‘Tis
now adown the gurgling stream
The trouter creeps along;
With
every burden of his heart
Lost in the brooklet’s song.
The
world with all its misery
He leaves far in the rear;
His
home and friends forgotten are
At this time every year.
The
swash against his rubber boots
Gives every nerve a thrill;
A
wet foot on a day like this
Will never cause a chill.
What tho’ he slips
and sits him down
Where stones are green with slime;
He’s
out for trout and naught shall mar
His joyous outing time.
What
tho’ he meets a farmer bold
With gun and old dog “Tray”,
He
pulls a fiver from his purse,
And wends his happy way.
There’s
naught can swerve him from the thing
He
thinks so very fine;
There’s
music in the reel for him
And joy in tug the line.
Who
wouldn’t be a fisherman
With all the joy it brings,
And
spend a day, all free from care,
Out where the brooklet sings?
Who
wouldn’t whip the streams all day
With tackle new and light,
And
have no plaguey fish to dress
When he gets home at night!
Jan.
26, ‘07
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