At Cot tain's Mill. 267 



Of fancy's dreamy cloth 

 Are many filmy stories made 

 To charm the eager-hearing ear 

 Of willing listeners slow to doubt. 

 Those cunning tales that disappoint. 

 But he who reaches Cottam's mill, 

 The tedious pilgrimage will make 

 To Clearing Creek ; a glimpse will have 

 Of earth's best loveliness. 



A nook where quiet reigns, 

 Where recreation quickly heals. 

 A place whose tame environment 

 Repels the gayer multitude ; 

 Attracts and satisfies the few 

 Whose preference and choice would be 

 To shun the haunts where folly reigns — 

 Where hoUowness and mimicry 

 Prevail but to deceive. 



The angler there may note 

 Those signs which make it plain to him 

 When first he views the charming spot> 

 That he had not his jaunt in vain. 

 And when the eddying swirl he whips. 

 From shielding bush, with luring fly ; 

 He feels the quick responsive strike — 

 A fight begun to fiercely wage, 

 The weaker one to yield. 



No respite need there be. 

 Satiety may not impose ; 

 No tiresome waits to disconcert — 

 The fisher's patience fret and try. 

 A pure, unbroken pleasure holds 

 To satisfy the sanguine wish 

 So often unfulfilled before. 

 Seek ye the angler's paradise ! 

 Look not elsewhere to find. 



But go not there in spring. 

 When freshets bring a turbid flood — 

 The early rains their volume pour. 

 Go when the autumn paints the wood — 

 When late October chills the air ; 

 The crispy frost its whiteness shows, 

 And shedding trees a carpet spread 

 Of multi-colored, wasted leaves ; 

 Go then to Cottam's mill. • 



