The onomatopoeia of the bubbling, babbling brook . . .
It let us know that Johnny sat there with his line and hook.
The chirping of the little birds scolded him with twitters.
To be caught, his sweating back would shake with fearful shivers.
The crackling icy waters rippled with a sparkling hue
And besprinkled playfully the great carved rocks of gray-blue.
Glubbing, blubbing rushing waters splashed forever!
Must the sweetness of the gurgling end? Oh, please no, never!
Dip, dunk, sploosh and ker-plunk! Flipping and flopping came his fish!
Wriggling with fin and tail, popped the line with a single swish!
But our undaunted Johnny knew how to fix it once more,
For he heard the whisp'ring breeze rustling trailing vines galore!
The gushing of the brook's waters told very angrily
That the tiny rainbow fish would never be caught be he!
But the song of the wise old brook, he knew, was left to be,
And he shouted loudly, "I'll catch your fish! Just wait and see!"
With determination our Johnny never had before,
He lay on snapping twigs, waiting for thunderous rage once more.
Then came the tug! Then the heart-beat! And then, the raving whoosh!
Johnny placed his fish in the mud with all the goosh!
A big, round hand was placed on our Johnny's little shoulder.
A gleaming star, and then he saw a face a bit older.
The truant officer sent Johnny back to school, and then
Oh! You can bet our Johnny never played hooky again!