLUEFISH. (19) menhaden, a marine fish, extremely plentiful but worthless as food, used as bait or for making oil and fertilizer. (36) dorado, a variety of dolphin. Page 244 A LAY OF THE LEA. (2) pow, head. (13) Enfield Meadows, in Middlesex, England, near London. (30) Cerberus, allusion to the three- headed watch-dog of Greek mythology, stationed at the entrance of the in- fernal regions. Page 249 THAT TROUT. (16) Kohinoor, one of the largest diamonds in the world, acquired by Queen Victoria in 1850. Page 253 THE ANGLER. (16) Pan, god of pastures, forests, and flocks, and inventor of the syrinx, or shepherd's flute. Page 255 THE SALMON FISHERMAN. (5) Neptune, god of the sea. (23} Caliban, the deformed and repulsive slave in Shakespeare's "The Tempest," typifying the base and sensual in nature. Page 262 TO MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. IZAAK WALTON. Walton was a frequent visitor to Cotton's "little fishing house" on the Dove River, a tributary of the Trent. Page 263 TO MY DEAR BROTHER IZAAK WALTON. (1) Erasmus, a famous Dutch classical and theological scholar, born at Rotterdam in 1465 and died at Basel, Switzerland, in 1536. His '"Colloquies" are among the best known of his works. Page 264 THE LAST CAST. (12) Urigil, a lake in northwestern Scotland; Lochinvar (Lochinver), village in Sutherland, Scotland, at the head of Loch 328 NOTES Inver. (14) Ari limes (Arienas), a small inland sheet of water in Morvern, Argyleshire. (24) Dian, Diana, goddess of the moon, represented as a huntress; drave, drove. (28) yellow stream, the Tiber River. (32) Yair, on the Tweed, between Selkirk and Galashiels, at which a bridge crosses the river. (34) Loch Assynt, a lake, seven miles long, in the southwestern part of Sutherland, Scotland, famous for its picturesqueness. (52) latest Minstrel, Sir Walter Scott, who died at his home Abbottsford on the river Tweed. Page 266 VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER. The occasion for these lines was the Phi Beta Kappa dinner of 1844. Page 270 WATCHING THE MINNOWS. (7) sallows, willows. Page 281 BALLADE OF THE FALSE AND THE TRUE. (20) Bacchus, the god of wine, who was "slain" by the Prohibition Amendment. Page 287 FATE OF THE FATUOUS FISHERMAN. (20) Cook, Dr. Frederick Albert Cook, who maintained that he reached the North Pole on April 21, 1908, a claim quickly disproved. (49) Jupiter, the supreme deity among the Romans, here identified with the Egyptian deity Amun (Ammon). Page 292 THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. (12) Leander, in Greek legend, a youth of Abydos, who swam the Hellespont (Strait of the Dardanelles) each night to visit Hero. He perished one stormy night when the light in the tower by which he was guided was extinguished, and Hero, when she saw his body washed ashore, threw herself from the tower and was killed. Page 305 SALMON OF LABRADOR. (3) Mingan Isles, in the St. Lawrence, off the Province of Quebec. (4) Anticosti, an island, about 135 miles long, in the St. Lawrence River. (11) Belle-Isle, a small island in Conception Bay, Newfoundland. Page 307 PROTEST OF THE BROOK TROUT. (6) Undine, perhaps no ref- erence is here intended to the Undine of Fouque's tale, in which she is a water spirit endowed with a soul by her marriage to a mortal. Page 314 THE FISHING- PARTY. (4) Hanch's Woods, a popular picnic ground on the White River when Mr. Riley first went to Indianapolis. POETRY FOR THE ANGLER'S LIBRARY An Angler's Garland: Eric Parker. Angling Sports: Moses Browne. Angling Songs: Thomas Tod Stoddart. Fisherman's Verse: Williams Haynes & Joseph Leroy Harrison. Forest Runes: George W. Sears. Green Days and Blue Days: Patrick Chalmers. Gun and Rod: Ernest McGaffey. Lyra Piscatoria: Cotswold Isys. Musa Piscatrix: John Buchan. Out-Doors: Ernest McGaffey. Piscatory Eclogues: Phineas Fletcher. Poems of Rural Life: William Barnes. Rod and Gun: Isaac McLellan. Secrets of Angling: John Dennys. Songs on Angling: W. A. Foster. The Compleat Angler: Izaak Walton. The Coquet-dale Fishing Songs: Thomas Doubleday. MAGAZINES FOR HIS LIBRARY TABLE FIELD AND STREAM: 25 West 45th Street, New York City. In January 1922 this magazine took over "The American Angler," the only magazine in America devoted entirely to fishing. "Field and Stream" has always been a magazine of especial appeal to fishermen, and by this amalgamation it will be almost essential to any person wishing comprehensive news of the Waltonian art. It will aim to use in its columns articles by the best fishing writers who will be authoritative as well as interesting. "Field and Stream" has always been a champion of true sportsmanship in angling, and will wage its fight in the future as in the past against the pollution of streams and the reckless destruction of fish. FOREST AND STREAM: 9 East 40th Street, New York City. The object of "Forest and Stream" is to studiously promote a healthful in- terest in outdoor recreation, and to cultivate a refined taste for natural objects. It contains in each number several articles of a constructive and practical- nature per- taining to fish and fishing. "Forest and Stream" was founded in 1873 and is the oldest magazine of its kind and a recognized outdoor authority in America. NATIONAL SPORTSMAN MAGAZINE: 275 Newbury Street, Boston. An illustrated magazine devoted to the interests of all out-door sports. Be- sides monthly articles on hunting and fishing, it has special departments of Camp- Fire Talks, Firearms and Ammunition, Fur and Trapping, and the Junior Camp. OUTDOOR LIFE: 1824 Curtis Street, Denver, Colorado. "A Sportsman's Magazine of the West" accurately gives the field of this maga- zine. Excellent articles on big game hunting and angling in the West. Its special departments offer practical information to meet the sportsman's needs. 329 330 MAGAZINES FOR HIS LIBRARY TABLE OUTERS'-RECREATION: 500 North Dearborn Street, Chicago. Its subtitle "The Magazine that brings the Outdoors in" well expresses the extensive appeal of this magazine. Its monthly articles on fishing, hunting, camp- ing, auto-camping, and the like by leading sport writers meet the needs of all lovers of the out-of-doors. Profusely illustrated with pictures full of human interest. Its special departments are practical and instructive. OUTING MAGAZINE: 47 West 47th Street, New York City. The editorial policy of "Outing" is a comprehensive one covering the entire outdoor field but special attention has been paid to fishing and the interesting, humorous experiences of fishermen. Features of practically every issue are fish- ing stories based on actual experiences and told with the charm, hopefulness and mendacity of the fisherman's art. A prime condition of all stories is that they shall be told well and somewhat out of the ordinary. ROD AND GUN IN CANADA: pub, by W. J. Taylor, Ltd., Woodstock, Ontario. While this periodical is devoted to all branches of outdoor sport, fishing, shoot- ing, etc., it has an especial appeal to the Waltonian as it contains stories and articles each month dealing with angling in the various waters from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The tourist fisherman contemplating a trip to any part of the Dominion will be given advice on his prospects through the columns of the magazine and the angling editor. The waters of Canada are as yet unspoiled and the fisherman's paradise is given suitable publicity by "Rod and Gun in Canada," the Dominion's national sportsman's monthly. Amusing and Clever STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS Curiosities of Matrimony By David Ainsworth with illustrations by William J. Moll \yfOST of us, whether we be married ^*- or single, are apt to regard quite seriously the Hymeneal tether as no doubt we should. There are, neverthe- less, many amusing circumstances cen- tered round and about the marriage insti- tution; wits and versifiers of all times have indulged in sly digs at its expense. Surely no one will grudge us a quiet smile. Here is a compilation of curious and in- teresting facts concerning matrimony, together with a collection of verses written apropos of weddings which have occurred during the last hundred years. To some of us Curiosities of Matrimony will doubtless prove instructive: few of us will fail to be both interested and amused. i2mo. Art Boards, $1.2$ 2^ Turkey Morocco, $6.00 Amusing and Clever STEWART KIDD -l^a PUBLISHERS SCRAMBLED EGGS Cooked by Lawton Mackall Garnished with illustrations by Oliver Herford There is a great deal of quackle and cackle in the world just now which might sound bet- ter in the mouths of ducks and chickens. So Lawton Mackall has put it there. Although the author of " Scrambled Eggs "would wince at the accusation of serious purpose, he has scratched below the surface in more than one paragraph and unearthed an appetizing morsel of moral and manner. Our whole modern flock is there, in this biting barnyard burlesque; Gertrude, the duckess, who thinks that wives should be the intellectual equals of their husbands, and believes in communal incubators; Martha, a plain hen, who thinks that woman's sphere is the egg; and Eustace, who cannot resist the the r61e of martyr, and leaps needlessly into the maws of a mowing machine. " Swift and sure and extremely funny." New York Evening Sun. "Its wit comes in unexpected flashes and its humor is continuous." Louis- ville Courier- Journal. Six full-page illustrations by Oliver Herford. Cover jacket by Don Herold. Net, $1.2$. Amusing and Clever STEWART KIDD IS!!* PUBLISHERS WHO is the most popular person in a company ? The one who can propose the best Conundrum. WELL there s THE BOOK OF CONUNDRUMS By Greta Robertson You will find it the best of its class. If the ability to laugh distinguishes man from the beasts, as scientists affirm, the first laugh undoubtedly exploded when a man grasped the meaning of the first Conundrum. And ever since the riddle has been the cause of more innocent mirth and unrestrained hilarity than anything else since the inven- tion of human speech. Here you will find real fun, and besides Whatever adds to the gayety of nations is a universal boon. Boston Globe : They are very clever and new. These conundrums, bound in art paper, are new, and their cost is 50 cents. America's Qreatest Publisher of Outdoor Books offers you these interesting Titles ADVENTURES IN ANGLING A Book of Salt Water Fishing By Van Campen Heilner, author of "The Call of the Surf" Thrilling experiences with big game fishes in the At- lantic and the Pacific vividly told. From barracuda on black-bass tackle to the giant horsemackerel or tuna on the heaviest outfits made, the author runs the ex- citing gamut of angling emotions. And one needn't be a fisher, either, to get the thrill. The book is full of hard facts things that happened (and happened mostly with a bang) "in gulfs enchanted where the siren sings." The Chapter Headings: In Turquoise Seas. The Sea Horse. 'Neath Southern Skies. With the Salmon of Monterey. Barracuda on Black-Bass Tackle. Light Versus Heavy Tackle. Diary of An Offshore Angler. With Grains and Harpoon. The Coast of Romance. Clemente Swordfish. In Search of the Fountain of Youth. The Tarpon of Channel Two. An Ocean Goliath. Death Struggle With an Alligator. Where Coral Reefs Lie Bare. Illustrated in color from paintings by Frank Stick, and in black-and-white from photographs by the author. 8vo silk cloth. Net, $3.00. TRAIL CRAFT By Claude P. Fordyce With an introduction by Stewart Edward White This is a practical, how-to-go-about-it book on motor camping, hike trips, mountaineering, written by an ex- perienced and enthusiastic outdoorsman who knows America's playgrounds and just what you need to know and do to make your out-of-doors vacation a holiday a time of pleasure and recreation. The Chapter , Head- ings: Wilderness Handicraft. Outfitting for Go-Light Trips. Motor Camping. Practical Mountaineering. Hints on Desert Travel. The Camp Cuisine. Using the Reflecting Baker. Tents and How to Use Them. Tent Making at Home. Tips on Teepees. Utilizing Balloon Silk in Camp. Making the Recreation Cabin. Taking the Place of the Doctor. Uses of Adhesive Plaster in Camp. Pests of the Wilderness. The In- dispensable Parka. Game Hunting with a Camera. Photographic Developing in Camp. Leather Working for the Outdoor Man. Numerous illustrations and prac- tical how-to-make diagrams, l^mo, silk cloth. Net. $1.50. Stewart Kidd Sr^'Hir,' America's Qreatest Publisher of Outdoor Books offers you these interesting Titles Only Complete Book on the American Pike THE BOOK OF THE PIKE By 0. W. Smith, Fishing Editor of Outdoor Life For years Mr. Smith has studied fish and fishing at the laboratory table, in libraries, and by lake and stream. He writes from a vast experience, and gives the ac- cumulated knowledge of a lifetime. Besides a great fund of natural history and scientific information, there are many amusing anecdotes. The Chapters: By Way of Introduction. Literature and History. Description of the American Pikes. The Little Pickerels. Casting for Great Pike with Artificial Lures. Great Pike and Live Bait. Fly-Fishing for Great Pike. Trolling for Great Pike. Ice-Fishing for Great Pike. Muskellunge and Artificial Lures. Muskellunge and Live Bait. Trolling for Muskellunge. The Fine Art of Pike Cook- ing. The Possibility of Hybrids Between Great Pike and Pickerel. A Day's Still-Fishing for Great Pike with Live Bait. Illustrated, izmo. Silk cloth. $3.00. THE FLY-FISHER'S ENTOMOLOGY By Alfred Ronalds. Edited by H. T. Sheringham. A new edition, with colored representations of natural and artificial insects, and a few observations and instruc- tions on trout and grayling fishing. It was not till Alfred Ronalds produced "The Fly-Fisher's Entomology" in 1836 that anglers had something that could be ac- cepted as a standard work. He performed his task so well that his book is a standard work still, though eighty- four years have elapsed since it came out. Handsomely illustrated with 20 full-page color plates and 14 black- and-whites. 8vo. Net, $5.00. DAYS AND NIGHTS OF SALMON FISHING IN THE TWEED By William Scrope. Edited with an introduction by H. T. Sheringham. The way of a palmon with the fly in 1921 is just what it was in 1842. Mr. Sheringham has brought Scrope's mas- terpiece up-to-date in a way that should render it the final edition of the great classic. Handsomely illustrated with many color plates and black-and-whites. 8vo. Net, $5.00. Stewart Kidd ZTiH&ili America's Qreatest Publisher of Outdoor Books offers you these interesting Titles THE BIG MUSKEG By Victor Rousseau Romance and tragedy stalk hand in hand through the grim reaches of the North. And love and the passions of revenge and hate flame just as darkly bright over the eternal snows as in tropic islands under the moon. Boston Evening Transcript: "The story moves rapidly from thrill to thrill." i2tno. Silk cloth. Net, $2.00. JIST HUNTIN' By Ozark Ripley Introduction by Dixie Carroll Tales of Forest, Field, and Stream delightfully told by an expert guide who has fished and hunted from Northern Alaska to the Gulf of Mexico. Illustrated. 8vo. Silk cloth. Net, $2.00. REMINISCENT TALES OF A HUMBLE ANGLER By Dr. Frank M. Johnson Introduction by Dr. James A. Henshall Short sketches of the author's experiences during the vacation days of half a century in his Quest of the Fish from Newfoundland to the Everglades and on toward the Land of the Midnight Sun. i6mo. Silk cloth. Net, $1.50. FISHING WITH A BOY The Tale of a Rejuvenation By Leonard Hulit Brooklyn Daily Eagle: "Any boy who loves fishing, be he twelve years old or five times that number, will revel in Leonard Hulit's 'Fishing with a Boy.' Incidentally, he will know a lot more about the humbler varieties of fishes." Illustrated. i2mo. Silk doth. Net, $2.00. PIGEON RAISING By Alice Macleod This is a book for both fancier and market-breeder. Full descriptions of the construction of houses, the care of the birds, preparation for market and shipment, the various breeds, their markings, habits, etc., etc. i6mo. Cloth. Net, $1.50. Stewart Kidd r b ci:Jr,i YC 14269