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A BIT OF GOOD LUCK
MAY 4th, 1898. — To-day, fishing down the Swiftwater, I found Joseph Jefferson on a big rock in the middle of the brook, casting the fly for trout. He said he had fished this very stream three-and-forty years ago. Leaf from my Diary.
W E met on Nature's stage,
And May had set the scene,
While the brook ran full between.
The waters rang your call,
With frolicsome waves a-twinkle, They'd known you as boy, and they knew you
as man, And every wave, as it merrily ran,
Cried, “ Enter Rip van Winkle!”
FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD
FURL your sail, my little boatie;
Here's the haven, still and deep, Where the dreaming tides, in-streaming,
Up the channel creep. See, the sunset breeze is dying; Hark, the plover, landward flying, Softly down the twilight crying; Come to anchor, little boatie,
In the port of Sleep.
Far away, my little boatie,
Roaring waves are white with foam; Ships are striving, onward driving,
Day and night they roam.
God protect him, little boatie,
Bring him safely home!
Not for you, my little boatie,
Is the wide and weary sea; You're too slender, and too tender,
You must rest with me. All day long you have been straying Up and down the shore and playing; Come to port, make no delaying!
Day is over, little boatie,
Night falls suddenly.
Furl your sail, my little boatie,
Fold your wings, my tired dove. Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling
Drowsily above. Cease from sailing, cease from rowing; Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing Safely o’er your rest are glowing,
All the night, my little boatie,
Harbour-lights of love.
THE ECHO IN THE HEART
IT'S little I can tell
About the birds in books;
When May comes down the lane,