ANGLING IN THE PLATTE

On a log beside the Platte, With my tackle and my basket, Sitting where I long have sat, I am fishing! Should you ask it? Idling,—dreaming time away! Thinking many happy thoughts to-day. Fleeting moments never heeding, While the hungry fishes feeding, Still I watch and still I wait; Let the minnows steal my bait! Mine—mine is the pleasure and repose— That the never-fretting, catch-forgetting, gladness netting angler only knows. Tired worker—up! away! Leave thy labors for a day. At the river life is sweet; At the river we shall meet. Rest and play! Rejoice and be gay! Recreation has its season. Put thy cark and care away, (Death from over-work to-day is clearly out of reason!) Comrade,—cheerless comrade, break thy bondage and be free; Nature’s self will welcome thee; Countless blessings she can give, Come with nature, then, and live. Nodding, nodding, napping by the brook, With no bait upon my hook; Dreaming dreams of summer sweet. While the ripples kiss my feet. While the wind blows through my hair, Know I not an earthly care. Oh, the restful, rapturous repose That the care-dispelling, mirth-compelling, sometimes story-telling, always joyful angler only knows. On a log beside the Platte, With my tackle and my basket, Sitting where I long have sat;— Am I fishing?—can you—really can you ask it?