Whose branches, spangled o'er with dew,
Being shook, soon made him sparkle too.
But nought would he heed were he wet to the skin;
It is not for his outside he cares, but his in;
And he thinks of the feast he shall have with a grin
As he reaches the spot in the thick forest where
The trees had been cut down and left a place bare.
And soon his rod finds, which with excellent care
He had hidden, lest others the sport too might share.
As I told you before, by his side was a book;