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 of 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.