Part 33 (1/2)

MARGUERITE WILKINSON

THE PROUD VEGETABLES

In a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat, There lived a thriving family, its members all were fat; But some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round, And some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground.

Of these old Father Pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one.

He claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun.

”We both are round and yellow, we both are bright,” said he, ”A stronger family likeness one could scarcely wish to see.”

Old Mrs. Squash hung on the fence; she had a crooked neck, Perhaps 'twas hanging made it so,--her nerves were quite a wreck.

Near by, upon a planted row of f.a.ggots, dry and lean, The young cuc.u.mbers climbed to swing their Indian clubs of green.

A big white _daikon_ hid in earth beneath his leafy crest; And mole-like sweet potatoes crept around his quiet nest.

Above were growing pearly pease, and beans of many kinds With pods like tiny castanets to mock the summer winds.

There, in a spot that feels the sun, the swarthy egg-plant weaves Great webs of frosted tapestry and hangs them out for leaves.

Its funny azure blossoms give a merry, shrivelled wink, And lifting up the leaves display great drops of purple ink.

Now, life went on in harmony and pleasing indolence Till Mrs. Squash had vertigo and tumbled off the fence; But not to earth she fell! Alas,--but down, with all her force, Upon old Father Pumpkin's head, and cracked his skull, of course.

At this a fearful din arose. The pods began to split, Cuc.u.mbers turned a sickly hue, the _daikon_ had a fit, The sweet potatoes rent the ground,--the egg-plant dropped his loom, While every polished berry seemed to gain an added gloom.

And, worst of all, there came a man, who once had planted them.

He dug that little family up by root and leaf and stem, He piled them high in baskets, in a most unfeeling way-- All this was told me by the cook,--we ate the last to-day.

MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA

THE CHOICE

When skies are blue and days are bright A kitchen-garden's my delight, Set round with rows of decent box And blowsy girls of hollyhocks.

Before the lark his Lauds hath done And ere the corncrake's southward gone; Before the thrush good-night hath said And the young Summer's put to bed.

The currant-bushes' spicy smell, Homely and honest, likes me well, The while on strawberries I feast, And raspberries the sun hath kissed.

Beans all a-blowing by a row Of hives that great with honey go, With mignonette and heaths to yield The plundering bee his honey-field.

Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage And the delicious mint and sage, Rosemary, marjoram, and rue, And thyme to scent the winter through.

Here are small apples growing round, And apricots all golden-gowned, And plums that presently will flush And show their bush a Burning Bush.

Cherries in nets against the wall, Where Master Thrush his madrigal Sings, and makes oath a churl is he Who grudges cherries for a fee.

Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here Shall Beauty make her pomander, Her sweet-b.a.l.l.s for to lay in clothes That wrap her as the leaves the rose.

Take roses red and lilies white, A kitchen-garden's my delight; Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves, And its tall cote of irised doves.

KATHARINE TYNAN

THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER