TASTES AND PREFERENCES

Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow oft beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy at her wheel shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village church among the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm-tree for our King! Nay—stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing! O—no! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till Winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing! Well—tell! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For Mother’s kiss,—sweeter this Than any other thing!

“Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy; “Pomegranates pink,” says Elaine; “A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me,” says Jane. “Love-in-a-mist,” says Timothy; “Primroses pale,” says Elaine; “A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me,” says Jane. “Chariots of gold,” says Timothy; “Silvery wings,” says Elaine; “A bumpity ride in a waggon of hay For me,” says Jane.

Once on a time an old red hen Went strutting round with pompous clucks, For she had little babies ten, A part of which were tiny ducks. “’Tis very rare that hens,” said she, “Have baby ducks as well as chicks— But I possess, as you can see, Of chickens four and ducklings six!” A season later, this old hen Appeared, still cackling of her luck, For, though she boasted babies ten, Not one among them was a duck! “’Tis well,” she murmured, brooding o’er The little chicks of fleecy down, “My babies now will stay ashore, And, consequently, cannot drown!” The following spring the old red hen Clucked just as proudly as of yore— But lo! her babes were ducklings ten, Instead of chickens as before! “’Tis better,” said the old red hen, As she surveyed her waddling brood; “A little water now and then Will surely do my darlings good!” But oh! alas, how very sad! When gentle spring rolled round again, The eggs eventuated bad, And childless was the old red hen! Yet patiently she bore her woe, And still she wore a cheerful air, And said: “’Tis best these things are so, For babies are a dreadful care!” I half suspect that many men, And many, many women too, Could learn a lesson from the hen With plumage of vermilion hue. She ne’er presumed to take offence At any fate that might befall, But meekly bowed to Providence— She was contented—that was all!