Poems of the Rod and Gun: Or, Sports by Flood and Field |
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angler autumn BARNEGAT BAY bass bending billows bird black rhinoceros blackfish bloom blue bluefish boat breeze bright brook brooklet brown cast cat-tails channel bass cliff coast courser crystal crystal brook dark day-dawn deep deer doth drooping dusky fair feed fierce fish flash float flocks flowers foam forest glade gleam glow grand grass green grouper groves hath haunt herds hound hunter Indian lake land larvæ leap light lonely Long Island Sound meadows mountain night numbers o'er ocean pastures pinions plain plover plunge porpoise prey purple quail rifle ripples river roam roar rock rocky sands sandy savage savannas scene seas seek shade shadows shine shore skies skim slopes snow soaring soft spear sport spread stream sweep sweet swift swim thro tides trees trout upland vale vanish'd vast volleying gun water sleeps waters wave wild wing woodland woods yellow
Popular passages
Page 144 - And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more, till at last, amidst breathless silence and glistening eyes of the rough diggers hanging on his voice, out burst in that distant land his English song.
Page 187 - Longside his empty cup, A fish comes jerkin' at his rod An' always wakes him up ! — Frank L. Stanton. Printed in and permission from "The Atlanta Constitution." BLACK-BASS-FISHING IN WESTERN STREAMS In Western rivers dark and deep That flow thro' open prairie land, Past sandy bluff and wooded steep, Thro' solemn forests lone and grand, The dusky black bass float and swim, Or o'er the placid surface skim. In shallows of the river-reach Where rock and pebbles chafe the tide, Where o'er white gravel...
Page 180 - ... stood with this rod in hand. Then, where the dark eddies whirl'd. In the shadow of pine and yew, I cast my silken tackle, When this old rod was new. I knew that under the bank, Where deep was the pool scoop'd out, Then cautious and muffled my step, And skilful the cast that I threw, And glorious captive prizes When this old rod was new. And oft on the ocean border, Where the salt sea-surges beat, On weedy and slippery boulder, Have I stood my daring feet; And there from profound abysses The bass...
Page 184 - Tis a day that is perfect for sport with the lines, For artistic cast of the fly. Ah, haste to the shore, brother angler, to-day, On the weedy gray rock take your place, Where the surf, at its base, makes glorious race, And, like rainbows, glitters the spray! Cast your eye o'er the blue expanse of sea ; How lovely, how grand is the scene! The great rolling waves, now dusky, now green, Forever rejoicing and free. See the flash of the bluefish over the main, The gleam of the bright striped bass ! Then...
Page 102 - Our shore-line, iu their flight sublime. At first these swift fowl skim the cloud, And high in lessening circles sweep; Then slow to lonely bays descend, Glad to repose their wings in sleep. And so for passing weeks they haunt The inland marsh and muddy creek, Where in the shallows or the grass, Their pastime or their food they seek. Most shy, at midday they disport In ocean surf or ample bay; But when the evening shades pervade...
Page 183 - But when, with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace, We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox. From "Poems of Pleasure," WB Conkey Co., Chicago, 111. THE ANGLER'S CHANT Ah, the shriek of the reel, the trout-fisher's reel ! No sound is so sweet to the ear ; The hum of the line, the buzz of the wheel ! Where the crystalline brook runs so clear. Here's a shade on the stream where the willows bend down, Where the waters sleep drowsy and dim, And there...
Page 195 - Off where the slender light-house lifts, Like sheeted ghost, above the surge, Casting its warning flames at night Far to the dim horizon's verge, Round sunken reef and hidden rock Where shells and sands inlay the floor Of ocean, there the kingfish glide And the sea's secret worlds explore.
Page 30 - In the far-away northernmost wilds of Maine, Where the murmuring pines all the year complain, In the unknown Aroostook's lonesome world, Or where the waters of Moosehead are curl'd, The stalwart wood-cutter pitches his camp, In his cabin of logs trims his winter lamp; And oft when the moose-herd hath form'd its
Page 242 - Saltatrix) It is a brave, a royal sport, Trolling for bluefish o'er the seas; Fair skies and soaring gulls above, A steady blowing breeze ; A shapely yacht whose foaming prow The billowy plain divides, That like a gallant courser speeds Far, free o'er ocean tides. First from West India seas they came, Haunting the Cuban coast, Cruel as Spanish buccaneers, A fierce, rapacious host. But now by Northern seaboard shores Their murderous way they take, From Mexico Gulf to Labrador, Wherever billows break....
Page 99 - ... snatch'd my rifle they would seem To disappear, and melt away from sight. Then sudden from the dry dead leaves around I rais'da camp-fire that illum'd the woods, And caus'd how strange a change! The sombre shades Vanish'd away, and the rough boles of trees Thro' all their drooping foliage shone and smil'd In the blithe, cheerful radiance of my fire; So all the phantom spectres fled away. As in my hemlock camp I sank to rest, I felt secure in such companionship Of those red flames that seem'd...