There is a good and a bad in the wayside inns On the highways of our lives, And man can never be free from sins, No matter how hard he strives; Yet even when down destruction’s grade Our thorny pathways trend, In spite of a thousand errors made, “It is never too late to mend.”
There are crosses heavy for men to bear, And passions to conquer too; There are joys and woes that each must share Before the journey is through; But men may be poor for honor’s sake, And truth and right defend, And hope will never this promise break,— “It is never too late to mend.”
’Tis never too late for a noble deed; For, blessed by the angels’ tears, It plants in the breasts of men a seed That will grow in after years; And words of kindness, of hope, and cheer, Will always comfort lend: We must live for love, and banish fear,— “It is never too late to mend.”
It is never too late to mend, my lad, No matter what people say: And no man’s nature is wholly bad, Even if old and gray: And in our journey toward the grave, Until we reach the end, There is time to change, and time to save,— “It is never too late to mend.” Ernest McGaffey.
A FIGHT WITH A TROUT.
We had been hearing for weeks of a small lake in the heart of the forest, some ten miles from our camp, which was alive with trout,—unsophisticated, hungry trout: the inlet to it was described as stiff with them. In my imagination I saw them lying there in ranks and rows, each a foot long, three tiers deep, a solid mass. The lake had never been visited, except by stray sable hunters in the winter, and was known as Unknown Pond. I determined to explore it fully, expecting that it would prove to be a delusion, as such haunts of the trout usually are. Confiding my purpose to Luke, we secretly made our preparations, and stole away from the shanty one morning at daybreak. Each of us carried a boat, a pair of blankets, a sack of bread, pork, and maple sugar; while I had my case of rods, reel, and book of flies, and Luke had an axe and the kitchen utensils. We think nothing of loads of this kind in the woods.
A couple of hours before sundown we reached the lake. If I live, to my dying day I shall never forget its appearance.... But what chiefly attracted my attention, and amused me, was the boiling of the water, the bubbling and breaking, as if the lake were a vast kettle with fire underneath. A tyro would have been astonished at this common phenomenon; but sportsmen will at once understand me, when I say that the water boiled with the breaking trout. I began casting, and had got out perhaps fifty feet of line, and gradually increased it to a hundred. It is not difficult to learn to cast, but it is difficult to learn not to jerk off the flies at every throw. Finally, in making a shorter cast, I saw a splash where the leader fell, and gave an excited jerk. The next instant I perceived the game, and did not need the unfeigned “dam” of Luke to convince me that I had snatched his felt hat from his head, and deposited it among the lilies. Discouraged by this, we whirled about, and paddled over to the inlet, where a little ripple was visible in the tinted light. Instantly, upon casting, there was a rush, a swirl. I struck, and “Got him, by—” Never mind what Luke said I got him by. “Out on a fly,” continued that irreverent guide; but I told him to back water, and make for the centre of the lake. The trout, as soon as he felt the prick of the hook, was off like a shot, and took out the whole of the line with a rapidity that made it smoke. “Give him the butt,” shouted Luke. It is the usual remark in such an emergency. I gave him the butt; and, recognizing the fact and my spirit, the trout sank to the bottom, and sulked. It is the most dangerous mood of the trout, for you cannot tell what he will do next. We reeled up a little, and waited five minutes for him to reflect. A tightening of the line enraged him, and he soon developed his tactics. Coming to the surface, he made straight for the boat faster than I could reel in, and evidently with hostile intentions.