24 REPORT OF MONTANA FISH AND GAME COMMISSION 



And when the dusk of evening on the stream begins to fall, 



I trudge home wet and hungry, and possess no fish at all. 



I always meet some country kid with tousled head of hair. 



And when I say "How's fishin' kid?" he answers "Oh. just fair"; 



And then I note the burden he has upon his back. 



Some fifty trout reposing in a dirty gunny sack; 



He has no fancy basket, and he has no jointed pole. 



A willow and a piece of string have pulled 'em from the hole. 



And then I light another pill, and let my language loose. 



And swear I'll never go again — 'cause what the hell's the use? 



Rave on, you Isaac Walton's, of the glories of the stream. 



As the sunshine of existence you afford me not a gleam; 



The romance of the brooklet I can never seem to get. 



To me it's merely water which is devilish cold and wet. 



If the poetry of motion lies in casting out a line, 



I'll have prosaic movement in the portion which is mine. 



For when gently on the water I essay the fly to cast. 



It lodges in my panties, and remain there, hard and fast, 



And when from hide and clothing I at last have cut it free. 



And cast again — it always snags a rock or bush or tree. 



You embryo Kit Carsons. with your trophies of the chase, 



I envy not your prowess, and I covet not your place. 



This plunging into snowdrifts, and hiking up a hill, 



Is not an occupation which affords me any thrill; 



I'm tired of shooting shotguns witli a sixteen ton recoil. 



And applying to my bruises Sloan's liniment and oil. 



I'd rather let the canvas-back remain at large and free. 



Than have a cockeyed shotgun make a total wreck of me. 



I'd rather let the deer and elk forever snort and sniff. 



Than break my neck through stumbling down some rocky mountain cliff. 



Stand up, you jitney tourists, and wave your arms and shout. 



And tell about the rapture of a life of camping out. 



My memory reminds me of the sleepless nights I've spent. 



Congealing in the rain-drops trickling through a leaky tent. 



No longing for the great out-doors with great insistent tugs. 



Instead I see mosquitoes and the rattlesnakes and bugs. ^ 



I see the dirt and gravel in the greasy frying pans. 



The consumptive looking fluid that they buy for milk in cans. 



The camp-fire which contributes so much burning, blistering heat. 



with its smoke which chokes and strangles when you attempt to eat. 



You take the open spaces, and give me a house instead. 



You sleep on boughs and boulders, but give me a standard bed. 



Go plunge into the mounttiin stream, and give your skin a thrill. 



But for me turn on the faucets in tlio bathtub, if you will. 



Go eat your beans and bacon in the rain and snow and muck. 



If I can reach a table I will feel that I'm in luck. 



You are welcome to the victuals which are interspersed with ants. 



With wifey's kitchen products I will gla<llv take a chance. 



You hunters and you anglers, here's to you as you roam. 



The more I see of canin-life the more I think of home. 



i 



The above poem was i-ecilcd l)y its author at the 9th .\nnual 

 Hancjuet of the Western Montana Fisli and Game Association held at 

 .Missoula on the evening of .laiiua-y 20th, l!t2:2. This was Mr. Wilson's 

 last public utterance as he died very suddenly ili." following day. 



