THE FISHERS.

Silence! stir not! for a whisper

Would affright thy pretty prey;

Not a motion, little lisper,

Else the fish will glide away.

Hush! he's coming! he is swimming

Slowly round and round the bait;

Steady! though thine eye is brimming

Full of mirth that will not wait.

And thy brother near thee kneeling

Fears to hear thy ringing shout;

Gently! near and nearer stealing

Comes the brightly spotted trout.

There! thy hook has caught him surely;

Firmly hold thy slender rod;

Pull away! and then securely

Place him on the grassy sod.

'Neath the green boughs rustling o'er you,

Fish away the livelong day;

And with evening's star before you,

Wander home at twilight gray.