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170 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Through serried pines the sunlight falls, Like grains of gold thro' emerald drifted,
And near, the cleft and towering walls Of ledge and cliff to heaven are lifted.
Soft winds blow down from ridge and grove
Where balsam boughs are gently swaying, And round a silvery beech above
Two heedless squirrels briskly playing. But now to work with rod and line,
And dainty flies on trusted leader; We'll take the first auspicious sign,
And cast below yon slanting cedar.
A gleam, a splash ! By George, he's fast!
A lusty fellow and how he rushes, Now here, now there, now swiftly past
A bend of fern, and alder-bushes ! The whistling line spins merrily out;
He leaps and flings a sparkling torrent Of crystals round, then wheels about
And heads straight up the foamy current!
Behind a boulder now he darts,
And now across to deep recesses Beneath a balmy bank, then starts
For sheltering beds of tangled cresses; But vain, all vain, subdued at last,
He yields and faintly gasps and flounders; 'Tis o'er—your sportive hour is past,
O royal prince of plump two-pounders !
Again with feathery touch the flies Dance lightly over pool and shallow, |
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