In
the spring the young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of trouting streams,
And
the pages of his ledger turn to laughing, baffling dreams,
And
his pen becomes a fish-pole, and his ink a darkened pool,
And
he sits there idly fishing like a truant boy from school.
And
tho’ perhaps he shouldn’t, and his figures get behind,
He
shows a love of nature, and a fine and healthy mind.
March
22, ‘99
N.E.
Sp – May 1, 99
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