Bitter-Sweet | Page 9

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 heaped and rounded ledges,?But diamonds hide within the sand
Their starry edges.
The finny armies clog the twine?That sweeps the lazy river,?But pearls come singly from the brine,
With the pale diver.
God gives no value unto men?Unmatched by meed of labor;?And Cost of Worth has ever been
The closest neighbor.
Wide is the gate and broad the way?That opens to perdition,?And countless multitudes are they
Who seek admission.
But strait the gate, the path unkind,?That lead to life immortal,?And few the careful feet that find
The hidden portal.
All common good has common price;?Exceeding good, exceeding;?Christ bought the keys of Paradise
By cruel bleeding;
And every soul that wins a place?Upon its hills of pleasure,?Must give its all, and beg for grace
To fill the measure.
Were every hill a precious mine,?And golden all the mountains;?Were all the rivers fed with wine
By tireless fountains;
Life would be ravished of its zest,?And shorn of its ambition,?And sinks into the dreamless rest
Of inanition.
Up the broad stairs that Value rears?Stand motives beckoning earthward,?To summon men to nobler spheres,
And lead them worthward.
Ruth.
I'm afraid to show you anything more;?For parsnips and art are so very long,?That the passage back to the cellar-door?Would be through a mile of song.?But Truth owns me for an honest teller;?And, if the honest truth be told,?I am indebted to you and the cellar?For a lesson and a cold.?And one or the other cheats my sight;?(O silly girl! for shame!)?Barrels are hooped with rings of light,?And stopped with tongues of flame.?Apples have conquered original sin,?Manna is pickled in brine,?Philosophy fills the potato bin,?And cider will soon be wine.?So crown the basket with mellow fruit,?And brim the pitcher with pearls;?And we'll see