| Whene'er a gentle shower falls
And lures the red worms from the soil A still, small voice from somewhere calls And bids me quit insipid toil. I want to take a line and hook, A can of wiggly, squirming bait, And mope off to the burbling brook Where hungry bullheads stand and wait. The green upon the gracefu1 elm, The red-bird singing in the tree, The tadpole as he ports his helm Are all of interest to me. This angling is a sport for kings, It beats baseball and mumbly pegs; It makes dull care sprout eagle wings And knocks the spavin from my legs. And as I hit the homeward route 'Tis sweet to think, at eventide, When I have yanked their innards out How nice those fish will be when fried. I like their flavor, it is true But if I do not get a bite, I feel most any way but blue As I go tramping home at night. For narrow is the soul of him Whose only concept of success Hangs on the proposition, slim, Of whether he can catch a mess. |
Verdigris Valley Verse
Albert Stroud
(Coffeyville, Kansas: The Journal Press. 1917)
Page 107
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