WHEN THE MUSE CUTS BAIT.

It was an honest fisherman, I knew him passing well; And he lived by a little pond, Within a little dell. A grave and quiet man was he, Who loved his hook and rod; So even ran his line of life, His neighbors thought it odd. For science and for books he said He never had a wish; No school to him was worth a fig Except a school of fish. In short, this honest fisherman All other toils forsook; And, though no vagrant man was he, He lived by hook and crook. He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth, Nor cared about a name; For, though much famed for fish was he, He never fished for fame. To charm the fish he never spoke, Although his voice was fine; He found the most convenient way Was just to drop a line! And many a gudgeon of the pond, If made to speak to-day, Would own, with grief, the angler had A mighty taking way! One day, while fishing on a log, He mourned his want of luck— When, suddenly, he felt a bite, And, jerking—caught a duck! Alas! that day this fisherman Had taken too much grog; And, being but a landsman, too, He couldn't keep the log! 'Twas all in vain, with might and main, He strove to reach the shore; Down, down he went to feed the fish He'd baited oft before! The jury gave their verdict that 'Twas nothing else but gin That caused the fisherman to be So sadly taken in. Though one stood out upon a whim, And said the angler's slaughter— To be exact about the fact— Was clearly gin-and-water! The moral of this mournful tale To all is plain and clear— That drinking habits bring a man Too often to his bier. And he who scorns to "take the pledge," And keep the promise fast, May be, in spite of fate, a stiff Cold-water man at last!

Oh, the shriek of the reel, the trout-fisher's-reel! No sound is so sweet to the ear; The hum of the line, the buzz of the wheel! Where the crystalline brook runs so clear. Here's a shade on the stream, where the willows bend down, Where the waters sleep drowsy and dim, And there where the ripples whirl amber and brown, The lords of the rivulet swim. Then fling the light tackle with delicate cast, Let your fly like a cobweb alight, A dash and a splash and the victim's fast, While your reel sings a song of delight. See, yonder a green-moss'd boulder enchecks The stress of the turbulent tides, And there amid bubbles and foam-bell flecks The gold-spotted brook-trout hides. The sweet breezes blow, the morning sun shines, The white clouds drift slow down the sky; 'Tis a day that is perfect for sport with the lines, For artistic cast of the fly. Ah, haste to the shore, brother angler, to-day, On the weedy, gray rock take your place, Where the surf, at its base, makes glorious race, And, like rainbows, glitters the spray. Cast your eye o'er the blue expanses of sea; How lovely, how grand is the scene! The great rolling waves, now dusky, now green, Forever rejoicing and free. See the flash of the bluefish over the main, The gleam of the bright striped bass! Then the braided line fling, let the reel hum its strain, And so the gay moments shall pass.

A fish sat him down with a blink to think, And dipped his fin thoughtfully into the ink; Then finned this short note: "Dear Tommy," he wrote, "In response to your line of the other day I hasten to thank you without delay. But had not that squirming, delicious young worm Shown a set in his curves too suspiciously firm, I might not be here To write you, my dear (What you may not believe, 'tis so monstrously queer), That the wriggler you sent With most kindly intent Had swallowed a pin that was frightfully bent! "You see—if I'd greedily taken a bite, The pain and the shock would have finished me quite; So, the next time you send, My juvenile friend, Just mark if the worm has a natural bend Ere you dangle him temptingly down here to be The death of some innocent young thing like me." And he grinned as he used some dry sand for a blotter (Ink dries rather slowly, you know, under water), Then signed it in haste And sealed it with paste. It was growing quite dark and he's no time to waste, So he posted it slyly, without wasting more, On the crest of a ripple that ran toward shore; Then, shaking his scales in a satisfied glow, All shining and shimmering, sank down below, Where he soon fell asleep In an oyster bed deep, With the green sheets of water his slumber to keep. St. Nicholas.

Three fishers went strolling away to the stream, To the babbling brook where the fishes swim. Of speckled beauties they all did dream, And each felt certain they'd bite for him. For men will tramp from morning till night, And suffer the fierce mosquito's bite, And drink to stop their groaning. Three fishers strolled into the market-place, 'Twas some two hours after the sun went down, And a look of gloom was on each man's face, For at empty baskets they each did frown, For men may fish, but may get no bite, And tired and hungry go home at night, And vent their wrath in groaning. Three fishers strolled into the beer saloon, Where the crowd sat round and the gas was bright, And each gaily whistled a merry tune, And showed his fish with assumed delight, For men will fish, yea, and men will lie, And boast of catching the fish they buy, While inwardly they're groaning.