lilARCH 23, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
371 
Half a Loaf 
By CARITA LEMMON 
S EE the robins these clays? Hear the crows 
cawing as they fly over? Yes, there’s 
snow around, but the drifts have sagged 
and there's a thank-goodness-that-job's-done 
look about them. There are big bare patches 
of ground; and the sun is strong enough to keep 
you warm if you want to loaf, that is, if you 
have time to, under the lee of the cliffs. The 
Hudson down there still wears the grimness of 
winter, but the shore ice is honeycombed and 
the floes out beyond are waterlogged, ready to 
crumble. There are not many of them in sight 
just now, the tide is up and the gulls are wheel¬ 
ing idly, waiting for the ebb. Let’s unlimber 
the glasses and see whether those are young- 
gulls or ducks down there. Gulls. There are 
ducks here all winter, though, old squaws, I 
think. 
Sun feels good, doesn't it? Look at it shim¬ 
mer- on the water where—by George, there's a 
canoe! Somebody else has spring fever. Going 
to fool around the Jersey shore awhile I sup¬ 
pose. He hasn’t any too much time, either; the 
tide will turn soon and the ice that will come 
with it won’t all be rotten. I guess be’s thought 
about that, though; he’s probably one of those 
lucky devils that spend half the summer nosing 
round Canadian headwaters. 
Ah^yah! why does a man have to work! Why 
not just float along like that ice does, for ex¬ 
ample, easy and not having to wonder about 
getting a raise. My, the sun feels good! See 
the fellow circumnavigate that baby iceberg. 
You're all right, old man; hold her back a 
little now—that’s right. Guess that block came 
from way up the river somewhere, Esopus may¬ 
be. S-a-y. I must go home and get busy with 
that five-ounce rod. Got to scrape it, rebind it, 
and varnish it again before the first. 
Fishing Fever. 
Symptom one—a lazy feeling 
Through the bones and body stealing. 
Symptom two—a sorty of pity 
For yourself penned in the city, 
t\’hen the good green world’s inviting 
Out of doors, and fish are biting. 
Symptom three—the same old lazy, 
Yawny feeling; sets you crazy. 
Buried deep in life’s distractions— 
Ledger, daybook, bills and fractions— 
When you know the crick is fine 
And you’re dreamin’ hook and line. 
Symptom four—the same thing over; 
Stretch a while, then smellin’ clover. 
Thinkin’ catkins, swaying glossy. 
And of ferny banks and mossy. 
Where the river sings and shimmers 
And the warm spring' sunshine glimmers. 
Symptom five — just like the others; 
Oh, it’s fishing time, my brothers. 
When the fever, all a-sudden. 
Makes us think of lilacs huddin' 
And the heart turns back to boyhood, 
With its honeyed days of joyhood. 
Fishing fever comes so funny 
That we say; W’ho cares for m nity? 
Let’s put off our cares and sorrow 
And our 'nusiness till to-morrow; 
Can’t w'ork, now'how, with this feelin’ 
Through the heart and spirit stealin'. 
That’s the fever — sure’s you’re born; 
Walks right in to you at morn; 
Makes you w'ant to throw your hat up 
And to rip the whole blamed flat up. 
Hunting tackle, rod and line; 
Can’t resist it—ain’t it fine? 
Don’t resist it. Better catch it. 
Nothin’ in the w'orld can match it 
For old dow'nright purifyin". 
Are you ready? Let’s away. 
Back to boyhood land to-day. 
— Baltimore Sun. 
The Cats that Got Away. 
EY E. P. ROBINSON. 
I’ve fished in old Ohio 
When a freckled, barefoot boy. 
Pulled “cats” from a hole 
With a hickory pole. 
And carried them home with joy; 
But of all the cats, large or small, 
I hooked in that bygone day, 
The cats I wanted most of all 
Were the ones that got away. 
UNDER THE LEE OF THE CLIFFS. 
THE SHINING RIVER. 
