By Eunice B Lamberton
Give me a rod of the split bamboo, a rainy day and a fly or two, a mountain stream where the eddies play, and mists hang low o'er the winding way,
Give me a haunt by the furling brook, A hidden spot in a mossy nook, No sound save hum of the drowsy bee, or lone bird's tap on the hollow tree.
The world may roll with its busy throng, And phantom scenes on it's way along, its stocks may rise, or its stocks may fall, Ah! What care I for its baubles all?
I cast my fly o'er the troubled rill, Luring the beauties by magic skill, With mind at rest and a heart at ease, And drink delight at the balmy breeze.
A lusty trout to my glad surprise, Speckled and bright on the crest arise, Then splash and plunge in a dazzling whirl, Hope springs anew as the wavelets curl.
Gracefully swinging from left to right, Action so gentle- motion so slight, Tempting, enticing, on craft intent, Till yielding tip by the game is bent.
Drawing in slowly, then letting go, Under the ripples where mosses grow, Doubting my fortune, lost in a dream, Blessing the land of forest and stream.