TO A TROUT.
You thought yourself extremely smart,
You lay there, like a graven statue
Defying any human art
Or human cleverness to catch you.
You cast a cold sardonic eye
And seemed to grin with calm dispassion
Upon the most alluring fly
That I could fashion.
But greed o’er powered you at last,
You leaped at my dull feathered hackle
And found yourself held firm and fast
By slender rod and thread-like tackle.
You lash the waters of the brook
The silver spray in clouds you scatter
But still that small remorseless hook
You cannot shatter.
No use to sulk beneath a snag
That line, though tenuous and slender
Will never slacken, never sag
Till it compels you to surrender.
In vain to rush and dart about,
Endeavoring to postpone disaster
You’ll soon discover, Mr. Trout
You’ve met your master.
The rod held firmly in my hand
As ends this long exciting hour.
I rag you slowly toward the land
Despite your craft and fighting power.
I see your sinewy writhing back,
You soon will feel the net around you.
What’s this? The line is limp and slack!
You’re free; confound you.
Montana Standard (Butte, Montana) Oct 3, 1928
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