I met a fisherman at Havana once, Havana on the Illinois, I mean, There by the house and fish boats. He was burned The color of an acorn, and his hair Was coarse as a horse’s tail. His scraggy hands Looked like thick bands of weather-colored copper, But his eyes were blue as faded gingham is. I stood amid the smell of scales and heads, And fishes’ entrails dumped along the sand. The still air was a burning glass which focused A bon-fire sun right through my leghorn hat; And a black fly from crannies of the air Lit on my hand and bit it venomously. Across the yellow river lay the bottoms Where giant sycamores and elms o’ertopped A jungle of disgusting weeds. The breeze Hot as a tropic breath exhaled the reek Of baking mud and of those noisome weeds, Wherewith the odors of putrescent fish Mixed on the simmering sands. A naturalist Must seek the habitat of the life he studies.... There on a platform lay the dressed fish, carp, Black-bass, and pike and pickerel, buffalo, Cat-fish, which I had come to see, and talk With fishermen along the Illinois. My man held up a fish and said to me; “Here is the bastard who drives all the fish Out of the river, out of any water He comes in, and he comes wherever food Can be obtained; the black-bass, even cat-fish, And all the good stocks run away from him, He is so hoggish, plaguy, and so mean. The other fish may try to live with him, I’m thinking sometimes, anyway I know He drives the others out.” I looked to see What fish is so unfriendly to his fellows. “Just look at him,” he said, but as he spoke The black fly stung my hand again. When I Looked up from swatting him, the man had thrown The fish upon the sand, and a stray dog Was running off with him along the river. THE MOURNER’S BENCH They’re holding a revival at New Hope Meeting house, I can’t keep from going, I ought to stay away. For I come home and toss in bed till day, For thinking of my sin, and the trouble I am in. I dream I hear the dancers In the steps and swings, The quadrilles and the lancers They danced at Revis Springs. I lie and think of Charley, Charley, Charley The Bobtown dandy Who had his way with me. And no one is so handy A dancer as Charley To Little Drops of Brandy, Or the Wind that Shakes the Barley, Or Good mornin’ Uncle Johnny I’ve fetched your Wagon Home. And Greenberry Atterberry, who toed it like a pigeon Has gone and got religion; He’s deserted the dancers, the fiddlers, merry-makers, And I should do it too. For Charley, Charley has left me for to roam. But a woman at the mourner’s bench must tell her story true-- What shall I do? What shall I do?