Voices from the Past: R.L. Stringfellow (1904)

Although the style of this poem is antiquated, I kind of like it. It's from R.S. Stringfellow and was published in the June 1904 Recreation magazine.

I GO A-FISHING.
R. S. STRINGFELI.0W.
Somewhere I have read of an angler, 

W'ho gained a wondrous fame.

He lived in the land of Israel; 

St. Peter was his name. 


"I go a-fishing." he said one day 

To his friends in Galilee; 

"I go a-fishing." 
So says the Book; 

And off he went with line and hook, 
         
A-fishing in the sea. 

Since then along that storm-beat shore 

Many a wave and billow roar; 

And in the rush of wave and blast 

Many a life has breathed its last. 
But still the anglers go!

"I go a-fishing." 'tis often said. 

Although St. Peter's long since dead. 

But the words of this reverend saint and sage, 

There on the good Book's sacred page, 

Live on and on from age to age, 
      
And still the fishers go! 

"I go a-fishing!" Three fishers, this time, 

Will be the subjects of my rhyme. 

'Twas in midsummer's sweltering days; 

The sun beat down with scorching rays, 

When off to the West these fishers went, 

With heart and mind on pleasure bent, 

Away to the West, these fishers three. 

With jocund song, right merrily 
       
They pass the time away! 

"I go a-fishing!" Three fishers bold 

Now emulate the saints of old. 

To mountain stream and shady nook, 

Afar with rod and line and hook. 

They make their way; through hot sunshine. 
To where, 'neath shady cliff and pine, 

They hope, if fortune prove so kind, 

On speckled trout they soon may dine! 
       
So lived the saints of old! 

"I go a-fishing," now each one said. 
"The spot we've reached and camp is made":
And soon beneath the cooling shade, 

With boots waist-high, the stream they 
wade! 
The joyous time flies all too fast. 

While here and there with fly they cast; 

And in each boiling crystal pool 

Some wily trout would play the fool— 
      
Much to the angler's joy! 

Rut all too fast the moments fly, 

The time has come to say good-bye. 

Rack to town and dusty street, 

Back to sun and sweltering heat. 

But memory sweet shall still be mine, 

I'll think and sing of auld lang syne; 

And the good old angler of Galilee 

My guardian saint, I trust, will be! 

-- Dr. Todd

Voices from the Past: Robert Page Lincoln (1919)

As many of you know, one of my all-time favorite writers is Robert Page Lincoln. A multi-talented writer, he was also a gifted poet. The following poem, entitled The Angler, was published in an anthology of fishing poems called Fishermen's Verse in 1919. 

How happy he, who by fine cultured art, 

Plies him a line upon a silvery stream— 

Takes him therefrom a newly ventured theme,
And fair to speak hath change of mind and heart!
        Whose gentle wrist shall to a fly impart 

         Semblance to living—being so, shall seem 

To the brook eyes, nor fancy, nor a dream—
And so beguile by crafty counterpart!

He shall of faith in ample store be given;
Wedlock to peace—the hand of darling joy,
Sunshinest mood—the cleansing spirit of heaven,
And so betimes due gracefulness employ.
For him the gods shall favor and repay,
Make life and death, all one, a golden day!

-- Dr. Todd

Voices from the Past: F.B. Doveton (1881)

This charming little poem was originally published in 1881 in The English Fishing Gazette. F.B. Doveton was a cousin of the famed writer Rider Haggard, and a poet of some note in his native Britain. He spent most of his career in the army, and was a noted angler, which is why fishing was a popular theme of his verse.

Frederick Bazett Doveton was a very respected Devonshire poet born in 1841 in Exexter to the late Captain F.B. Doveton of the Royal Madras Fusileers; his father was involved in the Sepoy Rebellion and wrote of his exploits, and his son later spent time in the same brigade.

The author of a number of works of prose and verse, Doveton collected his angling and outdoor poems under the title A Fisherman's Fancies in 1895.



THE ANGLER'S DREAM

by F. B Doveton


I.
The night was cold—a "nipping air!"
I looked into the blaze. 

And saw some long lost faces there.
My friends of other days! 

They seemed to stand beside a stream,
Whilst yet the year was young;

And sweetly in the Land of Dream
A tender throstle sung.

II.
The flowers of spring were blooming nigh,
The beck was white with foam, 

And deftly did I cast my fly
Into the troutlets' home! 

They madly dashed at the deceit,
For they were blythe and bold;

But soon they glistened at my feet,
Arrayed in red and gold!

III.
The welkin rung with softest song,
While cloudlets swam above;
As I moved dreamily along.
The earth seemed full of love! 

I saw the marigold's fierce fire,
And felt the scented gale,
And still the throstle did not tire
Within that haunted vale!

IV.
Anon a pool lurked dark and deep.
Where lights and shades did play,

And then my fly, with airy sweep,
Was sped upon its way!

A sudden plunge, that tried my art,
A lusty trout—no doubt!

Then did I waken with a start
To find the fire—out!

-- Dr. Todd

Voices from the Past: Bill Notlaw (1922)

I'm going to be honest here. I'm not sure I know exactly what's going on in this poem, but I like the title and the pseudonym (Notlaw = Walton). It's from a 1922 edition of The American Angler, which had nothing in common with the earlier American Angler of William C. Harris.

When Fish Doth Smith Mine Hook
by Bill Notlaw

I
When fish doth smite mine hook and send
A thrill along ye line to end
Where lieth mine hand upon ye rod,
Gadzooks! I'm transformed to a god.

II
What feeling rare can then compare
With joy that eke doth raise mine hair,
And speedeth heart within my breast;
Ods bodikins! 'Tis to be bless'd.

III
Anon a jerk and then a rush,
So shrewd it maketh my face aflush
Ye fish fast hooked doth swim apace--
Good lack! 'Tis certes a merrie race!

IV
Now bends ye rod full lustily
And lurcheth deep within ye sea;
He leapeth like to any fawn--
Harrow, alas! He's loosed and gone.

V
This always do ye big one flee
And leave us sad full suddenly
While fingerlings abide for aye
With in eye or gut's to stay.

VI
Tis thus through life, though passing queer,
The things we lose are ever dear,
Whiles them we hold seem always mean--
'Tis man's perversity I ween.

-- Dr. Todd

Voices from the Past: Fishing by Moonlight (1901)

Today we feature a poet by Charles Davis Pratt about a distracted pair of anglers and a moonlit night. Quite a charming little piece, if you ask me, and we might even forgive them for not catching fish. After all, the fishing IS better over at Long Pond.

Fishing by Moonlight (1901)

by

Charles Davis Platt

WE went a-fishing t'other night, 

Two of us in a boat;
The air was cool, the moon shone bright, 

In sooth, it was a lovely sight, 

As we sat side by side, a-float,

Two of us in a boat.

We flung our lines and watched a-while.
But soon forgot to look 

For fish, and the moon began to smile

To see us fishing in such style;
Said the moon, "They'll never hook
A fish, unless they look."

The waters rippled all around,
The fish came swimming by; 

They saw our lines together wound—

Said they, "What is that gentle sound ?
Is that a fishing-smack ? O fie!"
And they went swimming by.

We didn't catch a fish that night,
But over on Long Pond 

They caught a-plenty by the light

Of the same moon that shone so bright
On us two happy lovers fond
Who fished upon Green Pond.

And if you ask me to explain
Why, over on Long Pond,
They caught a-plenty, while in vain
We threw our lines, we lovers twain—
'Tis simply this, that down beyond
It's better fishing on Long Pond.

-- Dr. Todd

Voices from the Past: The Fishing Hole by Douglas Malloch

THE FISHING HOLE

By Douglas Malloch

I know a dandy place to fish,

The kind of place that makes you wish 

There never was no work or school, 

An' all you had to do was fool 

Around all day with line an' pole 

An' pull 'em out of that there hole.

The Crick is swifter there a lot

But, to one side, there is a spot 

Among the boulders by the hill, 

An' there the water's always still. 

There water-beetles like to ride 

An' there is where the big ones hide.

A bunch of spruce an' cedar grows

Beside the fishin' hole an' throws

Its shade across that little pool

An' keeps it always dark an' cool 

The hottest days—I tell you what

There ain't no better fishin' spot!

An' all you need is just a fly 

An' keep it sort of driftin' by

So it will ketch the fishes' eyes 

An', jiminy, how they will rise!

There ain't no place on all the crick 

The big ones seems to be so thick.

The poorest fisherman, I guess,

Could go up there an' git a mess; 

An' all you need is line an' pole 

To pull 'em out of that there hole.

What's that? Where is it?

—Well, 

You needn't think I'm goin' to tell!

-- Dr. Todd

Home From a Day Fishing by Robert A. Miller

My friend Bob Miller (for whom I am diligently working on his latest book The History of the Pflueger Akron & Summit Reels) posted this neat poem recently on ORCA's forum, and I thought it deserved to be read by everyone so I am posting it here. Bob is quite the Renaissance man; he is an accomplished artist as well. Check out the cover he personally painted for his book Stream Dynamics for the Complete Fly Fisherman.

Home From a Day Fishing

by Robert A. Miller

When he came home he might look perplexed
or he might look mellow.
Either way, we knew he had been fishing.
And since he always went to the same place to fish,
we knew it wasn't where he had fished
that made a difference.

Perhaps the water wasn't right
or the weather was wrong.
Most likely it was the attitude of the fish that day
that made the difference.
Strange how the attitude of fish
can change the attitude of a man.
I wonder at times if they somehow know that.

-- Dr. Todd

Voices from the Past: Robert Page Lincoln

Here is one of my favorite poems from a great outdoor writer, Robert Page Lincoln. Lincoln was a diverse and accomplished angler and a top-notch outdoor writer who was deeply involved in the tackle industry, so much so that a famous spoon was named after him. It was manufactured by the Brainerd Bait Company of Brainerd, Minnesota.

IZAAK WALTON

Him did High Virtue perfectly endow,
Clean-wrought for living — Nature's gifted sage;
Uncoverer of Beauty on Time's gilded page,
Fine Priest of streams, of leaf and drooping bough;

Keeper of gladness, Faith's own solemn vow, —
Eschewing Gain and Competition's rage,
Measuring Life by Heaven's wiser gauge,
And breathing hope and blessedness enow!

Oh I have been much in delight to think,
How well his days were chosen to be spent.
And by the pools of Stafford, 'proached the brink
Of Paradise — and comfortably lent,

Him to sweet Themes of chaste divinity,
Kind songs of hope on skyward wings set free!

-- Robert Page Lincoln

-- Dr. Todd

An Angler's Christmas

My apologies to Clement Clark Moore for butchering his classic, but I could not let the holidays pass without a shot at rewriting his beloved poem, with a fishing theme...

An Angler's Christmas
butchered by Dr. Todd
'Twas the night before Christmas and all across the lake
Not a creature was stirring, not even a snake
The stockings were hung in the cabin with care
In hopes they'd be filled with bugs made of deer hair

This angler was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of Pfluegers danced in my head;
Shakespeares and Heddons both old and brand new
All served to disrupt my long winter's snooze,

When down on the dock there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Worried about my Big O's in mint silver flash,
I tore open the door to investigate the splash.

The light reflecting from the nearly full moon
Gave the lustre of mid-day to my Dardevle spoons,
When, what to my shock down the hill should appear,
But a Skeeter bass boat filled with reindeer!
And a portly old fisherman, so lively and quick,
I saw it was the angler we knew as St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his reindeer disembarked,
And he whistled, and shouted, their names he did hark:
"Now, Bagley! now, Paw Paw! now, Norman and Zebco!
On, Arnold! on Rebel! on Jamison and Nebco!
To the top of the steps! to the end of the dock!
Then on to the shore, my grazing herd flock!"

As dry flies that before the stiffest breeze fly,
When they meet with the wind and blow in the sky,
So along the dock the bounders they flew,
Followed by the boat full of tackle, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the shore
Their prancing and pawing and reindeer like roar.
As I drew in my breath, and was turning around,
Up the steps St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in B.A.S.S. gear from head to foot,
And his Ranger Boats cap was blackened with soot;
A bundle of rods he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a trout bum just opening his pack.

But his eyes, they twinkled, his smile was so merry!
His hooks were all sharp, his reels were so cherry!
His Orvis fly rod was as lithe as a bow,
And his hand tied streamer whiter than snow;
A piece of his leader he held tight in his teeth,
And the rest of his line lay coiled like a wreath;

St. Nick the Angler adjusted his belly,
And it flubbered around like a worm made of jelly.
But despite his big girth he could handle a rod
And he had taken his share, in spite of his bod
He slipped in the house with nary a word
As I stared in disbelief at his grazing deer herd.

St. Nick got to work, and with a nod of his face
He gave his approval of my piscatorial cache
He spoke not a word, and went straight to his work,
Filling the stockings with baits made to jerk,
Arbogasts, Helins, Spoonplugs and Skinners
Bass Pro, Cabelas, and multi-blade spinners
The stockings were soon just bursting with treasure
And he threw in a Winston, just for good measure

Then laying his finger aside of his head,
He gave me a nod, and down the steps he fled;
Into his boat he jumped, with its promo decals
And he puttered off out of sight to fish with his pals

But I heard him exclaim, as he trolled out of sight,
"Good fishing to all, and to all anglers, a good-night!"


Dan Basore posted this great image of the South Bend factory workers sitting down to a holiday meal. As Dan noted, I hope everyone has as joyous a holiday season as these ladies seem to be having!

Merry Christmas!

-- Dr. Todd from Snowy Duluth

Piscatorial Wars by Robert Hann

My favorite Wisconsin ex-pat. Tom Jacomet sent this to me recently. It is a nifty poem by Robert Hann that touches on a lot of what I think when I hold an old fishing lure. They are more than just works of art, they are permeated with history...enjoy!


Piscatorial Wars
By Robert Hann
I like to take old fishing lures
and hang them on my wall
the wooden ones with old glass eyes
I like the best of all.

They're more than decoration
though Christmas like they seem
these little bits of painted wood
that still shimmer and gleam.

And though some baits are worn and scarred
with tooth marks and their paint is marred
to me it isn't very hard
to hear the tales they tell.

They speak to me of days gone by
and battles by the shores
between old fishermen and fish
and piscatorial wars.

Most of these old fishermen
are no longer alive
their baits and lures upon my wall
are all that still survive.

They hang as a reminder
tribute to the men of yore
the ones who fought the battles in
the piscatorial wars.

-- Dr. Todd

Voices from the Past: Frank and I

'Twas a time when Americans of all socioeconomic levels and ethnic backgrounds wrote poetry, and poets were the most respected writers. Quickly: can you name a modern, living American poet? Most probably can't, and that's a real shame.

Not surprisingly, fishing was a very common theme for poets of all styles and ability, and one of my favorites is the following charming poem, printed in the 13 October 1892 Forest & Stream under only the name "Carey." It is a poem about enjoying the outdoors, fishing for the right reasons, and most of all, about friendship. It immediately reminded me of my friends Jim and Skip, but also could be applied to a number of friends I know such Warren and Bill, Marc and Tom, and many others. It always makes me smile.

Frank and I
by Carey
Where the hoarse frog clears his throat
And the redbird's crimson coat
Gleams like livid fire afloat
Where the gilled oriole,
Wing of flame and singing soul,
Floats and sings in uncontrol--
In the lakes and streams near by
There we cast the spoon and fly--
Frank and I.

When the romping girl of May
To her sister, June, gave way,
Substituting work for play--
When the rainbow-spotted trout,
Eager, vigilant, is out
On a fly-destroying scout--
Under such a sun and sky
Fished we, with the spoon and fly--
Frank and I.

Land of nature's treasures, rare!
Garden land of lakes, so fair
As the gems a queen might wear!
Land where red does hide from prey
Polka-dotted fawns away--
Animated blossoms, they,
Agile, graceful, sweet and shy
There we fished: good reasons why--
Frank and I.

In Gogebic's faultless tides,
Where the knightly bass abides;
Not a lonely one, that hides
Under rocks, a snare to shun,
But in regiments they run
Charging Skinner Spoons for fun.
There we cast our lures to try
Each the other's skill to vie--
Frank and I.

Not for shiners silver white,
Nor for sunfish, golden bright,
Not for mud-cats, out of night,
Not with worms, on Lim'rick hook,
Held by pole of dubious crook,
Not with seine, upon the sly--
No: we wanted better fry--
Frank and I.

Only royal fish were sought,
Gamy, beauteous trout were brought
Into basket, though each fought
Bravely as a brave trout would--
Bent the rod as good trout could
Whirred the reel as true trout should,
Sordid reader, ask not why
We went forth with spoon and fly--
Frank and I.

Eagle river's silver band
Holds upon its beaded strand
Loveliest lakes of any land.
Twin lakes, clear as stainless glass--
Beautiful as burnished brass,
Home of the mascalonge and bass;
Fish, that all these waters ply--
Those we caught with spoon and fly--
Frank and I.

Caught the giant mascalonge.
Saw him leap and felt him plunge,
As a prisoned ox would lunge
After freedom. What a thrill
All the throbbing pulses fill,
As he fights with kingly will,
So the golden hours flew by,
As we cast the spoon and fly--
Frank and I.

But we found still richer prize
Than a sporstman's paradise
Found the gold of sunny skies,
Found the key to better health,
Found the key to nature's wealth,
Found the strategy and stealth
Which brings joys that satisfy,
Found all these, with spoon and fly--
Frank and I.

-- Dr. Todd