When The Fish Are Bitin'

Along about this time of year, back there in Bowersville,

The purtiest crabapple tree is bloomin' on the hill;

The dandylions fairly grin along the little street,

An' early locus' blossoms Is a-smellin' mighty sweet,

An' when noon comes the little town is peaceful like an' still,

An' then the fish is bitin' Just below the old flour mill.

As soon as the April gets a start an' shows what she can do

The rosebuds down in Bowersville Is smilin' through the dew;

The lilac bushes seem to say they wish that it was June,

An' then it gets so quietlike an' peaceful just at noon

You can't hear nothin' but the bees- an everything's so still-

An' then -the fish is bitin' Just below the old flour mill.

There's Johnny-jump-ups in the grass, so pertlike an' so blue,

A-noddin' in the wind iust like they're sayin' "Howdy do!"

An' then the mornin' glories creep up each veranda post,

As if they tried to see which one could climb an' bloom the most.

I guess there ain't no other spring like that at Bowersville-

An' then the fish Is bitin' just below the old flour mill.

Below the old flour mill the crick goes lazyin' along.

With here an' there a ripple, like a broken bit of song-

A broken bit of song that seems to echo in the trees.

Except when some woodpecker interrupts It, just to tease.

You're mighty glad to loaf an' sniff the crab blooms on the hill-

An' then the fish is bitin' Just below the old flour mill.

-Baltimore American.