| 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
Albert Stroud
(Coffeyville, Kansas: The Journal Press. 1917)
Page 22
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