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From the Evening Star, February 21, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

The news is most discouragin’ at Pohick-on-the-Crick.
The joy is gettin’ thinner an’ the gloom is growin’ thick.
But underneath the willows there’s a space of ripplin’ stream
Where the sunlight seems to sparkle with a soft, peculiar gleam.
The birds come sweetly singin’ to the hours that drift away,
An’ the great, big world seems peaceful an’ contented for a day.
You toss a line an’ watch it, with your troubles all forgot,
An’ it doesn’t make much difference if you catch a fish or not.

The fish, of course, is mighty large on which your hope is set,
But it keeps you interested, if a nibble’s all you get.
Somewhere the world is strugglin’ in the darkness an’ despair,
An’ perhaps your turn will come to land a hand an’ do your share.
But we all have a notion that the future is secure,
No matter what our feelin’s may be called on to endure;
Fur some day we’ll have time to tie a string onto a stick
An’ go a-fishin’ once again at Pohick-on-the-Crick.

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