'Aug. 12, 1874.
'DEAR MATER,—-
'Snap Hales arose, from his night's repose,
In the midst of the Cambrian mountains,
Where from cliff and from crag, over peat-moss and hag,
The Tanat shepherds her fountains.
(Observe here the resemblance to Shelley.)
'He rolled in his tub, and tackled his grub,
He booted and hatted in haste,
Then said, "If you're wishing, boy Bill, to go fishing,
There isn't one moment to waste."
'He strode to the brook, and with lordly look
Quoth, "Now, little fish, if you're in,
Let some grayling or trout just put up his snout
And swallow this minnow of tin."
'As if at his wish, up bounded a fish,
Gave one dubious sniffle or snuff,
Thought 'It's covered with paint, I'll be hooked if it ain't,
And the fellow who made it's a muff."
'Then Harold had tries with all sorts of flies,
Which were brilliant, gigantic, and rare,
But among them were none which resembled a "dun,"
So the fish were content with a stare.
'To a tree by that brook many flies took their hook,
Many more were whipped off in the wind;
One fixed in the nose, several more in the clothes
Of that angler before and behind.
'Then his cast-line broke, and Harold spoke,
Right wrathful words spoke he,
"Very well! you may grin, but I'll just wade in
Where there's neither briar nor tree."