A 8U1I!?1IIS. IDYL 



Tke Patient Angler. 



BY GUV H. A VERY. 



he Democrat and Chronicle. 

 The true angler must lay in great store of 



Eatieuee and you will often see him sitting forj 

 ours without so much as ft bite, whereby he loses 1 

 nothing but his time, for which the honest angler 

 careth not a fig. ' ' ISAAC WALTON, JK. 



An angler sat by an old saw mill 

 And angled away in the flowing rill, 

 Dreaming of fish that traditions say, 

 Deep in those waters nest and lay ; 

 Pickerel, perch, eel and bull pout, 

 And Legend whispered, a speckled trout, 

 This last named fish must be taken on spec. 

 No man ever saw his head or neck, 

 One man had seen the end of his tail 

 Going down stream like an express mail, 

 This tail may be true but thin is 

 Ending up with a dubious Fin-is; 

 But to our tale ; as we said before, 

 The patient Angler sat by the shore, 

 The tools of his trade around him lay 

 Hackles, red, speckled dun and gray, 

 Flies artificial of every hue, 

 Millers and moths and grasshoppers too, 

 And rare old Walton's angler complete, 

 The fisherman's Bible lay at his feet; 

 As thus he sat and angled away, 

 I gently spoke to this fisherman gray, 

 ' ' Halloo! my friend, how goes the fight 

 ' ' With the finny tribes; had'st 'ere a bite? 

 ' Not yet "he sighed and whisperetTYow, 

 "I've only been here a day or so. ' ' 



Time rolled on and I passed that way. 

 There sat the angler old and gray, 

 Tht- horni t had built a nest in his hat. 

 His ears were the home of the sporting gnat, 

 Aid yellow jackets were coming t * rest 

 Within the folds of his peaceful vest ; 

 A family (select) of mus-quit-t oes 

 Had taken the a tic over his nose, 

 Earwit s, horseflies and beetles brown 

 Were s\ orting around his snowy crown. 

 But thiere he bat by the old saw mill 

 Happy, contented and patient still : 

 AP thus he sat and angled away," 

 I gently spoke to this fisherman gray. 

 "Hellool my friend, how goes the fight 



he finny tribes; bads't 'ere a bite? 

 " N' t yet. ' ' he sighed and whispered low, 

 " I' ve only been here a week or so. ' ' 



TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1880. 



BY THE STREAUI 



The Sunday Magazine. 

 Sweet tangled banks, where ox-eyed daises grov 



And scarlet poppies gleam ; 

 *\veet changing lights, that ever come and go 



Upon the quiet stream ! 



Once more I see the flash of splendid wings, 



As dragon flies flit by ; 

 Once more lor me the small sedge-warbler sings 



Beneath a sapphire sky. 



Oaee more I feel the simple, fresh content 



I found in stream and soil 

 When golden summers slowly came and went. 



And mine was all their spoil. 



I find amid the honeysuckle flowers 



And shy forget-me-not, 

 Old tooylsh memories of lonely hours 



Passed la this silent spot. 



Oh, God of nature, how thy kindness keeps 

 Some changeless things on earth ! 



And fee who roams far off, and toils and weeps, 

 Comes horns to learn their worth. 



ay visions vanish, worldly schemes may fail, 



Hope proves an idle dream, 

 But still the blossom:] flourish, red and pale, 



Beside my native stream. 



