350 RECREATION: 
On such a day, with thumping heart, 
John ventured near the brook, 
A Yellow Sally, true to life, 
A-dangling at his hook. 
It fluttered gaily on the breeze 
In such a lifelike guise 
A sister Sally came to see, 
And went away more wise. 
Up through the branches on the brink 
With Zulu skill John trod, 
To where a yard-wide opening gave 
Just room for spring of rod. 
Below John saw the friendly fish 
Swaying his tail about, 
As men who, dining with a lord, 
Their restless coat tails flout. 
With dextrous twirl, untaught by books, 
John laid his pretty fly 
As lightly as a gossamer 
Before the great trout’s eye. 
Without a pause, as quick as thought, 
The thing that happened came: 
A heavy plunge, a fearful rush 
And then began the game. 
The river’s current ridged as if 
A plow was driven below; 
The reel set up a lively song; 
The rod bent like a bow; 
Twanging like a harp string tense 
The strong line cut the brook. 
Snap goes the foolish hollow rod! 
The trout is cff the hook! 
“Bad luck,” cries disappointed John; 
“But never mind, old trout, 
Just take it easy for awhile, 
Next time I'll have you out.” 
The genuine angler’s mind is large: 
*Tis steadfast, finely poised; 
It heeds no more a vapid taunt 
Than wind or idle noise. 
In mocking tones the people cried, 
“Pike, have you caught him yet?” 
And Pike but answered patiently: 
“O you just wait a bit.” 
He made himself a splice rod, short, 
Well seasoned, stout and handy, 
With tapering tip of fine bamboo, 
Well balanced, just a dandy. - 
“Now break it if you can,” said he, 
“By any sort of trick, 
“Whatever other game you play, 
You cannot break this stick.” 
He made besides a landing net, 
Of stick, a wire ring, 
A netted bag with meshes fine, 
Of strongest cotton string. 
About the second week in June, 
May flies had danced their day, 
The wounded trout had ceased to pout, 
And ventured out to play. 
Then came a gentle rain by night 
With pleasant tinkling sound, 
Pattering among the tender leaves, 
And moistening all the ground. 
Then John come whispering to me, 
Hard panting from a run, 
“Now when the water’s clear, my boy, 
There’s going to be some fun.” 
All lovers of the rose know well 
A beetle bright and gay, 
That joys among the petals deep 
To hide himself away, 
Until some breezy waft reveals 
His back of emerald hue, 
And all his front, red Indian gold, 
And white spots peeping through. 
John with his finger and his thumb 
The sparkling vandal took, 
And offered him a change of joys 
Upon a limerick hook. 
He liked it not, but pawed the air, 
His bright wings vainly flew. 
Said John, “If he but works like that 
When in the brook, he’ll do.” 
Then calm, deliberate, self-possessed, 
And free from trembling nerve, 
John stepped upon an alder bough 
His tempting bait to serve. 
The pretty beetle on the waves 
Conunenced a lively tread, 
More active far than when ensconsed 
Within the roseleaf bed. 
To hungry fish it seemed quite sad 
To see the fair thing drown, 
And mercy, if not appetite, 
Suggested, “Gulp him down.” 
“lve hooked him in the gullet, sure!” 
Cried John, in accents plain. 
“Now then, if I don’t land you, sir, 
T’ll never fish again.” 
With rod in bowlike springel rise, 
And line like viol string, 
Winch galloping like harpoon wheel; 
Brave John rules everything. 
He dashes in through thick and thin, 
Now in the stream, now out; 
Towed by the fish from pool to pool, 
A desperate, scrambling rout. 
I tell you, for it comes again, 
As if ’twere yesterday, 
I was so scared it seemed my wits 
Were everyone away. 
I hollaed; but this thing I did, 
As if my nerves were steady; 
I followed close on John Pike’s heels 
And held that scoop net ready. 
“He’s well nigh spent, I do believe,” 
Said John, with voice like balm. 
We'd reached the meadow, far below, 
On Farmer Annings’ farm. 
“Now take it coolly, my dear boy, 
And bring the landing net. 
If he gets on another rush, 
I fear we'll lose him yet.” 
