I dare say you've heard, but if not, now you'll know
That Down East, when a colleger's pocket runs low,
He just looks about for some "vocative" school,
And makes for it straight as a duck for a pool.
Well, once on a time, forced by fortune to search
For "the shiners" myself, having cut me a birch,
In a certain quaint district, while "boarding around,"
Cosey quarters at length at the Deacon's I found;
Where the snug kitchen still, as in primitive days,
With its arm-chairs and settles, and cordwood ablaze,
Was the heart of the home, and more comfort enshrined,
Than scores of your new fangled parlors combined.
'Twas a Saturday eve, and by custom antique,
Hasty-Pudding must crown the last meal of the week;
So the great iron-pot for concocting the same
Was presently hung o'er the jubilant flame;
And the goodwife, forewarned by "help's" frequent default,
With her own hand put in the right quantum of salt.
She had scarce left the hearth, ere her eldest born, Rose,
Bounced in, and, all innocence, dittoed the dose,
And glided away—(how the charm of the place
seemed to vanish at once with her beauty and grace!)
As Sue, sweet sixteen, tripping in, follows suit
Unawares, with the third supersaline salute,
And was gone like a sylph, as "help" darkened the door,
And astonished the brine with a round handful more;
Then hied for the meat tray and ladle: whereon
I up with the near-standing salt box anon,
And in with the whole, laughing, "There, I opine,
If this pudding's too fresh, faith the fault won't be mine!
By and by, when transferred to the white-kirtled board,
And each plate with a Benjamin's portion was stored,
Flanked with syrups of maple, and patties of gold,
And milk the town pump never uddered, behold
The Deacon said Grace with the unction and air
Of a mortal unworthy such fit-for-god's fare;
Then fell to, stopt short, sputtered, Lot's wife! O my!
Who salted this, Martha?—I husband, dear—why?
So did I, Ma, blushed Rose; so did I, tittered Sue;
Goodness sake! exclaimed "help," why I salted it, too!
Then quoth I, add me in; for, the truth to confess,
I likewise, my friends, had a hand in the mess,
As the air in the salt-box my witness will be;
For seeing you all with its contents make free,
I followed your savory example perforce—
At Rome, you know, one does like the Romans, of course.
Well friends, smiled the Deacon, Just taste now and see
If your palates with mine won't exactly agree,
That too many cooks are as sure, in good troth,
To better a pudding no more than a broth!