THE FISH WE USED TO CATCH. 433 



THE FISH WE USED TO CATCH. 



JOE LINCOLN. 



Oh, brothers of mine in the gentle art, 



Whose dearest prize is a well rilled creel, 

 Who know the thrill of the angler's heart 



When the lithe rod whips to the whirring 

 reel; 

 A song I sing and a rhyme I bring; 



Not of the pools where the salmon hatch, 

 But a memory fond of the village pond, 



And the common fish that we used to 

 catch. 



The fish we caught in the golden haze 

 Of the boyhood summers long ago, 

 When our bare feet tripped through the 

 grassy ways 

 To the nook where the lilies used to 

 grow; 

 Wlifere the sunbeams played through the 

 willow's shade, 

 And danced as the soft breeze shook the 

 tree. 

 And the sound we heard was the song of 

 bird, 

 Or the drowsy hum of the bumble bee. 



The fish we caught with the home made 

 poles 

 Our jack kni.os cut from the slender 

 birch, 

 And oh! the glory that filled our souls 



With each new shiner or wee red perch; 



And when our fun, like the day, was done, 



And we heard the chorus the crickets 



sing, 

 We'd idly roam, through the twilight, 

 home, 

 Where mother waited to praise our 

 string. 



Oh, brother anglers, we've fought it out, 



By ocean's surges or mountain glen, 

 With lordly tarpon or gamy trout. 



Full many a time and oft since then ; 

 But the days of old were the days of gold, 



And never again that sport we'll match; 

 The care free joy of the happy boy, 



And the common fish that we used to 

 catch. 



