Ballad Of The Ancient Fisherman

                                 I.

He sits beside the kitchen door, out in the spring-day sun,

The fisherman of yesteryear whose course has nearly run;

The hens and chickens have no fear, but run about his feet,

And with the birds that venture near he holds communion sweet.

The landscape stretches to the south and fades within the haze,

The many slopes and valleys fair he tramped in boyhood days;

The many streams are winding still, as in the days of yore,

But he, the ancient fisherman, sits by the kitchen door.

                                 II.

From out his half-closed eyes he sees the alder-studded streams,

And pictures of the tumbled walls go floating through his dreams;

The waterfalls and pools below he sees in filmy tones,

And hears the rapids as they swish against the hind’ring stones.

And standing there, upon the brink he casts his fly once more

Upon the surface of the pools, as in the days of yore,

When lo! A flash, a tautened line, a guiding hand of care,

A snub, and – ‘lack-a-day – he almost fell from off his chair!

                                 III.

Along the dusty road there comes a Youngster, aged nine,

A birchen pole upon his back, a simple cotton line.

A freckled face beneath a hat a thatch of sun and rain,

A merry whistle on his lips a wild, unnumbered strain.

The old man hails the passing boy, and brings him to his side,

And lays his hand upon his head with more than passing pride.

“My son,” says he, “it does me good to see you out today

To seek the trout within his lair, Godspeed you on your way.

                                 IV.

“And now,” says he, ‘just take this key and find my closet door,

And bring my fishing rod and box you’ll find upon the floor.

Bring rod and reel, and line and creel, I’ll give them all to you,

And when you are all fitted out show me what you can do.

Why keep delight in corners hid from human hearts and eyes?

I cannot use them anymore; my son, go bring the prize!”

And with the speed of heated Youth the boy brought out the gear,

And laid it in the angler’s lap, he of yester-year.

                                 V.

The old man’s eyes they blazed anew – he showed the youth close by

The way to reel a victim in, the way to cast a fly;

He decked him with bait box and creel, explained to him the flies,

The old man’s heart in joyous tune, the Youth’s in paradise.

And then he sent him down the road unto the brook’s mad play,

And ne’er were whistled such refrains adown that country way.

“Why keep delights in corners hid?” he murmured once again,

While from the valley wandered back the Youngster’s glad refrain.

                                 VI.

Again the old man closed his eyes and tipped back in his chair,

The April breezes playing tag with whitened beard and hair;

Again he saw the ardent Youth upon the fern-clad sod,

And heard the music of the reel, and saw the curving rod.

Oh! Dreams of youth are passing fair, God-given, strong and new,

But visions of the later day are straight from heaven, too.

“Why keep delights in corners hid?” Why hoard our joys for naught?

O, ancient fisherman have you a noble lesson taught!

April 7, ‘10