"A country-place is cheaper than a doctor."
May roses bloom for you, and may you find
Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.

[Transcriber's note: "fertilizers" above was "fetilizers"
in the original.]

ANGLER'S FIRESIDE SONG

Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way,
And his road through the world is bright;
For he lives with the laughing stream all day,
And he lies by the fire at night.

Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
And likewise well-a-day!
The angler's life is a very jolly life
And that's what the anglers say!

Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game,
And his creel may be full or light,
But the tale that he tells will be just the same
When he lies by the fire at night.

Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
And likewise well-a-day!
We love the fire and the music of the lyre,
And that's what the anglers say!

To the San Francisco Fly-Casting Club, April, 1913.

HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM

I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure";
But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure;
An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks,
To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.

It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring,
But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing;
The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high,
But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.

It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes,
Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes!
Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign;
But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.

She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow;
Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,--
A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail,--
But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.

She's loopin' down the hillside,--the driffs is fadin' out.
She's runnin' down the river,--d'ye see them risin' trout?
She's loafin' down the canyon,--the squaw-bed's growin' blue,
An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.

A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between,
Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green;
With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick,
An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candle-stick