THE ITCHING HOUR. 



Midway between March first and Easter, 

 When it's time for the bee and the flower; 



Comes a pause in the grind everlasting, 

 It is known as the itching hour. 



I hear in the realm about me, 



A music that's soft and sweet; 

 It's the sound of a Clackamas eddy 



Where the silvery riffles meet. 



I see in the vision before me 



By the stream, where the fir trees tower, 

 A camp of Old Walton's disciples, 



It's on me — the itching hour. 



I'm unable to work in the morning, 



I'm unable to work in the night; 

 I can see nothing but fishpoles and fishhooks, 



My studyroom looks like a fright. 



I walk in my sleep in the night time, 



'Tho to rest I try with all power; 

 My appetite's left me forever, 



It 's got me — the itching hour. 



In puddles all over the pavement, 



The ''rainbow" are swimming about; 



Prom vegetable wagons and mail carts 

 The salmon come jumping out. 



My calabash looks like a great big gaff 



That could hook the old boy from his bower; 



Be good to me, "kids," I know I am bugs," 

 But I'm "down" with — the itching hour. 



The bathtub is covered with grampus, 



Grasshoppers jump under the bed; 

 Salmon eggs float over my coffee, 



At times I wish I was dead. 



Girls in their ears wear spoonhooks 



Too big for a shark to devour; 

 Their handbags are made out of fish heads: 



It's awful — this' itching hour. 



I'm trolling when lying in bed. 



And casting while walking the street; 



I see baskets of trout and big pack sacks 

 On every man that I meet. 



So I oil up my reels and fix up my flies, 

 And make ready my "kit" for a shower; 



I'm waiting to "beat it" long days in advance. 

 It's "s-o-m-e time" — this itching hour. 



BILLY DILLS. 



