THE SONG OF THE BASS 



When summer nights are hard to hear. 



And dog-days come ogam ; 

 When fetid grows the dty air. 



And fagged the weary brain; 

 Then free ye from the stifled throng,- 



With rod and reel away 

 To where bright rivers rush along 



''Mid fash of rainbow spray! 



In limpid lakes the lilies blow, 



Though breathless be the town; 

 On woodla/nd banks wild roses glow. 



And silver thistle-down 

 Caught lightly an the plaeid stream 



Like goblin craft drift by ; 

 While here and there more subtle gleam I 



Intrigues the watchful eye. 



Fresh fern a-plenty for his creel, 



A snack within the shade, 

 A fragramt pipe, a singing reel; — 



The angler'' s day is made! 

 And some the lordly salmon praise. 



And some the lusty trout; 

 To many men are many ways 



Of fishing, without doubt. 



