Bitter-Sweet | Page 9

patted her
back, and chafed her head,
And coaxed her with softest words, as
they led
Her up to the ring to die.
Do you blame me for crying

When my Zephyr was dying?
I shut my room and my ears,
And
opened my heart and my tears,
And wept for the half of a day;
And
I could not go
To the rooms below
Till the butcher went away.
David.
Life evermore is fed by death,
In earth and sea and sky;
And, that a
rose may breathe its breath,
Something must die.
Earth is a sepulcher of flowers,
Whose vitalizing mold
Through
boundless transmutation towers,
In green and gold.
The oak tree, struggling with the blast,
Devours its father tree,
And
sheds its leaves and drops its mast,
That more may be.
The falcon preys upon the finch,
The finch upon the fly,
And
nought will loose the hunger-pinch
But death's wild cry.
The milk-haired heifer's life must pass
That it may fill your own,


As passed the sweet life of the grass
She fed upon.
The power enslaved by yonder cask
Shall many burdens bear;
Shall
nerve the toiler at his task,
The soul at prayer.
From lowly woe springs lordly joy;
From humbler good diviner;

The greater life must aye destroy
And drink the minor.
From hand to hand life's cup is passed
Up Being's piled gradation,

Till men to angels yield at last
The rich collation.
Ruth.
Well, we are done with the brute;
Now let us look at the fruit,--

Every barrel, I'm told,
From grafts half a dozen years old.
That is a
barrel of russets;
But we can hardly discuss its
Spheres of frost and
flint,
Till, smitten by thoughts of Spring,
And the old tree
blossoming,
Their bronze takes a yellower tint,
And the pulp grows
mellower in't.
But oh! when they're sick with the savors
Of sweets
that they dream of,
Sure, all the toothsomest flavors
They hold the
cream of!
You will be begging in May,
In your irresistible way,

For a peck of the apples in gray.
Those are the pearmains, I think,--
Bland and insipid as eggs;
They
were too lazy to drink
The light to its dregs,
And left them upon the
rind--
A delicate film of blue--
Leave them alone;--I can find

Better apples for you.
Those are the Rhode Island greenings;
Excellent apples for pies;


There are no mystical meanings
In fruit of that color and size.
They
are too coarse and too juiceful;
They are too large and too useful.

There are the Baldwins and Flyers,
Wrapped in their beautiful fires!

Color forks up from their stems
As if painted by Flora,
Or as out
from the pole stream the flames
Of the Northern Aurora.
Here shall our quest have a close;
Fill up your basket with those;

Bite through their vesture of flame,
And then you will gather
All
that is meant by the name,
"Seek-no-farther!"
David.
The native orchard's fairest trees,
Wild springing on the hill,
Bear
no such precious fruits as these,
And never will;
Till ax and saw and pruning knife
Cut from them every bough,
And
they receive a gentler life
Than crowns them now.
And Nature's children, evermore,
Though grown to stately stature,

Must bear the fruit their fathers bore--
The fruit of nature;
Till every thrifty vice is made
The shoulder for a scion,
Cut from
the bending trees that shade
The hills of Zion.
Sorrow must crop each passion-shoot,
And pain each lust infernal,

Or human life can bear no fruit
To life eternal.

For angels wait on Providence;
And mark the sundered places,
To
graft with gentlest instruments
The heavenly graces.
Ruth.
Well, you're a curious creature!
You should have been a preacher.

But look at that bin of potatoes--
Grown in all singular shapes--
Red
and in clusters, like grapes,
Or more like tomatoes.
Those are
Merinoes, I guess;
Very prolific and cheap;
They make an excellent
mess
For a cow, or a sheep,
And are good for the table, they say,

When the winter has passed away.
Those are my beautiful Carters;
Every one doomed to be martyrs

To the eccentric desire
Of Christian people to skin them,--
Brought
to the trial of fire
For the good that is in them!
Ivory tubers--divide
one!
Ivory all the way through!
Never a hollow inside one;
Never
a core, black or blue!
Ah, you should taste them when roasted!

(Chestnuts are not half so good;)
And you would find that I've
boasted
Less than I should.
They make the meal for Sunday noon;
And, if
ever you eat one, let me beg
You to manage it just as you do an egg.

Take a pat of butter, a silver spoon,
And wrap your napkin round
the shell:
Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell
Of a
white-lipped morning-glory?
Well, that's the rest of the story!
But
it's very singular, surely,
They should produce so poorly.
Father
knows that I want them,
So he continues to plant them;
But, if I try
to argue the question,
He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will;
And puts
me down with the stale suggestion--
"Small potatoes, and few in a
hill."
David.

Thus is it over all the earth!
That which we call the fairest,
And
prize for its surpassing worth,
Is always rarest.
Iron is heaped in mountain piles,
And gluts the laggard forges;
But
gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles
And lonely gorges.
The snowy marble flecks the land
With