POETRY AND PIE.
"Aunt Sarah," questioned Mary one day, "do you mind if I copy some of
your recipes?"
"Certainly not, my dear," replied her Aunt.
"And I'd like to copy some of the poems, also, I never saw any one
else have so much poetry in a book of cooking recipes."
"Perhaps not," replied her Aunt, "but you know, Mary, I believe in
combining pleasure with my work, and our lives are made up of poetry
and prose, and some lives are so very prosy. Many times when too tired
to look up a favorite volume of poems, it has rested me to turn the
pages of my recipe book and find some helpful thought, and a good
housewife will always keep her book of recipes where it may be readily
found for reference. I think, Mary, the poem 'Pennsylvania,' by Lydia
M.D. O'Neil, a fine one, and I never tire of reading it over and over
again. I have always felt grateful to my old schoolmaster. Professor
T----, for teaching me, when a school girl, to love the writing of
Longfellow, Whittier, Bryant, Tennyson and other well-known poets. I
still, in memory, hear him repeat 'Thanatopsis,' by Bryant and 'The
Builders,' by Longfellow. The rhymes of the 'Fireside Poet' are easily
understood, and never fail to touch the heart of common folk. I know
it appears odd to see so many of my favorite poems sandwiched in
between old, valued cooking recipes, but, Mary, the happiness of the
home life depends so largely on the food we consume. On the
preparation and selection of the food we eat depends our health, and
on our health is largely dependent our happiness and prosperity. Who
is it has said, 'The discovery of a new dish makes more for the
happiness of man than the discovery of a star'? So, dearie, you see
there is not such a great difference between the one who writes a poem
and the one who makes a pie. I think cooking should be considered one
of the fine arts--and the woman who prepares a dainty, appetizing dish
of food, which appeals to the sense of taste, should be considered as
worthy of praise as the artist who paints a fine picture to gratify
our sense of sight. I try to mix all the poetry possible in prosaic
every-day life. We country farmers' wives, not having the
opportunities of our more fortunate city sisters, such as witnessing
plays from Shakespeare, listening to symphony concerts, etc., turn to
'The Friendship of Books,' of which Washington Irving writes: 'Cheer
us with the true friendship, which never deceived hope nor deserted
sorrow.'"
"Yes," said Mary, "but remember, Aunt Sarah, Chautauqua will be held
next Summer in a near-by town, and, as Uncle John is one of the
guarantors, you will wish to attend regularly and will, I know, enjoy
hearing the excellent lectures, music and concerts."
"Yea," replied her Aunt, "Chautauqua meetings will commence the latter
part of June, and I will expect you and Ralph to visit us then. I
think Chautauqua a godsend to country women, especially farmers'
wives; it takes them away from their monotonous daily toil and gives
them new thoughts and ideas."
"I can readily understand, Aunt Sarah, why the poem, 'Life's Common
Things,' appeals to you; it is because you see beauty in everything.
Aunt Sarah, where did you get this very old poem, 'The Deserted
City'?"
"Why, that was given me by John's Uncle, who thought the poem fine."
"Sad is the sight, the city once so fair!
An hundred palaces lie buried there;
Her lofty towers are fallen, and creepers grow
O'er marbled dome and shattered portico.
"Once in the gardens, lovely girls at play,
Culled the bright flowers, and gently touched the spray;
But now wild creatures in their savage joy
Tread down the flowers and the plants destroy.
"By night no torches in the windows gleam;
By day no women in their beauty beam;
The smoke has ceased--the spider there has spread
His snares in safety--and all else is dead."
"Indeed, it is a 'gem,'" said Mary, after slowly reading aloud parts
of several stanzas.
"Yes," replied her Aunt, "Professor Schmidt tells me the poem was
written by Kalidasa (the Shakespeare of Hindu literature), and was
written 1800 years before Goldsmith gave us his immortal work, 'The
Deserted Village.'"
"I like the poem, 'Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel,'" said Mary, "and I
think this true by Henry Ward Beecher:"
"'Do not be troubled because you have not great virtues,
God made a million spears of grass where He made one tree;
The earth is fringed and carpeted not with forests but with grasses,
Only have enough of little virtues and common fidelities,
And you need not mourn because you are neither a hero nor a saint.'
"This is a favorite little poem of mine, Aunt Sarah. I'll just write
it on this blank page in your book."
There's a little splash of sunshine and a little spot of shade,
always somewhere near,
The wise bask in the sunshine, but the foolish choose the shade.
The wise are gay and happy, on the foolish, sorrow's laid,
And the fault's their own, I fear.
For the little splash of sunshine and the little spot of shade
Are here for joint consumption, for comparison are made;
We're all meant to be happy, not too foolish or too staid.
And the right dose to be taken is some sunshine mixed with shade.
"Aunt Sarah, I see there is still space on this page to write another
poem, a favorite of mine. It is called, 'Be Strong,' by Maltbie
Davenport."
Be Strong!
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;
We have hard word to do, and loads to lift,
Shun not the struggle; face it, 'tis God's gift.
Be Strong!
Say not the days are evil--who's to blame?
And fold the hands and acquiesce--Oh, shame!
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name.
Be Strong!
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day how long;
Faint not, fight on! Tomorrow comes the song,
LIFE'S COMMON THINGS.
How lovely are life's common things.
When health flows in the veins;
The golden sunshine of the days
When Phoebus holds the reins;
The floating clouds against the blue;
The fragrance of the air;
The nodding flowers by the way;
The green grass everywhere;
The feathery beauty of the elm,
With graceful-swaying boughs.
Where nesting songbirds find a home
And the night wind sighs and soughs;
The hazy blue of distant hill,
With wooded slope and crest;
The crimson sky when low at night
The sun sinks in the West;
The thrilling grandeur of the storm,
The lightning's vivid flash,
The mighty rush of wind and rain,
The thunder's awful crash.
And then the calm that follows storm,
And rainbow in the sky;
The rain-washed freshness of the earth--
A singing bird near by.
And oh, the beauty of the night!
Its hush, its thrill, its charm;
The twinkling brilliance of its stars;
Its tranquil peace and calm.
Oh, loving fatherhood of God
To give us every day
The lovely common things of life
To brighten all the way!
(Susan M. Perkins, in the Boston Transcript)
ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.
Abou Ben Adhem--may his tribe increase--
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace
And saw, within the moonlight of his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said:
"What writest thou?" The vision raised his head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered: "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke low,
But cheerily still, and Said, "I pray thee, then,
write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great, wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
LEIGH HUNT.