As the sun sinks low in the western sky, and
the shadows longer grow,
And the night hawk wheels in his silent flight,
and the crickets draw their bow,
And the cat-tails wave in the gentle breeze,
and the boat glides on apace;
Then I reel in the line, while the bamboo rod
is laid away in its case.

The bass and the trout, and the wall-eyed pike,
the pickerel and muskalonge,
Have each and all been lost or won as I caused
them to race or plunge,
I'm the sportsman's friend, and a foeman bold,
and I've filled full many a creel;
For what would the fisherman's luck be worth
without the song of the reel?

[Illustration]

The Old Road

There is an old road that I love to follow. If one may judge by
appearances, it is but slightly used by travelers, for it seems to
lead nowhere, and is quite content in its wanderings, winding through
canons, over hills, and down valleys. I am told by one who ought to
know--for he is an old resident--that if you follow its tortuous
course far enough, it will lead you to a town called Walnut Creek, but
I cannot vouch for the truth of this assertion, as I have never found
a town or hamlet along its winding course. In fact, I remember but one
place of abode along its entire length, and this, a weather-beaten
cottage nearly hidden by the pepper and acacia trees that surround it.

It is a quaint little place, and might have inspired the poet to
write that beautiful poem containing the lines,

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
And be a friend to man,

for the cooling draught passed out to me one hot afternoon from this
house would certainly class the occupant as a benefactor.

The dew was sparkling on the grass when I set out in the early
morning, gossamer spider webs strung from leaf and stem glistened in
the sunlight, and up from a tuft of grass a meadow lark sprang on
silent wing, scattering his silvery notes, a paean of praise to the
early dawn.

A bluebird's notes blend with those of the song sparrow, and a robin
swinging on the topmost branch of a eucalyptus, after a few short
notes as a prelude, pours forth a perfect rhapsody of melody.

At this place a hill encroaches upon the road at the right, covered
thickly with underbrush and blackberry vines, its crest surmounted
with a stately grove of eucalyptus trees, while on the left there is
an almost perpendicular drop to the valley below.