m LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 015 908 764 5(5^ LJ--11: r-^w Copyright 1913 by T. H. KENDALL All Rights Reserved Published by The Hop^ood Press Aurora, Illinois CONTENTS FISHIN' FEVEH i. (Symptoms) WHEN THE MIGHTY MUSKY RUSHES 2. FORGET ME NOT 3. BUT ONLY FISHERMEN WILL UNDERSTAND 4. THE LURE O' THE LINE 5. CAUSALITY 7. THE CALL 8. THAT PISCATORIAL MICROBE 9. ON THE BANKS OF THE FOX 10. BECAUSE 1 1 . MY SORT O' LASS 12. MY CHRISTMAS TIE 13. MY NEIGHBOR'S CHURCH 14. THE WASTED DAY 15. THE LURE O' THE LLWE FISHIN' FEVEH (Symptoms) Wen de win blows wahm out ob de souf wes An de sod am springy lak undeh yo feet — Wen yo soul am full ob a nameless unres Lak a pup wat is had to much to eat; Wen yo get out yo tackle an men up yo poles An take de ole fishin line offn de reel, Wen yo try on yo boots des a lookin fo holes Oh \ordy ah knows ;es how yo feel En why yo is lookin sad. Ef yo yeorn to be settin on de banks ob de Fox Wen de trees am pink wif crabapple bloom. An de shiny ole tuttles am sunnin on de rocks, An de sof win am sweet wif springtime perfume Wen de willow tree nods to hitself in de stream An yo turn ober stones a lookin fo bait Ef yo long foh de ripple de tinkle and de gleam An don care to talk but just meditate Yo is gittin dat feveh had. Page 1 By T. H. KENDALL WHEN THE MIGHTY MUSKY RUSHES I have felt exhiliration in the auto's lightning rush, Evading limitations and the law. I have felt my pulses quicken when I filled a bob-tail flush, Having raised the ante just before the draw. I have let the perspiration run down my smiling face As I cashed a winning ticket on a doubtful trotting race. But the finest of sensations, and one I love to feel Is of a cloudy afternoon in June To have my nerves set tinkling by the clicking of my reel When the Mighty Musky rushes with my spoon. I have even grown inflated o'er a pretty double shot, And split my thorax o'er a football scene. I have held the sheet or tiller on a winning racing yacht, And been capsized in waters rough and green. I have watched the market flutter like a sorely wounded bird. While my heart-beats and the ticker were the only sounds I heard. But the essence of sensations, like the fruit beneath the peel Is of a breezy afternoon in June, To have my blood set dancing by the music of my reel. When the Mighty Musky rushes with my spoon. With muscles tense and ready I firmly grasp my pole, I forget the rocking boat in which I stand. I forget my wife's relation, the salvation of my soul. My debts, my duties, and my native land. Cold chills of apprehension go up and down my spine, And I wonder at my folly in selecting such a line. 'Tis the limit of the pleasure I have traveled miles to feel On this cloudy, breezy afternoon in June. When my heart is set to pounding by the protest of my reel, As the Mighty Musky rushes with my spoon. /^a^' THE LIAE THE LURE O' THE LINE The Start A tackle-book, a look, a hook. Business pursuits again forsook; A pole, a goal, a fishing hole, A medicine for weary soul And stomach aches; A can of bait, a friend sedate, Who for a bite Vv'ill wait and wait. And wait and wait and wait; A reel, a meal packed in the creel And medicine, in case you feel Afraid of shakes. Up and away at break of day. With coffee and a sinker say And faithful pipe. The glad wheels roll. Oh bliss of soul. Oh sweet content and briar bowl. The reins you seize between your knees. And hold them with a vigorous squeeze And strike a light, II The Tragedy The spot is spied, the horse is tied, The lines slipped through each waiting guide. Oh happy day; The friend sedate looks for the bait. And most explosively doth state "That hell's to pay"; With efforts vain he looks again, Upon his face a dawning pain. Oh fate unkind, In spite of snakes and stomach aches. And other risks a fellow takes The bait was left behind; The river smiles, sings and beguiles Along its willowy winding miles Of hungry fishes; But without bait those fish must wait Until you find an open gate, For your vain wishes. You do not stint your words or hint At things this booklet would not print In any column; So rod in hand we let you stand While friend sedate is being damned And feeling solemn. Page 5 Bv T. //. KENDALL III The Catcii Fresh bait is found by case and pound. And dug from rich, salubrious ground. Oh fears unfounded. But man is prone to kick and groan And swear that he, and he alone Is being pounded; As oft before you wade from shore. Along the river's slippery floor; Oh moment thrilling, You slide and slip but make the trip With waders fastened at the hip, And slowly filling. Oh river grass and tiger bass And dreams that linger loathe to pass, Dreams of a whopper; Your friend sedate pulls out the bait, And winking like a candidate Removes the stopper; Deep in the stream you catch a gleam And hear your reel protest and scream, You see a mighty tail, The bass or trout plunges about You strike, and in a moment shout "I've got a whale;" Oh happy reel, oh rod of steel. No words can tell the joy you feel, It makes you shiver. For you will show your friends, you know, How large the largest sometimes grow In old Fox river; From side to side that fish you guide. Now up, now down the racing tide. Oh lucky man! A bass or trout beyond a doubt You play him and at last pull out An old tin can, Your friend, meanwhile, begins to smile A vacuous, senseless, maddening smile; The emty headed wight! But as he grins he says that tins Are oft endowed with tail and fins And always full of fight. Pa,S[e 6 THE LURE 6>' THE LINE THE LURE O' THE LINE— Continued IV The Return The brightest day will fade they say, While rivers sing upon their way, Down to the sea; The saddest tales of tongue or pen, Are told at times by fishermen Like you and me. The horse is led from out the shed. And homeward turns his patient head, A friend in need! The silent reel the empty creel Are eloquent of things you feel; Ah, yes indeed! But home at last the greetings passed. Your wife at first rebuked, then sassed Her lord and master. With humble mien and rests between. You painted each distressing scene. Each fresh disaster; Fishermen's luck in home or hut Is wetness, and a hungry gut, As you well know, Yet when you look in tackle-book And feel the lure o' line and hook Away you go. CAUSALITY It is what is waiting for a man When the day is done. The love, the wormth, the coolness or the hate; That makes the glorious sun peep through, Or dims and overcasts the blue When at night he bends his steps toward his gate. It is not the small successes, or The great ones he achieves. Nor does the sting of failure come to stay; But 'tis what may be in store When at night he seeks his door, That makes or mars the brightness of his day. Page 7 By r. H. KENDALL THE CALL I know a fishing hole down on the Fox, Sheltered by trees and lined with mossy rocks, Where river grasses grow and vegetate. And hungry tiger basses lie in wait; About this time o' year my restless soul Just yearns for that blamed hole. I lovingly look thru my tackle book And discard every worn and doubtful hook; I carefully inspect my minnow pails And test the sein, its lead line and its brails; I clean and oil my reel and try my pole And dream of that blamed hole. I can see the sunlight dancing on the stream, And the slowly swirling eddies coaxing gleam; The lust of angling o'er my senses steal, Awakened by the music of my reel. As when a boy I from my studies stole Away to that blamed hole. Oh! springtime with thy birds and babbling brooks And windows filled with boats and boots and hooks, Thy bursting buds and weeping, smiling skies And fresh supply of lurid fishing lies. Thou hast aroused my piscatorial soul You and that blamed hole. Paire S THE LURE O' THE LINE THAT PISCATORIAL MICROBE Meh old eahrs keep a harkin' foh de niummeh ob de stream, Ise gettin' mighty hungry foh tase ob tigeh bass; Ah reckon ah is lonesom foh de tinkle and de gleam Ob de watah in de ribbah an' hit goes a slippin' pass. Wen ah fine a big fat fish wiim a-stickin' in his hole. Ah grab 'em by de collah, but he hang on mighty tight. An* somehow meh ole hoe-handle change into a fishin* pole, An' ah's sittin' on de ribbah bank a-waitin' for a bite. But ah wakes hup w'en dat angle wum done bruk himse'f in two An' wif his haid a-squirmin' in mah han' Ah say wot foh you temptin' me? With dis gardinin' to do Ise a right smaht busy niggah, undehstan'. But still ah keeps on hankerinn' foh my ole black fryin' pan. Ah can smell dat bacon brownin', ah can heah dat black bass siz; Foh dis triflin' bit o' gardinin' dey mus get some yuther man, Kase ah's goin' fishin', honey, deed ah is. Faf^e 9 By T. H. KENDALL ON THE BANKS OF THE FOX Where the lily pad bends to the current's slow swing, And tliebutterrly drifts on its rose-tinted wing, When the trees are as green as the moss in the flume And the soft air is laden with woodland perfume. And the water laughs past, as it slips o'er the rocks, Way down on the tranquil old banks of the Fox; Where the sunlight sifts through, and only in spots Can be found the bluebell and forget-me-nots. Where the bob-o'-Iink sings as he mounts to the sky, And the tiger bass leaps to the deftly cast fly. Where the click of the reel and the swish of the line Seem somehow a part o' the shade and the shine. Far away from the city, its dams and its locks One can lie there and dream on the banks of the Fox. Yes, He there and dream in a long reverie While a robin pipes up in a far-away tree. And the song that he sings seems to fit in with yours As it floats up and down the quiet old shores. While you look at the sky o'er the rim of your hat And wonder how far it is beyond that To the beautiful gate which Peter unlocks, On the banks of a river beyond the old Fox. Now, when one has reached this condition of mind, It is lonly a step to where he may find Half hidden by trees, a wigwam of bark And wonderingly, his lips whisper "Hark!" For there in the dusk 'neath the hickory's shade. Is standing a shy little Indian maid. With legggings of buckskin and shortest of frocks. Way down on the mystic old banks of the Fox. Paze 10 TJIK LURE (V THE LIXE ON THE BANKS OF THE FOX— Conilnuecl She daintily steps to the pebbly shore To a birch bark canoe (not noticed before) She takes up the paddle and wafts him a kiss, — He wakens and saj'^s "What the deuce is all tiiis?" And as his mind clears from the mist of his dream. The maid disappears in the mist of the stream; Then out from his pipe the ashes he knocks. And slowly turns home from the banks of the Fox. BECAUSE She waits for me when I homeward go Waits, with love in her pretty eyes, With merry feet and a glad hello; She waits for me when the sun swings low Way off in the western skies. And just because of her winsome voice, Her love and her purity, How can I do — aught but rejoice; And make the ways of truth my choice Because of her faith in me. I\i;e J J By T. H. KENDALL MY SORT O' LASS I'm for the lass who when she loves a lad. Is not ashamed to take his toil stained hand; She is the sort that makes life sweet and glad Because she has both common sense and sand. He drives a noisy old delivery wagon; Its rattle may be heard two blocks away; His job is not the sort that one would brag on. But he looks forward to a brighter day. The sunshine through the clouds may not be showing, But still he sings and climbs up to the seat; Because he knows that coming or a-going. He will pass a certain house far down the street. A modest house where he is almost certain To get a happy nod, a smile or two, And see a glad face circled by a curtain; 'Tis then the tardy sunshine filters through. Sometimes they meet, of course 'tis accidental; She trips along the sidewalk sweet and slim. And does not care a single continental What folks might say if she should ride with him. And so he helps her up into the wagon. Her feet caress the foot board old and bent. His job is nothing very much to brag on. But some ways it beats being President. The rattle seems to grow soft and caressing As Cupid takes the reins and drives the nag; I say again, but now I'm only guessing. His job may be the sort o'er which to brag. I'm for the lass who when she loves a lad. Is not ashamed to take his toil stained hand; She is the sort that makes home sweet and glad Because she has both common sense and sand. Pa^e 12 THE LURE 6>' THE LIXE MY CHRISTMAS TIE I sport a new tie now a-days. 'Tis a corker in several ways. If I wear it at night We turn out the light And the family all bask in its rays. I found it on our Christmas tree. *Twas put there by Santa you see. A Santa who spent Her last treasured cent On this lurid creation for me. 'Tis so warm that it smokes when I tie it, And so loud I can't hear my friends guy it. You will smile I suppose But by cracky it goes, And you haven't enough cash to buy it. \ For I know a wee lass whose blue eyes Would fill up with pain and surprise If she thought that her dad Wouldn't swear that he had The lalapaloosa of ties. I « Page 13 By T. H. KENDALL MY NEIGHBOR'S CHURCH I do not seek a man-made church, he said; In which to worship God on bended knee, The arching roof of azure overhead. This rug of green by kind old Nature spread; Is church enough for me. No psalm of praise by human voices sung. Is sweeter than the hymn the brown thrush sings, No faith propounded by a mortal tongue Is greater than the faith of growing things; The flowers that spring rejoicing from the sod Tell me there is a just and loving God. If I but do as does this golden-rod, My best with what the Lord has given me, I will not need to ask a patient God To grant forgiveness for delinquency; If I am true as is this sturdy vine. Health, happiness and power will all be mine. Page 14 SfP 2? m THE LUKE (r THE LINE THE WASTED DAY He was blind to the far away flash and gleam As he sat alone on the rivers rim, The coaxing voice of the happ}^ stream Said nothing at all but fish to him; He did not notice the willow bend And play with the waves as they loitered by, But he often scowled at his rods far end And the gauzy shape of the dragon fly; He was deaf to the sweet entrancing song Of the Bobolink in its upward flight, For him the day was dull and long Because the fish refused to bite; Unfortunate indeed is he Who will not either hear or see. The wild rose growing neath the hedge. The brooklet singing on its way, The sunny slope, the shady ledge. The Thrush piping a roundelay. The tall rank grasses along the shore W^here red winged black birds swing and sway. The drops that drip from the lazy oar All serve to make a happy day; Oh Lord we thank thee for thy gifts, With us alone the secret lies, We will it— and the curtain lifts Revealing bits of paradise. Pa^e IS LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 908 764 5