Volume 146 — PER ASPARAGOS AD ASTRA.

Now we who sense the odorous Spring Our various winter garments fling, Cast off the heat promoting clout That wise men keep till May is out, And hail with joy and wear too soon Suitings more fitly planned for June. 'Twas ever thus; and now we look Askance on what arrides the cook, Behold her boil and chop and strain For us the cabbage all in vain. She would have dished what most we scout, But Brussels-sprouts at last are out. And something else at last is in, A something green and straight and thin. Long looked for, long desired, its head Well raised above its English bed, It smiles at last and blesses us, Our garden-grown asparagus! Let others in their praise advance The monstrous branches sent from France; You ope your mouth as 'twere a door, And bite off half an inch, not more; And then perforce you lay aside A tasteless foot of wasted pride. Besides, you find that what you praise, Is mostly sauce—a Hollandaise. The succulent, the English kind, You pick it up and eat it blind; In fact, you lose your self-control, And dip, and lift, and eat it whole. And some day, when the beds have ceased To cater for your daily feast, You'll see—the after growth is fair— A green and feathery forest there, And "here," you'll say, "is what shall cheer My palate in the coming year. "Yea, when these graceful pigmy trees Have swayed their last in any breeze, And all is bare, I may again See the ripe heads that pierce the plain, And eat once more before I die Our garden-grown asparagi." R. C. L.