MISTER PICK’REL

O, I like to fish for pick’rel on a hazy summer day,

‘Fore the sun steals o’er the mountain risin’ half a mile away;

There’s a happy, fishy feelin’ runnin’ thro’ the atmosphere,

An’ the mornin’ breeze it whispers happy prospects in my ear.

O, the glimmer uv the water tells me pickerel are thick

An’ the lily pads they beckon me out on ol’ Lizzard Crick;

An’ the ‘arly shadders linger while I’m gittin’ under way,

With the alder branches p’inting right to where the pick’rel lay.

I hed ruther ketch a pick’rel than a sarmon any day,

Or a bass or speckled beauty sech ez sportsman like to play;

‘Cuz they make so much commotion when they take a holt the bait,

An’ they sink an’ run for shelter at a good two forty rate.

O’, a pickerel is spunky, an’ he hates to leave the wet,

An’ he’ll sag back on your fishline like a major, you kin bet;

An’ ef you ain’t a watchin’ he will take a turn or two

Round a snag or clump of lilies, an’ he’ll hev the laugh on you.

Some say thet Mister Pick’rel is a stupid, dull ol’ chap,

Jest a-layin’ round an’ waitin’ for most any easy snap;

Jest a-layin’ there a-blinkin’ underneath a lily pad

All ready for to gobble anything at’s good or bad.

But I know ‘at Mister Pick’rel ain’t so easy ez you think,

An’ it takes a little science for to coax him from the drink;

An' he hez my admiration more than any of his class,

An’ I’d ruther feel him “tuggin’” than a sarmon, trout or bass.

July 8, 1901