And the night hawk wheels in his silent flight,
and the crickets draw their bow,
And the cat-tails wave in the gentle breeze,
and the boat glides on apace;
Then I reel in the line, while the bamboo rod
is laid away in its case.

The bass and the trout, and the wall-eyed pike,
the pickerel and muskalonge,
Have each and all been lost or won as I caused
them to race or plunge,
I'm the sportsman's friend, and a foeman bold,
and I've filled full many a creel;
For what would the fisherman's luck be worth
without the song of the reel?




[Illustration]

The Old Road


There is an old road that I love to follow. If one may judge by
appearances, it is but slightly used by travelers, for it seems to
lead nowhere, and is quite content in its wanderings, winding through
cañons, over hills, and down valleys. I am told by one who ought to
know--for he is an old resident--that if you follow its tortuous
course far enough, it will lead you to a town called Walnut Creek, but