THE FISHING CURE

There's nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul

Like a day on a stream,

Back on the banks of the old fishing hole

Where a fellow can dream.

There's nothing so good for a man as to flee

From the city and lie

Full length in the shade of a whispering tree

And gaze at the sky.

Out there where the strife and the greed are forgot

And the struggle for pelf,

A man can get rid of each taint and each spot

And clean up himself;

He can be what he wanted to be when a boy,

If only in dreams;

And revel once more in the depths of a joy

That's as real as it seems.

The things that he hates never follow him there —

The jar of the street,

The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair —

For the open is sweet.

In purity's realm he can rest and be clean,

Be he humble or great,

And as peaceful his soul may become as the scene

That his eyes contemplate.

It is good for the world that men hunger to go

To the banks of a stream,

And weary of sham and of pomp and of show

They have somewhere to dream.

For this life would be dreary and sordid and base

Did they not now and then

Seek refreshment and calm in God's wide, open space

And come back to be men.