And frosted with silver the hairs of the head,

But still in fond memory there lingers the joy

Of scenes such as these, when a bare-footed boy

I wandered away to the clear rippling stream—

No cankering care to trouble life's dream;—

And we spit on our bait and in whispers we'd talk,

As we threw out our lines in the old Hanging Fork!

[Pg 10]

We sat there and fished with the sun beaming down

On the tops of our heads through hats minus crown,

And when I got a bite or you caught a perch

We'd just give our lines a thundering lurch,

And land him high up on the bank in the weeds,

Then string him along with the pumpkin seeds!

O don't you remember the hot, dusky walk,

Along the white pike to the old Hanging Fork?

[Pg 11]

[Pg 11]

SWEET SEPTEMBER DAYS.

There's a something in the atmosphere, in sweet September days,

 Prev. P 6/105 next