George Holcomb Prosser Collection
15 Salvage Saga


Twas trout fish time at Mount Sterling
The first day of the season

And we were there with rods and such
To catch our share, in reason.


Now Bill and Pete, the date to cheat
Had gone with Albert Sutton

To fish Mount Sterling creek the while
The rest made camp or sompin' .


The day was cold, the north wind blew

And flakes of snow were flying

But Bill and Albert caught their fish

Because they sure were trying.


Well Pete had missed a splendid strike

From out a deep dark pool
And hung behind a while to try

And use a worm, the fool.


He crept along a slippery ledge

A crouching low to slink;

Dropped in the worm and tried to squirm
His feet into a chink.


The worm was big, the place was right
The trout rose with precision

Pete straightened up to set the hook
And made the wrong decision.


Just as he balanced on one foot
The line grew taut, you guessed,

That one foot slipped, into the deep
He plunged and was he messed.


They pulled him out and rung his clothes

Goose pimples held each hair
Upon his legs at right angles

They had no time to spare.


For wood was wet, a fire to build

Was far beside the question,

To get him in was all they knew

That could save the situation.


'Twas five miles into camp, Ab said.

They must be getting started
For as they stood, his clothes like wood
Froze crisp, with movement rattled.


They staggered into camp you know -
Pete was a sight to see
But real good corn was there for him
And friends to rub his knee.


Now Pope he is a curious cus
He doesn't like to fish

But he will ramble in the woods

To view the trees and such


Look at the clouds, inspect the rocks

And gather ramps, I know
For he brought in a full sized peck

From Mouse Creek down below.


Oh, ramps are outlaw lilies, boys

They taste so fresh and sweet

The neighbors smell you three miles off

If you get near the heat.


We ate them raw with good corn bread

We scrambled them with eggs
We washed them down with ripe old corn

In coffee; for skinned legs


That night we slept upon the floor
The wall turned back my breath

And from the oder one could guess
There are things worse than death.


Next morning Nash decided he

Would cook for all the gang
And get the coffee boiling good

The grease hot in the pan


The boys had boiled some eggs quite hard
And slipped them in the carton
Then stood around to watch the sport
As Bill worked eggs, au gratin.


The time was soon, the lantern dim

As the, formality
Of breaking eggs into a pan

Where all of us could see.


He clipped the first one true enough

But when he tried to split
The shell in halves it would not go
"There's something wrong with it."


He tried the second and the third,
Before he saw the

Hot water makes in eggs that's raw.

We whooped and hollered,stamped and laughed

At this a low-down trick.

Then ate our breakfast,  grabbed our rods,
And started up the crick.


George  [Prosser]