  [A private and confidential Epistle to Sam Gaines, Editor of the Hopkinsville New Era. Written for the Kentucky Press Association.] God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but certainly he never did.—Izaak Walton. Ye Salutation. Bring forth the bowl within whose round No heart-consuming draught is found, But berries glittering with the dew Which south winds o’er the gardens strew, Sweet souvenirs of Paradise, With cheeks of flame and breath of spice, Shedding for one bright hour their glow O’er life’s long Alpine waste of snow. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, “O that I owned a strawberry bed?” Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As he beheld, in cream inurned, Great sugared berries, coral red? If such there be, go, mark him well; Of berries never let him smell, Where gathers the church festival Or rings the merry marriage-bell; Mark him—as thou wouldst mark a steer Or swine—by cropping off his ear. A Walk in the Garden. Wake, winds of May, yon emerald waves, Crested with flowers, like sea-foam white, Where sparkle in their trefoil caves Long coral reefs of berries bright; Shaped like a gentle maiden’s heart, And bleeding as from Cupid’s dart, The garden’s earliest offering, Crown-jewels on the brow of Spring; The berry Izaak Walton loved, And Downer’s perfect taste approved; Kentucky, Cumberland, Prolific, Sharpless, and Monarch of the West, And rare Charles Downing, last and best Thy leaves, sweet trefoil! symbols three Of Faith and Hope and Love shall be; Fair type of Christian hope to all, The vine sleeps low ’neath snowy pall; The resurrection blooms in May, With flowers and fruits in bright array, And soaring larks in countless throng Singing their joyful Easter Song, And choir of mocking-birds on high Gray-plumed sopranos of the sky Ye Revel on Olympus. Heap high the bowl! Ages ago Before the birth of Faust or Hoe, Before New Eras, Posts, and Suns Gave specials, paragraphs and puns, When only Mercury bore the news Around the skies, in winged shoes, Such genial revels held the gods, Juno and Jove, and other frauds; In heaven’s blue crystal urn each night The stars, like berries, twinkled bright And the Great Dipper skimmed the cream Where poured the Milky Way its stream; Deserted is the Olympic hill; Heaven, stars, girls, strawberries, bless us still Ye Invocation. Lord, we adore thy matchless bounty And grace which, after giving birth To sun and moon and stars and earth. Gave us a land of rarest worth And cast our lot in Christian County! ’Mid meek-eyed Jerseys, guileless mules, Hopkinsville peaches, Public Schools, Tobacco farms and gilt-edged bonds, Wheat-fields and sheep and fishing-ponds, Opossums, pheasants, doves and squirrels, Damsels whose pamphanescent eyes, If stars were quenched would light the skies; And for to-night, to make us merry, Provided Izaak Walton’s berry, Ten inches round in lawful measure, The garden’s glory, pride and treasure— Nor Brenner’s brush nor Prentice’s pen Could tell their worth—and so, Amen! Ye Picnic. Fill high the bowl! In blissful vision We wander over fields Elysian, Through ever-lengthening colonnades, Of whispering elms and beechen shades; Grave manhood’s cares are cast away, And all are boys again, to-day By one sure sign we know each other— “The strawberry mark!—Our long lost brother!” While all discourse on sylvan pipe Of golden cream and berries ripe, Or sound on Memory’s silver horn, “I too was in Arcadia born!” Sooth, ’tis a goodly sight to see The revellers’ mutual ministry: Stanton shall drive the Jersey cow, Sam Gaines shall cause her milk to flow, Logan shall hold her by the tail, And Kelly bear the foaming pail; Woodson shall crush the crystal ice, Johnston hand spoons, all polished nice, The Courier-Journal pass the berries, With brisk champagne and golden sherries And he shall serve his country best Who stores most berries ’neath his vest. By shady glen and waterfall Our early loves will we recall, Maids whom no time can ere eclipse, With strawberry cheeks and sugared lips, Phantoms which haunt boyhood’s dream, Life’s fragrant, pure crÊme de la crÊme— And left us with an empty spoon! Ye Pioneer’s Wild Strawberries. Master of the Feast: “Father, thy locks are thin and gray, Hast thou no legend for us pray? Sing of the wild strawberry’s flame When first Kentucky hunters came.” Old Pioneer: “’Tis nigh on ninety years, I guess, By the road called the ‘Wilderness’— Its story’s told by Captain Speed, A little book you all should read— We pioneered to Old Kaintuck, Woods swarmed with turkey, bear and buck, And by the ‘Rock Spring’ pitched our tents, Them times wild strawberries was immense; We didn’t pick, we scooped ’em up By bushels, with a bowl or cup; And when our teams came home at night, The critters’ legs—they wuz a sight; Seemed like they’d swum in bloody seas, The red juice splashed above their knees. We rode one May-day ’cross the prairie, Me and my wife and little Mary; Come to a holler in the ground, Where lots of strawberries grew around, And herds of trampling buffalo Made the red juice in rivers flow And fill a pool some five foot deep— Excuse me, pardners; I must weep— Thanks! My throat is a leetle dry— God knows I can not tell a lie (Applause) Our horses slipped and tumbled in, We swum in juice up to the chin; A half an hour we rose and sank At last we scrambled to the bank; Me and my wife soon came around—“ “She was drowned!” (Groans) “Yes drowned! My stricken heart, be calm! Hers is the crown, the harp, the palm— Thanks, yes if you insist, a dram. Blood flowed them days like strawberry juice When Girty let his hell-hounds loose. One day some Injin squaws allfired—“ Master: “There, old man, rest. You must be tired. Share in our feast, Homeric sire; Thanks to the Muse for such a lyre!” Ye Silent Toast. Fill high to-night the strawberry bowl For friendship’s feast and flow of soul, Quickly, ere Psyche’s brilliant flight Shall vanish in the coming night. Soon shall the parting word be spoken, Soon friendship’s golden bowl be broken; Clasp hands and salutation send To each true-hearted, absent friend; Nor in our circle be forgot The masters who before us wrought, Titans of memorable days: Penn, with his sheathless falchion’s blaze, Harney, the dauntless, true, and strong, And Prentice of the golden song, Triad whose still ascending track Flings its long rays of splendor back. Ye Small Boy’s Downfall.—A Sam. What spectres from the strawberry bowl Flit through the galleries of the soul, With shrill voice crying, “Grieve his heart; Come like shadows; so depart!” Strawberry cake, preserves, and jam! I see thy mild eyes moisten, Sam Perchance at memory of the closet Where once was stored the rare deposit, High ranged upon the topmost shelf, A skillful mother’s richest pelf. With cat-like footsteps, soft and light; I see thee open slow the door, Peep in, and cautiously explore; I see short Sam the boxes pile, Humming Longfellow’s psalm the while: “The heights to which the great have stept, Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept Were toiling upward in the night.” I hear a sudden scream—a crash— I see a candle’s fitful flash— Tableau—A boy with downfallen breeches, Loud sobs and screams and stinging switches. Good-night. Heap high the bowl and pour the cream! How bright the rosy berries gleam— Red fruit and Jersey cream upon it, The colors of my lady’s bonnet. In hues like these the western sun Descends to rest when day is done; And round his flaming couch are rolled Bright curtained clouds of red and gold. Not greedily the fruit devour; Prolong the raptures of the hour; Stain not with juice your linen fair, And of the “strawberry nose” beware. Think of the lovely—the sublime— Niagara—California’s clime; The Mammoth Cave—Alaska’s shore, Where glaciers plunge and billows roar; Balance each berry in your spoon, Sink back in a delicious swoon, And murmur in a Romeo’s sigh: “I have seen Naples—let me die!” O, vital sparks of heavenly flame! Whate’er your lineage, land or name, Pink buds which Mother Nature clips From infant cherubs’ finger tips, Or earth-born babies’ little toes, Tinted like sea-shell or the rose, Which floating to the skies above Are crystallized in heaven’s pure air And turn to crimson berries there— Ambrosial fruit of heavenly birth, By Ariel’s fingers dropped on earth— Come o’er me and possess my soul, Sweet spirit of the Strawberry Bowl! For all the world’s a strawberry bowl, Life the red fruit which fills the brim, The daily papers spoon the whole, And women are the sugar and cream. Melrose Garden, May, 1880. |
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