THE GREAT 
Nee me 
TROUT. 
HENRY CROCKER, 
A versification of the trout story, 
entitled 
“Crocker’s Hole,” by R. D. Blackmore, 
by the Doones.”’ 
The trout stream, winding through the 
mead, 
With shallow current flows, 
A ribbon blue, with broidered cdge 
Of fern and crimson rese; 
Till, deepening where the banks approach, 
Above a ledgy slide, 
It runs,-a laughing, foaming flood, 
A swift, tumultuous tide. 
Then where an ancient alder tree 
Inclines above the stream 
It turns, and lapses into calm, 
As placid as a dream. 
There in a pool, secluded, deep, 
A cool and shady nook, 
Once lived the largest, lustiest trout 
That ever scorned a hook. 
Where first the noisy current meets 
The quiet from below, 
He held position dignified, 
With motion calm and slow. 
But only angler’s vision keen 
Could see the tempting prize; 
The moving, bending waters blind 
All unaccustomed eyes. 
A little younker I was then, 
Too small to cast a fly; 
I fished with pins for little fins 
Not large enough to fry. 
John Pike, a burly, blue eyed boy, 
I followed all about; 
He went a-fishing every day 
And Sundays thought of trout. 
“Come .now and look into the brook,” 
One day John said to me; 
“Don’t hurry, stupid child, kneel down 
And tell me what you see.” 
The sparkling waters blind my sight; 
The wavelets twinkle so, 
I see the flashing crystals dance, 
But nothing down below. 
When suddenly a May fly comes, 
A gray drake, rich and gay, 
With dart and leap above the pool 
Begins a game of play; 
Rising and falling like a gnat, 
Thrilling her gauzy wing, 
And arching her pellucid frame, 
A truly luscious thing. 
“He sees! He'll have her sure’s a gun!” 
Cries John, with gulp of glee; 
“Now can’t you see him, simple one,” 
“If not what can you see?” 
“Crickety Crocums!” I exclaim, 
With classic language free, 
349 
“I’ve seen that thing a long time back,” 
“But thought it was a tree.” 
“You little gump! Don’t stir a peg” 
And see him take that fly.” 
Swoop comes a swallow as we gaze, 
But missing, glances by: 
By wind of flight, or skirr of wing 
He struck the dancer brave, 
And falling, for an instant brief 
It flutters on the wave. 
Then swallow—swift, but far more true, 
The great trout makes one spring, 
And quick as lightning, out of sight 
Has snapped the shining thing. 
Sound deeper than a tinkling stroke 
But silvery as a bell, 
Rings through the leafy arches now 
‘The poor ephemerid’s knell! 
The waters scarcely show a break, 
Save a bubble sailing nice; 
And softly echoing woods prolong 
The music of a rise. 
“He’s shown me how he takes a fly,” 
Says John, “and he shall rue it.” 
Have him I must and will, and now 
The question’s how to do it. 
John Pike, a genuine fisherman, 
Can think of nothing now 
Except that mammoth handsome trout 
Beneath the alder bough. 
With calm absorption of high minds, 
Intent on timely flies, 
With cobbler’s wax, and flossy silk, 
Creation’s art he tries. 
As poet labors at his lines, 
Compressing thoughts of joy 
Into the compass of few words, 
So toils the patient boy 
About the fabric of a fly, 
Comprising all the grace 
That ever sprang from maggot foul 
Into a fairy race. 
When of the spring and summer fair 
The honeymoon draws near, 
Marked by the budding of the rose, 
The burst of bright wheat ear. 
The feathering of the plantain plume, 
And flowers in meadows sweet, 
And, foremost, for the angler’s joy, 
The waltzing May flies meet, 
The rivers should be warm and mild, 
Skies blue and fleecy white, 
The west wind blowing soft and low, 
Trout hungry for a bite. 
in “Slain 
