REPORT OF MONTANA FISH AND GAME COMMISSION 23 



(Hy Harry L. Wilson) 



In Montana's mountain regions I have souglit the elk and deer, 



With sufficient ammunition to inspire the world with fear; 



With my tried and trusty rifle I have sallied forth in hope 



Of puncturing the vitals of the agile antelope. 



On towering peaks and pinnacles o'erlooking canyons deep, 



I've sought to come in contact with the stately mountain sheep; 



But each intended victim of my wild desire to slay 



On other urgent business has been summoned far away; 



For the heartaches and the backaches of the fruitless hunting trip 



I have had to seek my solace in the bottle on the hip. 



In the early autumn mornings I have left my cozy cot. 

 And motored to a duck pond, or some other muddy spot. 

 And there have shook and shivered in the chill October breeze, 

 With the icy mud and water splashing 'round my B. V. D.'s; 

 Or in a boat that's leaky, and wobbly on its keel, 

 I've exploded tons of powder at the mallard and the teal; 

 But in each and every instance when the fusillade is through 

 My hunting sack is empty and my shoulder black and blue; 

 I journey sadly homeward without an ounce of meat, ' 

 And purchase from the butcher a nice tame duck to eat. 



I have sought the little fishes in Montana's mountain brooks, 

 I have tempted them with spinners and a lot of fancy hooks, 

 Gray Hackles and Professors I have dangled from a pole. 

 And dropped the Royal Coachman into many a fishin' hole. 

 The luscious little minnows I have gathered in a net. 

 And dug up quarts of angle worms in summer's heat and sweat; 

 The very active 'hopper I have chased across the flats. 

 Bought salmon eggs and liver, and collected flies and gnats; 

 But all these danty morsels the little fishes flout, 

 I've never found a diet which would satisfy a trout. 



I've invested lots of lucre in those fancy jointed rods, 



For shiny reels and baskets I have squandered many wads; 



Bought landing nets and leaders and highly colored lines 



And got a fishin' license to avoid a lot of fines. 



In the dead of night I've traveled to some distant mountain stream, 



To fill a spacious basket e're the sun began to beam; 



I've sneaked through brush and brambles to some famous fishing spot. 



But always when I get there the wise old fish are not; 



They seem to know by instinct that whenever I'm about. 



It's neither fit nor proper for them to venture out. 



And when I get no fishes in a hole where they are thick. 



They tell me that the reason is the wind blows up the "crick," 



If I have flies and spinners, they tell me, sure as fate. 



That I must get a 'hopper, or some other foolish bait; 



And when I get the 'hopper all adjusted for a bite, 



I find that he is useless, 'cause the sun's too cussed bright. 



Sometimes when whole battalions of the finny tribe go by, 



They won't bite because the water in the river is so high; 



At other times I see them floating 'round me smooth and slow. 



But by nothing can be tempted, 'clause the river is so low. 



