TROUT FISHING

Give me a rod of the split bamboo,

A rainy day and a fly or two,

A mountain stream where the eddies play,

And mists hang low o'er the winding way.

Give me a haunt by the purling brook,

A hidden spot in a mossy nook,

No sound save hum of the drowsy bee,

Or lone bird's tap on the hollow tree.

The world may roll with its busy throng

And phantom scenes, on its way along;

It's stocks may rise, or it's stocks may fall—

Ah! what care I for its baubles all?

I cast my fly o'er the troubled rill,

Luring the beauties by magic skill,

With mind at rest and a heart at ease,

And drink delight from the balmy breeze .

As lusty trout to my glad surprise,

Speckled and bright, on the crest arise,

Then plash and plunge in a dazzling whirl,

Hope springs anew as the wavelets curl.

Gracefully swinging from left to right,

Action so gentle, motion so slight,

Tempting, enticing, on craft intent,

Till yielding tip by the game is bent.

Drawing in slowly, then letting go

Under the ripples where mosses grow,

Doubting my fortune, lost in a dream,

Blessing the land of Forest and Stream.

By Mrs. Eunice B. Lamberton

Rochester, N.Y., Dec. 15, 1873