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
change
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]