196 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



" Come, see ! the west is tinged with red, 



The cove is gently rippled o'er ; 

 There's waiting sport for us to-night, 



We'll net, my boy, at least a score." 



" Just one more cast, I yet can see 



That miller's white and dainty wing; 

 Hold ! there he comes, strike quick and hard; 



Oh ! don't he make that leader sing ! 

 He's doubling on you, look out, sir ! 



He knows the game, just see him cut ! 

 I'll risk my rod to save that trout: 



Stand by now Frank, he's got the butt." 



Jt bends almost a circle now, 



There's music not another inch ; 

 Good-by, old rod, you're stanch and true, 



But yet ha, ha! Sir Trout, you flinch. 

 "He's winded, sir" "The net, please, Frank." 



(Head first, my beauty, if you please.) 

 He'll turn the scale at four, sir, sure ; 



Well, that's not bad for joints like these. 

 Up anchor, boys ! the shadows fall, 



The mist is slowly settling down ; 

 Said one, as trudging to our camp : 



" God made the country, man the town." 



