The Fishers.
By H. P. Nichols
Silence! stir not! for a whisper
Would affright thy pretty prey;
Not a motion, little lisper,
Else the fish will glide away.
Hush! he's coming! he is swimming
Slowly round and round the bait;
Steady! though thine eye is brimming
Full of mirth that will not wait.
And thy brother near thee kneeling
Fears to hear thy ringing shout;
Gently! near and nearer stealing
Comes the brightly spotted trout.
There! thy hook has caught him surely;
Firmly hold thy slender rod;
Pull away! and then securely
Place him on the grassy sod.
'Neath the green boughs rustling o'er you,
Fish away the livelong day;
And with evening's star before you,
Wander home at twilight gray.