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APRIL, 1906 





A SCOFFER CONVERTED 



BY LLOYD J. TOOLEY 



HE plants are awak- 

 ening and peeping 

 their delicate green 

 heads from under 

 the cover old 

 Mother Earth so 

 carefully put over 

 them but a few- 

 months ago. The 

 birds have re- 

 turned to their home haunts and are pro- 

 claiming in rapturous song the joy of their 

 homecoming. The gentle, sweet call of 

 the bluebird is mingled with the prattle of 

 the wren, and the half plaintive song of the 

 robin, as he sits on the topmost branch of 

 the tallest tree, swaying to and fro, calling, 

 as we have been taught to believe, for rain, 

 fills the air with melody. 



My heavy clothing becomes uncomfort- 

 able as I walk through the fields, and I long 

 to take off my shoes and stockings, as in 

 days gone by, to feel the velvety softness 

 of the fresh green grass and to dabble my 

 feet in the water and mud of the stream, 

 even though I know the icy chill has not yet 

 left it. 



It is spring. I know it, for the fever has 

 caught me. I have been at the stream for 

 many an hour, holding with aching arm and 

 benumbed hand my long cane pole, wearily 

 watching the tip for indications of a bite, 

 for I am so tired I could not feel it should 

 there happen to be one. 



The ground is soft and wet, not having 

 recovered from the icy grasp of winter; the 

 log on which I sit is damp and slippery; my 

 feet and, I dare say, other portions of my 

 anatomy, are uncomfortably wet. I know 

 I am catching cold, as I sit and think of the 

 many moods of the fishes, and I cannot help 

 but express to these fanciful nymphs of the 

 deep my candid opinion of their neglect. 



Gradually the fishing fever abates; I am 

 disgusted with fishing; have caught noth- 

 ing — have not even had a bite — and I go 

 home, vowing never to make such a "phool " 

 of myself again. 



But in a short time I forget all these dis- 

 comforts, and that delightful human or ani- 

 mal instinct, I care not which, is aroused in 

 me and I collect my scattered tackle again, 

 handling each piece lovingly and wondering 

 how I could ever be so thoughtless as to 



Copyright, 1906, by Wm. E. Annis. 



