Twas the night time earlier than fishing, when all by means of the home,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The fly rods had been strung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that the steelhead quickly can be there.

The anglers, in waders, had been cosy of their beds,
Whereas visions of river runs danced of their heads;
Mamma in her vest, and I in my cap,
Had simply settled down for a quick pre-dawn nap.

When out on the river, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my mattress 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 noon to things under,
When what to my questioning eyes did seem,
However an Adipose drift boat, and eight steelhead close to.

With somewhat outdated driver so energetic and fast,
I knew in a second he should be St. Nick.

He was dressed all in Orvis, from his head to his foot,
And his waders had been all tarnished with black chimney soot;
A bundle of deal with he had flung on his again,
And he seemed like a information simply opening his pack.

With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Quickly gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
And laying his finger apart of his nostril,
And giving a nod, up the river he rowed

However I heard him exclaim, ere he rowed out of sight—
A contented steelhead run to all, and to all a very good night time!”

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