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

No biography available

H. P. Nichols

What The Birds Say.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

Evening Hymn.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

The Wrong Story.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

Summer.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

English

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Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight!
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Oh, the fisherman is a happy man!
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On the far hill the cloud of thunder grew
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