The Fishers.

A poem by H. P. Nichols

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.

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