Fishin' Days Are Gone

The leaves have fallen, and the limbs are bare, The cricket's chirp is stilled along the shore; Above, the lustrous crow sails in the chilly air; Below, the frisky squirrel hunts his winter store.

Before me lies the creek I know so well — Each hole, its every pile of drift, its snags — Just here I caught that two pound "cat" ! (I love to dwell Upon the mem'ries of the days I made GOOD bags).

But, now the leaves are gone and limbs are bare, And icy needles skirt the water's edge. Oh, speed the time of dogwood bloom, of odors rare, When green comes once again to osage hedge!