Ballad of the “No-Ketchum” Trout

                            (Lovingly dedicated to Newton Newkirk)

Down in the good old State of Maine, you all know where I mean,

Where glistening lakes are always blue and hills are always green,

‘Tis said there live some cunning trout; their fancy Latin name

I scarce can tell, but this I know: they’re prone to local fame

As “Red Spot” trout, and oftentimes – I’ll tell this same to you –

The queer-like name of “damn” appears before the other two.

They breed and swim and live and die in wild-edged “Allen Pond”,

And local wizards say there’s none in any lake beyond.

Be as it may I cannot say, I swear this same to you:

I’ve never seen them in or out, the which is very true

Of other men of truth and worth, one whom I have in mind

A noble, knightly fisherman, a true Waltonic kind.

‘Twas he who packed his roomy grip one day of yester year,

(And many kinds of eatables and drinkables were here)

And with a snag of tackle bright and baits a goodly batch,

He hied himself to “Allen Pond”, “No-Ketchum” trout to catch.

And did he venture thus alone into this lonely spot?

Ah! no, he wisely took along his good man “Friday”, not

To help him land a mighty fish, but lug his traps galore,

And cook his meals and keep the wolf far from the lone camp door.

Full mile on mile they journeyed o’er the roughest roads of Maine,

(Poor “Friday’s” feet were wet and sore, his heart bowed down with pain)

Till nightfall touched the mountain peaks when by the shore they found

“No-Ketchum Camp”, the only shack for many miles around.

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The sun beat down with windless heat upon the glassy lake;

Grim-visaged sat the anglers there within that awful bake.

Midst howling storm or fearful heat they sat in sad repose,

While down below “Ne-Ketchum” tout just fingered at their nose.

The C-apting swore and tore his hair – what little hair he had –

And vowed he’d stay until he’d hooked a d – d Red Spot. “Egad!”

All night he dreamed of them and tossed about in troubled sleep;

All day he talked of them until poor “Friday” had to weep

And beg for mercy, and at last feign illness with the hope

The capting would desert a cause with which he couldn’t cope.

And by and by, provisions gone, and bait exhausted quite,

They crept, bedraggled, wet and sore back to the earth and light.

They crept, I say, from dark to light, and bade a weak “good-bye”

To “Allen Pond” where it is said the mighty “Red Spots” lie.

The lie, I think, lies somewhere else, upon the tongue of one

Who sent around the false report, as he had surely done,

That fish reside within those depths. I tell you frankly now

It won’t be safe for me to meet the rascal, anyhow.

There’s murder in my kindly heart, more murder, I confess

Than there are fish in “Allen Pond” of any kind, I guess.

Full many moons have passed since then, the Capting fishes still,

But not in “Allen Pond”, milords, and “Friday” never will.

Although surrounded here with joys, that nightmare will arise

And bring a shudder through his frame and moisture to his eyes.

And he has writ an epitaph he wishes might be hung

From shore to shore o’er Allen’s breast and be forever sung:

“Here lies the hopes of anglers two who trusted all mankind;

Who thought that they knew how to fish – alas! alas! How blind!

Here also lies “No-Ketchum” trout, “Red Spots”, as some persist;

Here also ought to lie the man who says these trout exist.”

Jan. 24, ‘07