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!