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But oh, we live quiet and nice as you please.)
Our food? O ye gods, what a feast do we find!
To which the flesh-eater is sadly purblind.
There's fragrant strawberries, and currants like gems—
Bright rubies suspended on emerald stems—
To say naught of 'sparagus, green peas, and corn,
Food tender, nutritious, and fresh as the morn,
With the beautiful wealth of bread-forming grains
We gather from bounty of broad fertile plains;
And ripe, juicy melons, with fair, golden hues,
And pulp as refreshing as midsummer dews;
And cherries so tempting, through leaves of bright green;
The long, trembling blackberry's ebony sheen;
The raspberry, too, with the color subdued
To velvety softness, as pretty as good;
The plum, with bright surface breathed on by the fays,
Who bring out sweet honey from mellowing rays;
And proud purple grapes dyed as clouds at the dawn;
(Pray eat them ere tendrils or leaves are withdrawn!)
The peach with gray vesture of delicate hue,
While soft golden tints peep suggestively through;
The pear drooping gracefully down from its stem,
The apple, too—fruit to try flesh-eater's phlegm;
The clear sunny yellow, the rich russet brown,
The rosy-cheeked, mottled, white belt and red crown,
The green and deep crimson—all shades which the light
E'er painted, from purple to pure lily white—
Sour apples, half sour, and spicy, and sweet,
Pear-flavored, peach-flavored, all palates to meet;
The solid and light, the juicy and dry,
At hand through all seasons, in tempting supply.
With this wealth before us, the butcher may slay,
The sportsman may, vulture-like, feed on his prey;
But a purer, holier repast is ours,
In fruits kindly nursed in the heart of the flowers.
Emily M. Guthrie.
