John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 3

Smith, U.S.A."
THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.
Of all the gracious gifts of Spring,
Is there another can safely surpass

This delicate, voluptuous thing--
This dapple-green,
plump-shouldered bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid,
What
exhalations superfine
Our gustatory nerves pervade,
Provoking
quenchless thirsts for wine.
The ancients loved this noble fish,
And, coming from the kitchen fire

All piping hot upon a dish,
What raptures did he not inspire!

"Fish should swim twice," they used to say--
Once in their native
vapid brine,
And then a better way--
You understand? Fetch on the
wine!
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
How often have I cast for you--

How often sadly seen you scud
Where weeds and pussy willows grew!

How often have you filched my bait!
How often have you snapped
my treacherous line!--
Yet here I have you on this plate.
You
_shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_!
And, harkee, garcon! let the blood
Of cobwebbed years be spilt for
him--
Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood
This piscatorial pride should
swim;
So, were he living, he should say
He gladly died for me and
mine,
And, as it was his native spray,
He'd lash the sauce--What, ho!

the wine!
I would it were ordained for me
To share your fate, oh finny friend!

I surely were not loath to be
Reserved for such a noble end;
For
when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
At last reels in his ruthless line,

What were my ecstacy to swim
In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!
And, prithee, whilst I stick
to earth,
Come hither every year and bring
The boons provocative
of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low,
However much I
might repine,
I think I might survive the blow
If plied with wine,
and still more wine!
TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR.
Whereas, good friend, it doth appear
You do possess the notion
To
his awhile away from here
To lands across the ocean;
Now, by
these presents we would show
That, wheresoever wend you,
And
wheresoever gales may blow,
Our friendship shall attend you.
What though on Scotia's banks and braes
You pluck the bonnie
gowan,
Or chat of old Chicago days
O'er Berlin brew with Cowen;

What though you stroll some boulevard
In Paris (c'est la belle
ville!),
Or make the round of Scotland Yard
With our lamented
Melville?
Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine
True heart from true hearts
sever?
No--in this draught of honest wine
We pledge it,
comrade--never!
Though mountain waves between us roll,
Come
fortune or disaster--
'Twill knit us closer soul to soul
And bind our
friendships faster.
So here's a bowl that shall be quaff'd
To loyalty's devotion,
And
here's to fortune that shall waft
Your ship across the ocean,

And
here's a smile for those who prate
Of Davy Jones's locker,
And

here's a pray'r in every fate--
God bless you, Knickerbocker!
THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD.
Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go
To see the
dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show,
And after we had reveled
in the saltatory sights
We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible
delights;
When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,

He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!"
Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies
Within the
morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! There is a glorious
candor in an honest quart of wine--
A certain inspiration which I
cannot well define!
How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling
seems to say: "Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"
But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate-- How
it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!
You wouldn't think a
thing so small could cause the pains and aches That certainly accrue to
him that of that thing partakes; To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it
never once occurred What horror was encompassed in that one small
hot bird.
Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,
And what a
firm conviction of intestinal decay!
What seas of mineral water and
of bromide I applied
To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted
inside! And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then

Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!
The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, But, bless
him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! The acidous
condition of my stomach, so he said,
Bespoke a vinous irritant that
amplified my head,
And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he
inferred,
Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.
Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right If ever it

has been your wont to train around at night;
How sweet is
retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, And before its balmy
breath how do the ills of life decline! How the gracious juices drown
what griefs would vex a mortal breast, And float the flattered soul into
the port of dreamless rest!
But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be