THREE LITTLE FISHERS
THREE little fishers trudged over the hill,
Over the hill in the sun's broad glare,
With rods and crooked pins, to the brookby the mill,
While three fond mothers sought them everywhere.
For boys will go fishing, though mothers deny.
Watching their chance they sneak off on the sly
To come safely back in the gloaming.
Three mothers waited outside the gate.
Three little fishers, tired, sunburnt, and worn,
Came into sight as the evening grew late,
Their chubby feet bleeding, their clothing all torn,
For "boys will be boys"—have a keen eye for fun,
While mothers fret, fume, scold, and—succumb,
And welcome them home in the gloaming.
Three little fishers were called to explain—
Each stood condemned, with his thumb in his eye,
They promised never to do so again,
And were hung up in the pantry to dry.
Three mothers heaved great sighs of relief,
An end had been put to their magnified grief,
When the boys came home in the gloaming.
Frank H. Stauffer.