The Summer Fisherman

At break of day he takes his pole,

And there is music in his soul.

A jug of “water” from the well

(At least that’s what we’ve heard him tell.)

And then he takes his trusty boat

And soon he’s on the lake afloat.

He seeks the shady spots with care,

And hour by hour he fishes there.

The sun goes up and down again,

But not a nibble does he ken.

The jug is emptied, lunch all gone,

But he is never quite forlorn.

And when the shades of night have fell

He paddles back to the hotel.

The boarders try to jolly him,

But he is game up to the brim.

“It’s not the fish I catch,” says he,

“It’s just the fun of going, see?”

July 16, 1910