ELEGY ON A COUNTRY FISH HOG. 



(With apologies to everybody.) 



A. L. VEKMILYA. 



The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

 The setter pup hunts softly for a flea, 



The fish hog homeward plods his lazy way, 

 And leaves not e'en a single fish for me. 



Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 

 sight, 



As on the ground the dirty fish hog rolls ; 

 "I got 'em all," he says, "how they did bite ! 



I fished all day with 27 'poles'." 



He had 400 little speckled trout ; 



He had a fishing outfit kids would scorn ; 

 He had a sodden face and piggish snout ; 



Oh, why was such a creature ever born? 



He was a village loafer; just a bum; 

 Too lazy almost was the brute to talk ; 



His clothing smelt of grease ; his breath of 

 rum, 

 You'd know he was a hog, just by his 

 walk. 



But as he giggling lay upon the ground, 

 A fierce pain smote him in the middle 

 part ; 

 'Mong all his gearing quick it spread around 

 And stilled the beating of his selfish 

 heart. 



Too much poor tipple had he taken in, 

 So much at last it quenched his beery 

 breath. 

 Now he was dead, no more he'd leer and 

 grin- 

 Sometimes thou doest mighty well, O ! 

 Death ! 



THE EPITAPH (on a shingle), 



Plere rests his head upon the lap of earth, 

 A hog to decency and shame unknown ; 



He'd been a cussed nuisance from his birth, 

 And collywobbles marked him for its 

 own. 



Above him stands no chiseled granite gray, 



They didn't even bury him, they tell ; 

 Just where his soul has gone is hard to say 



Though one might almost bet that it's 

 in — well, 



It surely isn't in that blest abode 

 To which the souls of decent sportsmen 

 go; 

 Perhaps it hikes along the dreary road 

 That leads down to the other place, 

 below. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY H. K, JOT. 



YOUNG BURROWING OWL. 

 Highly commended in Recreation s 6th Annual Photo Competition. 

 Made with a Preino Camera. 

 273 



