|My Papa takes some hooks an' string
An' goes a-fishin' ever' spring;
He gits some hoppers, bugs an' worms
An' things 'at creeps an' bites and squirms___
One crawled at me an' I was skeered,
But Pa, he aint a bit afeared.
He takes a box o' dirt or sand
And puts 'em in it with his hand.
Pa gets hisself a long, straight stick
An' hunts a place down by the crick
An' there he sets till nearly night
But hardly ever gits a bite.
One day I said to him I wish
'At he would catch a great, big fish.
Jest then his bobber bobbed around
And wiggle-waggled up and down,
But when he jerked it all he had
Was jest a ugly ol' craw-dad.
Another time he give a yank
An' lammed a catfish on the bank;
It tried its best to get back in
An' horned my Papa with its fin,
But still he helt it through the jaw
An' took a little piece o' straw
An' stuck it right into its head,
For that's the way to make 'em dead.
We took it home and skinned it nice
An' put it on some salt and ice.
That night I et a great big piece
'At Mama fried in bacon grease.
Verdigris Valley Verse
(Coffeyville, Kansas: The Journal Press. 1917)