By James W. Whilt
Did you ever go a-trapping
Where you knew the fur was plenty,
Where a year ago you could have
Made a bunch of “jack”?
Next fall you got in early,
Built your cabin in a hurry,—
Then didn’t even find a weasel track?
Did you ever go prospecting
Where the gold was found in millions,
And even every musher
Had made a pile of wealth?
And you worked just like a beaver
Cause you felt you couldn’t leave ‘er,
And all you got was badly broken health?
Did you ever go a-fishing
When the weather,—it was perfect!
And you gathered up your tackle
And had it fixed just right:
And you whipped the streams and bait-fished
And maybe swore a little,
And then you never even got a bite?
Did you ever go a-hunting
When the woods were damp and gloomy,
Where everything was stillness
And everywhere a trail,
And you traveled over ridges,
Through the hollows, round the ledges
And then you never even glimpsed a tail?
But such is luck I find it,
And the fellow who stays by it
Will at last succeed and win the day:
Be he trapper, or prospector,
Be he fisherman, or hunter,
I have always found it
That it’s pluck that wins the day.