In my forest by the stream Let me worship, let me dream, Loving Nature and her ways, I would court her all my days. _ANGLING IN THE PLATTE_ On a log beside the Platte, With my tackle and my basket, Sitting where I long have sat, I am fishing! Should you ask it? Idling,--dreaming time away! Thinking many happy thoughts to-day. Fleeting moments never heeding, While the hungry fishes feeding, Still I watch and still I wait; Let the minnows steal my bait! Mine--mine is the pleasure and repose-- That the never-fretting, catch-forgetting, gladness netting angler only knows. Tired worker--up! away! Leave thy labors for a day. At the river life is sweet; At the river we shall meet. Rest and play! Rejoice and be gay! Recreation has its season. Put thy cark and care away, (Death from over-work to-day is clearly out of reason!) Comrade,--cheerless comrade, break thy bondage and be free; Nature’s self will welcome thee; Countless blessings she can give, Come with nature, then, and live. Nodding, nodding, napping by the brook, With no bait upon my hook; Dreaming dreams of summer sweet. While the ripples kiss my feet. While the wind blows through my hair, Know I not an earthly care. Oh, the restful, rapturous repose That the care-dispelling, mirth-compelling, sometimes story-telling, always joyful angler only knows. On a log beside the Platte, With my tackle and my basket, Sitting where I long have sat;-- Am I fishing?--can you--really can you ask it? _TO YE CHEERLESS HERMIT_ Arise! thou melancholy recluse--arise! Leave thy cell! Turn not thy days to night. Vile beasts and bats in darkness dwell; For us, God made the light. For us, the sunshine and the flowers; For us, the birds, the bees, The leafy trees, the odorous bowers; And all our wants, God planned to please. Come, then, come out into the day! Look up! Choke down thy silly grief; Fling all thy cark and care away; Rejoice! Help Nature sing her psalm of life. Gloomy scholar, drop that skull! Ghoulish research there is vain; Studies such are void and null; From Pleasure learn the cure of pain! Be glad! _Thy joy may cheer another!_ Weep not. (_Grief wounds not self alone!_) Heap not thy sorrows on thy brother; Old Misery’s sighs would e’en make angels groan! Apostle of Woe, thy faith’s a fable; Try schemes of sorrow ill. Joy and Hope are props more stable; Merry, men may be, and righteous, too, who will. _RECUPERATING IN NATURE’S SANITARIUM_