the “wisdom of nations,” which has proved of little practical efficacy as yet.
Better to stop before landing at Buffalo, while I have yet the advantage over some of my readers.
THE BOOK TO THE READER
WHO OPENS, AS AMERICAN READERS OFTEN DO, AT THE END, WITH DOGGEREL SUBMISSION.
To see your cousin in her country home,
If at the time of blackberries you come,
“Welcome, my friends,” she cries with ready glee,
“The fruit is ripened, and the paths are free.
But, madam, you will tear that handsome gown;
The little boy be sure to tumble down;
And, in the thickets where they ripen best,
The matted ivy, too, its bower has drest.
And then, the thorns your hands are sure to rend,
Unless with heavy gloves you will defend;
Amid most thorns the sweetest roses blow,
Amid most thorns the sweetest berries grow.”
If, undeterred, you to the fields must go,
You tear your dresses and you scratch your hands;
But, in the places where the berries grow,
A sweeter fruit the ready sense commands,
Of wild, gay feelings, fancies springing sweet —
Of bird-like pleasures, fluttering and fleet.
Another year, you cannot go yourself,
To win the berries from the thickets wild,
And housewife skill, instead, has filled the shelf
With blackberry jam, “by best receipts compiled, —
