Twas the night before fishing, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The fly rods were strung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that the steelhead soon would be there.
The anglers, in waders, were snug in their beds,
While visions of river runs danced in their heads;
Mamma in her vest, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a brief pre-dawn nap.
When out on the river, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window, I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the flowing stream’s glow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But an Adipose drift boat, and eight steelhead near.
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
He was dressed all in Orvis, from his head to his foot,
And his waders were all tarnished with black chimney soot;
A bundle of tackle he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a guide just opening his pack.
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the river he rowed
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rowed out of sight—
A happy steelhead run to all, and to all a good night!”
