THE FLY BOX. 



Nestled together, rows on rows 



With their keen, sharp-pointed toes, 



Here a Hare's Ear, there a Glory, 



A Royal Coach with a wondrous story. 



Wickhams, Fairies, a tiny Dun 



That could tell of an hour of glorious fun 



At a deep, dark pool, in the shadows dense, 



When the heart beat fast and nerves were tense. 



And six bright beauties rose and took 



Each in his turn that fateful hook. 



And I care not whether they're wet or dry, 



Fancy or Somber, yea, not I . . . . 



I love them all, yes, every fly. 



From Outer's Book, May, 1917, 



By Henry Baldwin Ward, 

 Urbana, III. 



