FALL FISHING 251 



Go not when sun-hot idle lakes are fanned 

 By soothing winds that from the tropics steal 



To drowse the sharpened senses of the land; 

 Go not, ye patient Waltons, 'til the day 

 That autumn mints the leaves her brilliant way; 



'Til first ye see the grim white Artist, North, 

 Has flicked his fingers on the things that stay 



And then, my fellow-angler, go ye forth ! 



Albert Jay Cook. 



