IN THE HAUNTS OF BREAM AND BASS. 



By MAURICE THOMPSON. 



DREAMS come true and everything 

 Is fresh and lusty in the spring. 



In groves, that smell like ambergris, 

 Wind-songs, bird-songs never cease. 



Go with me down by the stream, 

 Haunt of bass and purple bream ; 



Feel the pleasure, keen and sweet, 

 When the cool waves lap your feet ; 



Catch the breath of moss and mold, 

 Hear the grosbeak's whistle bold ; 



See the heron all alone 

 Mid-stream on a slippery stone, 



Or, on some decaying log, 

 Spearing snail or water-frog, 



Whilst the sprawling turtles swim 

 In the eddies cool and dim! 



ii. 

 The busy nut-hatch climbs his tree, 

 Around the great bole spirally, 



Peeping into wrinkles gray, 

 Under ruffled lichens gay, 



