Fishing.
By George Augustus Baker, Jr.
"Harry, where have you been all morning?"
"Down at the pool in the meadow-brook."
"Fishing?" "Yes, but the trout were wary,
Couldn't induce them to take a hook."
"Why, look at your coat! You must have fallen,
Your back's just covered with leaves and moss."
How he laughs! Good-natured fellow!
Fisherman's luck makes most men cross.
"Nellie, the Wrights have called. Where were you?"
"Under the tree, by the meadow-brook
Reading, and oh, it was too lovely;
I never saw such a charming book."
The charming book must have pleased her, truly,
There's a happy light in her bright young eyes
And she hugs the cat with unusual fervor,
To staid old Tabby's intense surprise.
Reading? yes, but not from a novel.
Fishing! truly, but not with a rod.
The line is idle, the book neglected
The water-grasses whisper and nod.
The fisherman bold and the earnest reader
Sit talking of what? Perhaps the weather.
Perhaps no matter whate'er the subject,
It brings them remarkably close together.
It causes his words to be softly spoken,
With many a lingering pause between,
The while the sunbeams chase the shadows
Over the mosses, gray and green.
Blushes are needful for its discussion,
And soft, shy glances from downcast eyes,
In whose blue depths are lying hidden
Loving gladness, and sweet surprise.
Trinity Chapel is gay this evening,
Filled with beauty, and flowers, and light,
A captive fisherman stands at the altar,
With Nellie beside him all in white.
The ring is on, the vows are spoken,
And smiling friends, good fortune wishing,
Tell him his is the fairest prize
Ever brought from a morning's fishing.