CALLING. 



A. L. VERMILYA. 



When the corn is turning yellow on the 

 hillside, 

 And the autumn breeze sweeps soft o'er 

 hill and dale ; 

 When the sun looks red and hazy in the 

 distance, 

 And there sounds the cheerful whistle of 

 the quail ; 

 Then I think of pleasant valleys in the 

 wildwood 

 Where the ruffed grouse drums, and rab- 

 bits leap and play ; 



While my gun upon the wall 

 Seems to beckon, nod, and call, 

 Saying, "Take me, man of toil, and hie 

 away." 



And my thoughts turn back to scenes of 

 sunny childhood; 

 To the river's shallows where I loved to 

 wade, 

 To the woods where with my ashen bow I 

 hunted, 

 Or the fleeing squirrel followed through 

 the glade. 

 Then my dim lit office suddenly grows hate- 

 ful, 

 All the old, familiar objects seem to 

 change, 

 As there fall upon my ear 

 Voices faint, though pure and clear, 

 From the tree-clad hills where once I used 

 to range. 



And I hear no more the city's roar and 

 rumble, 

 See no longer miles of pavement stretch 

 away; 

 O'er the fields and through the thickets 

 now I'm roaming, 

 Where the song of birds makes merry all 

 the day. 

 In its case my pliant fishing rod is standing, 

 And its voice comes like the echoes of a 

 dream — 



"In the woods where waters wide 

 O'er the rocks and sandbars glide, 

 Yellow leaves are softly falling in the 

 stream." 



Yes, the woods and streams are calling, 

 calling, calling, 

 Their seductive voices I can not with- 

 stand ; 

 I will leave my dingy office in the city; 

 I will live awhile with Nature pure and 

 grand ; 

 For when autumn spreads its glories o'er 

 the landscape, 

 And the Indian summer comes, with 

 zephyrs cool, 



It is good to leave the town 

 For the woods and meadows 

 brown, 

 And review our fading lore in Nature's 

 school. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY PAUL W. GARDNER. 



SUSQUEHANNA FISHERMEN. 

 Taken with Manhattan Gem Camera. 



177 



