The Fishers.

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.

H. P. Nichols

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H. P. Nichols

New Year.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

The Spider.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

God Loves Us.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

Twilight.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

English

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One morning when Spring was in her teens,
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Fishing.

        "Harry, where have you been all morning?"
            "Down at the pool in the meadow-brook."
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Fisherman's Chant, The

Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight!
He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night.
He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay,
He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day.
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Oh, the fisherman is a happy man!
He dibbles, and sniggles, and fills his can!
With a sharpened hook, and a sharper eye,
He sniggles and dibbles for what comes by,
    Oh, who so merry as he!
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Dibbling
Nibbling
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On the far hill the cloud of thunder grew
And sunlight blurred below; but sultry blue
Burned yet on the valley water where it hoards
Behind the miller's elmen floodgate boards,
And there the wasps, that lodge them ill-concealed
In the vole's empty house, still drove afield
To plunder touchwood from old crippled trees
And build their young ones their hutched nurseries;
Still creaked the grasshoppers' rasping unison
Nor had the whisper through the tansies run
Nor weather-wisest bird gone home.
                How then
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To the deep-shadowed sullen water-hole,
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In early days, when streams ran pure,
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Unchok'd by sawmill dust, or logs,
Or any other thing,

Each river, creek and rill ran on,
So pure, and free, and bright,
That through the gloomy shades, they shed
A cheerful, happy light.

The finny tribes, of varied kinds,
Ran swiftly to and fro,
And with most swift and graceful dart,
The speckl'd trout did go.

So swift to dash, and quick to see,
He caught the fatal fly,
Before less active fishes had
E'en turn'd to it their eye;

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At once, or not at all,
He caught the tempting bait he saw
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