How often we sigh for the pebbled stream
That rippled along through childhood's dream,
In the barefoot days when our feet were tough
And holidays never seemed long enough —
That important stream which the little chap
Oft wonders is never put on the map —
With the trees that gathered on either bank
In grateful shade for the water they drank,
Where we went a-fishin'.

The oak, the elm, and the white sycamore,
And those that the beech and the butternut bore:
All sorts of trees, to our youthful ken,
Which differed in this from our fellow men,
That they did n't grumble nor crowd, nor push.
From the old dead tree or the baby bush
To the clinging vine on the giant tall
There was room for each, there was room for all,
When we went a-fishin'.

The stream was ours, or narrow or wide,
No matter who owned the land each side;
'T was ours by birth and the boyhood right
Of tramping over it day or night —
To wade the ripples and swim the pools
And watch how minnows behaved in schools ,
Of which they seemed much fonder than we,
When under the shade of the sycamore-tree
We sat a-fishin'.

No need of wishing for fancy shoes
Or traps a barefoot boy could n't use —
For the first one in , as the swimmer knows,
Was the lucky boy with the fewest clothes —
But a rattan pole and a line brand-new,
A painted bob and a hook steel-blue,
A bone-handle knife with a shiny blade
Or any old knife for an " unseen " trade
When we went a-fishin'.

We knew the stream for miles each way
And held possession in tireless play:
With skates in winter, a boat in the spring,
And a summer dive from the grape-vine swing —
We almost pitied the cherubim
Because they neither could fish nor swim.
What though we seldom could feel a bite?
We had the barefooted boy's delight
Of goin' a-fishin'.

Alas, for the boy who has never owned
A pebbled stream where he sat enthroned
On the buttressed dam where the water poured,
And dared his fellows dive overboard!
Why blame the boy if he like to fish?
The man, full-grown, has the self-same wish;
And even to-day, with barter and strife,
We cast our hook in the stream of life —
Still goin' a-fishin'.