The Bloodless Sportsman 



I go a-gunning, but take no gun; 



I fish without a pole; 

 And I bag good game, and catch such fish 



As suit a sportsman's soul; 

 For the choicest game that the forest holds 



And the best fish of the brook 

 Are never brought down with a rifle shot, 



And are never caught with a hook. 



I bob for fish by the forest brook, 



I hunt for game in the trees, 

 For bigger birds than wing in the air, 



Or fish that swim the seas. 

 A rodless Walton of the brooks, 



A bloodless sportsman, I 

 I hunt for the thoughts that throng the woods. 



The dreams that haunt the sky. 



The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, 



The brooks for the fishers of song; 

 To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game 



The streams and the woods belong. 

 There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the pine, 



And thoughts in a flower bell curled; 

 And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern 



Are as new and as old as the world. 



So, away! for the hunt in the fern-scented wood, 



Till the going down of the sun; 

 There is plenty of game still left in the woods 



For the hunter who has no gun. 

 So, away! for the fish by the moss-bordered brook 



That flows through the velvety sod; 

 There are plenty of fish still left in the streams 



For the angler who has no rod. SAM WALTER Foss. 



14 



