FOREST AND STREAM 
285 
When I Went Fishing With Dad 
By Mary E. Vandyne, in Boston Transcript 
When I was a boy—I’m an old man now; 
Look at the lines across ray brow; 
Old Time has furrowed them there. 
My back is bent and my eyes are dim; 
lie has placed his finger on every limb, 
And pulled out most of my hair. 
But if life has reached December, 
I'm not too old to remember 
When I went fishing with dad. 
We would each of us shoulder his part of the load 
And joyfully start along the road— 
But dad’s was the heaviest share. 
Out of the village about a mile, 
Over a meadow, across a stile, 
And then we were almost there. 
Dear old brook, I can see it still, 
The mossy bank and the old gray mill, 
Where I went fishing with dad. 
For I eagerly listened to every word 
And then among men of whom I heard 
How I longed to play a part! 
What wonderful dreams of the future came, 
What visions of wealth and an honored name, 
To fill my boyish heart! 
There is no dream like the old dream, 
There is no stream like the old stream 
Where I went fishing with dad. 
Then back again to our sport we'd go, 
And fish till the sunset’s crimson glow 
Lit up the dying day; 
Then dad would call to me, “Jim, we’ll stop; 
The basket is full to the very top; 
It’s time we were on our way.” 
There are no ways like the old ways, 
There are no days like the old days 
When I went fishing with dad. 
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We would wander about for a little space 
To find the cosiest, shadiest place, 
Before we went to work. 
Then dad would arrange his rod and line; 
And tell me just how to manage mine 
When the fish began to jerk. 
If I only could feel as I used to then! 
If the days could only come back again, 
When I went fishing with dad. 
We armed our hooks with the wriggling bait, 
Then seated ourselves on the bank to wait 
And see if the fish would bite. 
Sometimes they would only take a look, 
As if they thought there might be a hook, 
But couldn’t ibe certain quite. 
There was one old perch that I used to think 
Would always look at the -line and wink, 
When I went fishing with dad. 
And so we fished till the sun was high, 
And the morning hours were all gone by, 
And the village clock struck one. 
“I am hungry, Jim,” then dad would say: 
“Let’s give the fishes a chance to play 
Until our lunch is done.” 
Oh, nothing has ever tasted so sweet 
As the big sandwiches I used to eat 
When I went fishing with dad. 
Then dad and I would lie on the grass 
And wait for the heat of the day to pass; 
How happy I used to feel! 
And what wonderful stories he would tell 
To the eager boy that he loved so well. 
After our mid-day meal! 
And how I would nestle close to his side 
To hear of the world so big and wide, 
When I went fishing with dad. 
Then we took our way through the meadow-land, 
And I clung so tight to his wrinkled hand. 
As happy as I could be. 
And when the old house came in sight, 
The smile on his old face grew so bright 
As he looked down at me. 
And no one smiles as he used to smile; 
And, oh, it seems such a long, long while 
Since I went fishing with dad. 
It is ’way, ’way back in the weary years 
That with aching heart and falling tears 
I watched dad go away. 
His aged head lay on my breast 
When the angels called him home to rest— 
He was too old to stay. 
And I dug a grave ’neath tne very sod 
That my boyish feet so often trod 
When I went fishing with dad. 
The world has given me wealth and fame, 
fulfilled my dreams of an honored name, 
And now I am weak and old; 
The land is mine wherever I look; 
I can catch my fish with a silver hook; 
But my days are almost told. 
Uncheered by the love of child or wife, 
I would spend the end of my lonely life 
Where I went fishing with dad. 
My limbs are weary, my eyes are dim; 
I shall tell them to lay me close by him, 
Whenever I come to die: 
And side by side, it will be my wish. 
That there by the stream where they used to fish, 
They will let the old men lie. 
Close by him I would like to be. 
Buried beneath the old oak tree. 
Where 1 sat and fished with dad. 
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