Close by the edge of the lily pads,
      there’s a flash and swirl of spray,
  And the line draws taut, and the rod dips
      low, and I sing as he speeds away;
  And I whir and click with the joy of life, as
      the line runs in and out,
  And I laugh with glee as I reel him in, the
      gamy and speckled trout.

  And again the silken line is cast, and the fly
      like a feather glides,
  Close to the rock where the water’s deep, and
      the wary black bass hides. 
  There’s a strike and a run as the game is
      hooked, and his rush with a snub is met,
  But he yields at last to the steady strain, and
      is brought to the landing net.

  As the sun sinks low in the western sky, and
      the shadows longer grow,
  And the night hawk wheels in his silent flight,
      and the crickets draw their bow,
  And the cat-tails wave in the gentle breeze,
      and the boat glides on apace;
  Then I reel in the line, while the bamboo rod
      is laid away in its case.

  The bass and the trout, and the wall-eyed pike,
      the pickerel and muskalonge,
  Have each and all been lost or won as I caused
      them to race or plunge,
  I’m the sportsman’s friend, and a foeman bold,
      and I’ve filled full many a creel;
  For what would the fisherman’s luck be worth
      without the song of the reel?

[Illustration]

The Old Road

There is an old road that I love to follow.  If one may judge by appearances, it is but slightly used by travelers, for it seems to lead nowhere, and is quite content in its wanderings, winding through canons, over hills, and down valleys.  I am told by one who ought to know—­for he is an old resident—­that if you follow its tortuous course far enough, it will lead you to a town called Walnut Creek, but I cannot vouch for the truth of this assertion, as I have never found a town or hamlet along its winding course.  In fact, I remember but one place of abode along its entire length, and this, a weather-beaten cottage nearly hidden by the pepper and acacia trees that surround it.

It is a quaint little place, and might have inspired the poet to write that beautiful poem containing the lines,

   Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
     And be a friend to man,

for the cooling draught passed out to me one hot afternoon from this house would certainly class the occupant as a benefactor.

The dew was sparkling on the grass when I set out in the early morning, gossamer spider webs strung from leaf and stem glistened in the sunlight, and up from a tuft of grass a meadow lark sprang on silent wing, scattering his silvery notes, a paean of praise to the early dawn.

A bluebird’s notes blend with those of the song sparrow, and a robin swinging on the topmost branch of a eucalyptus, after a few short notes as a prelude, pours forth a perfect rhapsody of melody.