THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 
THE SILVER RUN 
By Sic Youne, Astoria, Oregon. 
Yearly do they all foregather, 
Called from waters near and far, 
Seeking entrance to the rivers, 
Silver hordes swarm o’er the bar; 
King of Salmon, lordly Chinook, 
Blue-back, Sockeye, Silverside, 
Leaping, flashing, lusty splashing, 
To the death their forebears died. 
Fish of mystery, e’er loyal, 
Whither come they, what their guide? 
Does the mem’ry of their fry-life 
Tell them when to head the tide? 
Fat with plenty, spirit regal, 
Polished in the ocean’s foam, 
Four full years of lusty living 
In some wild salt water home, 
From the leagues of open ocean, 
Running free and then bar-mauled, 
To keep but their one commandment 
To the rivers they are called; 
Cycled by that primal instinct 
That the run may e’er go on, 
Virgin bodies procreating, 
Sturdy silvered slaves of spawn. 
Through the bar and up the river, 
Past the waiting nets of men, 
Twisting through the tangled waters 
That their life might live again; 
Leaping up the mad tumwater, 
Nosing o’er the roving sand, 
Frantic lashing in the shallows, 
Ever upstream the command. 
Naught of feeding in the rivers, 
Living on their ocean bulk, 
When that wasting, fasting travel 
Makes of them a rott’ning hulk; 
Tarnished, blackened, sea-green sallowed, 
Smirched with red, in passion’s throes, 
Scarred and scabbed and mutilated, 
Leper fish with gaunt hooked nose. 
Waiting shadows in the stream-heads, 
Till the spawn is full and free, 
Surcharged with the lives impending, 
Biding out their destiny; 
Knowing naught of love maternal, 
Worried not by offsprings’ cry, 
Casting spawn upon the gravel, - 
Chancing that it live or die. 
177 
