From The San Francisco Call, May 4, 1913. By Hazen Conklin. All day long I sit a-dreaming Of a brook, its waters gleaming As it splashes, dances, races On its way ‘mongst woodsy places; Of a troutbrook, pooled and ready For the hand that’s quick and steady. Though my desk, in hopeless clutter Calls me back to bread and butter Work seems sordid, unromantic Its insistences pedantic And I sit a-dreaming, wishing: Come on, Tom, let’s go a-fishing! In my fancy I am wading Where the arching trees are shading Pools where fondly one surmises One can coax those lighting “rises” Overhung by rocks, moss-garnished Under which, with truth unvarnished One can swear the big trout darted Just before the trout line parted. Say! What is the call of duty When compared to speckled beauty! I can hear my line a-swishing: Come on, Dick, let’s go a-fishing! Oh! This beastly grind of working! Can’t you feel the fever jerking At your coat sleeve, coaxing, teasing Saying: “Come, we’ll find appeasing For the appetite within you,” All the while that you continue Adding figures, scribbling phrases Threading stupid business mazes? Rod and reel and flies and hamper Right across each page they scamper. Be a sport and stop your wishing: Come on, Harry, let’s go FISHING!
Category: The San Francisco Call
-
Let’s Go Fishing
-
Farewell, Old Shoes
From The San Francisco Call, April 20, 1913. By Lester J. Skidmore. Farewell, old shoes! Though greatly I’ve abused you, I really get the blues To think I have to lose you. You’ve been a friend And joy to me; And now we must Part company. Yes, from the day I purchased you, You’ve never pinched like Some shoes do. Just like a glove You’ve fit my feet, And you were ever— Ever neat. You were quite dressy In your day, And on the street cut Quite a sway. And when your shape And beauty, too, Which I once prized, Deserted you, I clung to you most Faithfully, For you had been So kind to me. So many miles You’ve led the way And held your own, too, Day by day. A man’s best friend, None can deny. It breaks my heart To say goodbye. Farewell, old shoes! Though greatly I’ve abused you, I really get the blues To think I have to lose you.
-
Parcel Postludes
From The San Francisco Call, February 4, 1913. O’er many a weary, aching mile The parcel postman ambled And when he reached our domicile The eggs he brought were scrambled. The hat he left for Mabel, too, Caused her poor heart to flutter; ’Twas saturated through and through With some one’s melted butter. And Brother Bill is tearing hot He doesn’t think it’s funny The socks and ties and shirts he got By mail were smeared with honey. But father’s smile is soft and bland; We all know by that token His snake bite cure, though contraband, Came through the mail unbroken.
-
I Will Not Doubt My Kind
From The San Francisco Call, January 9, 1913. I will not learn to doubt my kind. If bread is poison, what is food? If man is evil, what is good? I’ll cultivate a friendly mind. I see not far, but this I see: If man is false, then naught is true; If faith is not the golden clue To life, then all is mystery. I know not much, but this I know: That not in hermit’s calm retreat, But in the storied, busy street The angels most do come and go. Who to the infinite would rise Should know this one thing ere he starts: That all its steps are human hearts; To love mankind is to be wise. I will not learn to doubt my kind. If man is false, then false am I; If on myself I can’t rely, Then where shall faith a foothold find?