Chapter_3

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Dedication

to

Ferris Greenslet

of

Ipswich, Massachusetts

The trout that haunts the Beaverkill

Will flick the same sarcastic tail,

When badly struck, as him my skill

Would vainly lure from Tweed or Kale.

The same old tremor of the Spring

Assails the heart of you and me;

Nor does the reel less blithely ring

By Willowemoc than by Dee.

As bright the Ammonoosuc streams

Dance through their silent scented woods

As those which fill my waking dreams

In Hebridean solitudes.

Your land, old friend, is one with mine,

Whate’er may hap from time or tide,

While, with St. Izaak the Divine,

We worship at the waterside.