The Angler’s Misfortune

In the spring the young man’s fancy, and the old one’s too, I guess,

Lightly turn to thoughts of fishing on the ancient boyhood stream;

And he holds communion daily, with a heart of happiness,

And sees the wild speckled beauties in his mild tobacco dream.

O, he hears the gurgling brooklet as it swats the mossy stones

And he sees the golden splashing of the victim on his line;

He hears the call of nature in its most enticing tones,

And hankers for the soughing and the fragrance of the pine.

In the spring the young man’s fancy isn’t with his musty books,

It is not around his ledger or within his office gloom;

It has gone beyond the city out among the fishing brooks,

Where the buds from swam and meadow shed a springy-like perfume.

But he hesitates to venture for the laws are not the same

No more he’s sure of coming with a goodly string at night;

The law prohibits selling so he cannot buy, O, shame!

The county youngsters’ catches, hence his very vexing plight.

April 4, ‘10