OUTDOOR POETRY

 

 Edgar Guest was a popular poet during the Depression Years. In his poem OUT FISHIN’ you could read hunting, gardening, hiking…in place of fishin’ and get the same spiritual feeling. Read on and see if you don’t agree.

                                         OUT FISHIN’ by Edgar Guest (1881-1959)

                          A feller isn’t thinkin’ mean,

                                         Out fishin’;

                           His thoughts are mostly good

                                  an’ clean, Out fishin’;

                            He doesn’t knock his fellow-men,

                            Or harbor any grudges then;

                            A feller’s at his finest, when

                                            Out fishin’.

                              A feller’s glad to be a friend;

                                               Out fishin’;

                               A helpin’ hand he’ll always lend,

                                                Out fishin’;

                                The brotherhood of rod an’ line

                                 An’ sky an’ stream is always fine;

                                 Men come real close to God’s design,

                                                     Out fishin’.

We are the stewards of our environment, appointed by God, and as Guest might suggest we are to worship the Creator and care for His creation.

 

JUST A NICE POEM by Ralph Bice

From July 12, 1978

Have not the slightest idea where this poem came from but it is rather nice. One thing wrong with the world is that summer is gong by so quickly. If it keeps on at this speed it will be Labour Day before we know it and then not long until the first snow. Not nearly as many fishermen in the woods and I have not heard of any outstanding catches.

AWAY UP NORTH

The fair far North holds a charm for me,

Away up north’s where I long to be,

Where the quiet lakes, through the dreaming night,

Mirror the shores bathed in silvery light,

While a sentinel moon sails a cloudless sky,

And the bull-frogs croak and night birds cry,

Away up North.

Away up North where the heights are steep,

Where the trails are long and the canyons deep,

Where the frosts are keen and the snows are white,

Where the huskies howl to the pulsing night,

Where work is work and rest is sweet,

 Where strong men strive and defy defeat,

Away up North.

Away up North where the spruce and pine

Keep a steadfast guard where the woodchuck mines,

Where the birches sway and the hills around

Are laughing back each wildwood sound,

Where the mountains tower and the campfires glow,

Where the waters swirl and the mad winds blow,

Away up North.

Away up North there’s a little shack

By a tamarack swamp and it calls me back;

There’s a friendly pine by my cabin door,

And I seem to hear it, o’er and o’er,

Whisper and croon and sigh to me,

‘Til the shadowed path by my home I see,

Away up North.

Oh, the Lone Land calls and I know she waits;

I forsake the lusts, the greeds, the hates,

For tonight me thinks my kit I’ll pack,

And at early dawn I’ll be hiking back

To the fair far North where my soul finds rest,

To the rugged land I love the best,

Away up North.