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MAY 4m, 1898. — To-day, fishing dawn the Sswiftwater, 1 found joseph jeffcrson 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 Dim-y.
WE met on Nature’s stage,
And May had set the scene,
With bishop-caps standing in delicate ranks,
And violets blossoming over the banks,
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
And every wave, as it merrily ran,
Cried, “ Enter Rip van Winkle l ”
:oR THE FISHERMAN’S CHILD
URL 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.
Father ’s at the deep-sea trawling,
In the darkness, rowing, hauling,
While the hungry winds are calling, --
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
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.
IT ’5 little I can tell
About the birds in books;
And yet I know them well,
By their music and their looks:
When May comes down the lane,
Her airy lovers throng
To welcome her with song,
And follow in her train:
Each minstrel weaves his part
In that wild-flowery strain,
And I know them all again
By their echo in my heart.