And ice the streamlet clogs,
  Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies
  And revel in the seedsmen’s catalogues! 
  What visions and what dreams are these
        Of cauliflower obese,—­
  Of giant celery, taller than a mast,—­
        Of strawberries
  Like red pincushions, round and vast,—­
      Of succulent and spicy gumbo,—­
      Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo,—­
      Of high-strung beans without the strings,—­
  And of a host of other wild, romantic things!

Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare
That modern habits mental force impair? 
And why should H. Marquand complain
That jokes as good as his will never come again? 
And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien
About the lack of fiction for his Magazine? 
The seedsman’s catalogue is all we need
To stir our dull imaginations
To new creations,
And lead us, by the hand
Of Hope, into a fairy-land.

So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will;
And let your fancy all your garners fill
With wondrous crops; but always recollect
That Nature gives us less than we expect. 
Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth
That, spent upon your farms, renews your health;
And tell your wife, whene’er the bills have shocked her,
“A country-place is cheaper than a doctor.” 
May roses bloom for you, and may you find
Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.

[Transcriber’s note:  “fertilizers” above was “fetilizers” in the original.]

ANGLER’S FIRESIDE SONG

  Oh, the angler’s path is a very merry way,
    And his road through the world is bright;
  For he lives with the laughing stream all day,
    And he lies by the fire at night.

        Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
        And likewise well-a-day! 
        The angler’s life is a very jolly life
        And that’s what the anglers say!

  Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game,
    And his creel may be full or light,
  But the tale that he tells will be just the same
    When he lies by the fire at night.

        Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
        And likewise well-a-day! 
        We love the fire and the music of the lyre,
        And that’s what the anglers say!

To the San Francisco Fly-Casting Club, April, 1913.

HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM

  I never seen no “red gods”; I dunno wot’s a “lure”;
  But if it’s sumpin’ takin’, then Spring has got it sure;
  An’ it doesn’t need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks,
  To make up guff about it, w’ile settin’ in their shacks.

  It’s sumpin’ very simple ’at happens in the Spring,
  But it changes all the lookin’s of every blessed thing;
  The buddin’ woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high,
  But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn’t tell ye why.