276 The American Angler. 



with his shoulder at the stern, assisted down the channel for the lola's moor- 



lis out of the cul de sac (I guess that's ings. 



right). This was the last accident of We ate supper on the boat and then 



the trip. From then on, with a brisk started for town, tired, but happy, tho* 



beam wind, we bounded over the waves still undecided as to who had been the 



of Aransas Bay, and just about dark hoodoo of the cruise. 



rounded the embankment and headed 



THE ANGLER'S GRAVE. 



BY THE LATE THOMAS D. STODDARD. 



Sorrow, sorrow, bring it green ! 



True tears make the grass to grow, 

 And the grief of a friend, I ween. 



Is grateful to him that sleeps below. 

 Strew sweet flowers, free of blight — 



Blossoms gathered in the dew, 

 Should they wither before night, 



Flowers and blossoms bring anew. 



Sorrow, sorrow, speed away 

 To our angler's quiet mound ; 



With the old pilgrim twilight gray 

 Enter thou on the holy ground. 



There he sleeps, whose heart was twined 

 With wild stream and wandering burn, 



Wooer of the western wind ! 

 Watcher of the April morn. 



Sorrow at the poor man's hearth! 



Sorrow in the hall of pride ! 

 Honor waits at the grave of worth. 



And high and low stand side by side. 

 Brother angler! slumber on. 



Haply thou shalt wave the wand. 

 When the tide of Time is gone. 



In some far and happier land. 



