THE FISHERMAN'S SON

When pa comes back home from his trip,

All brown and freckle-faced,

He's fatter than he's been for months —

There ai n't no cloth to waste

When he puts on his old fall suit

And sits out on the lawn,

And tells about the fish he caught —

But my! how ma does yawn!

Pa smokes a puff or two, and then

He says, “You ought to see

The one I caught on Thursday — long

As‘ tis from you to me.

I had him on the bank; yes, sir,

As sure as you are born,

And then he jumped right back again —”

But ma — how she does yawn!

I got a hook and line that ai n't

Like pa's, but still it's fun

To go down to the creek and fish

And keep out of the sun.

Ma gives me sandwiches to eat,

And when the last bite's gone

I guess I go to sleep, sometimes —

At least I know I yawn.

But one day I did ketch a fish;

Ma took it, and it weighed

A pound, she said; but pa looked cross

And said, “It must have strayed.”

We had it cooked for supper, too,

And ma and I ate some;

But pa, he would n't, and ma laughed;

But all she said was “hu-u-m!”