 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
153
THE PANTRY.
This is the pantry,—and from floor to ceiling
Are ranged the plates and pans in piles and rows,
But from their polished sides no anthems pealing
Startle the boarders from their morning doze.
Are ranged the plates and pans in piles and rows,
But from their polished sides no anthems pealing
Startle the boarders from their morning doze.
Ah, what a sound of crashes and vibrations
Will rise when Dinah, with her cupboard keys,
Comes down to make the breakfast preparation
With jingling spoons and crockery symphonies!
Will rise when Dinah, with her cupboard keys,
Comes down to make the breakfast preparation
With jingling spoons and crockery symphonies!
I hear, even now, the infinite loud chorus,
The rattling dishes and the whistling steam,—
The echoes of the breakfasts gone before us,
Still lingering in the kitchen like a dream.
The rattling dishes and the whistling steam,—
The echoes of the breakfasts gone before us,
Still lingering in the kitchen like a dream.
The bursting shell of lobsters wrenched asunder,
The hissing stew-pan, and the clashing blade,
And with a sound more horrible than thunder,
The stunning gong, when breakfast is arrayed.
The hissing stew-pan, and the clashing blade,
And with a sound more horrible than thunder,
The stunning gong, when breakfast is arrayed.
154
It is, oh, cook, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest slumber's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies!
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest slumber's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies!
If half the skill we lavish on our dinners,
If half the time we pass in cookery's courts,
Were spent in spreading truth and saving sinners,
There were no need of arsenals or forts.
If half the time we pass in cookery's courts,
Were spent in spreading truth and saving sinners,
There were no need of arsenals or forts.
The epicure's should be a name abhorred,
And every butcher who should lift again
His arm to strike his victim, on his forehead,
Should wear forever more the curse of Cain.
And every butcher who should lift again
His arm to strike his victim, on his forehead,
Should wear forever more the curse of Cain.
Down the long dining-room, with soft vibrations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease,
And at each chamber-door, with gentle patience,
A voice comes saying, “Breakfast, if you please!”
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease,
And at each chamber-door, with gentle patience,
A voice comes saying, “Breakfast, if you please!”
We go. No longer from the kitchen's portals
The din of pans and kettles shakes the skies,
But, sweetest sounds on earth to hungry mortals,
The melodies of knives and forks arise.
The din of pans and kettles shakes the skies,
But, sweetest sounds on earth to hungry mortals,
The melodies of knives and forks arise.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |