 | Rhymes with reason and without |  |
194
CITY PHILOSOPHY; OR, BEES AND BIRDS VS. BUGS.
[_]
How to make one's self happy by adopting the principle of Sir Reynard, of sour-grape memory, in anticipation of the time when pecuniary obstruction shall debar the humble from rural delights.
Poets may tell us of flower-clad bowers
And shady groves and halcyon hours;
Of quiet nooks
And babbling brooks,
And simple fish to be caught with hooks;
Of dreams beneath some wide-spread tree,
By streams that loiteringly seek the sea,
Hugging their banks with gurgling song,
And kissing each as they move along,—
They may say
You can stay
The live-long day
(That is, if you have a turn that way),
Beside some little fresh-water bay,
And see o'er its surface the dragon-fly play,
And list to the mill sounding far away,
Or the farmer-boys singing while making hay,
Or the bees as they rifle the flowers gay,
Or the birds on the spray,
As they tune their lay,
Shaded by trees from the warm sun's ray;
They may by their story
Make each nymph of the dairy
A being all glory,
An angel or fairy;
With eyes brightly shining
As rare diamonds glow,
With curls gayly twining
O'er neck white as snow;
With grace in her form,
And health in her cheek;
With heart beating warm,
Each act doth bespeak;
A creature all heaven,
With no taint of sin,
A thing to earth given,
'T were heaven to win;
They may sing, if they please,
Of the teeming trees,
Yielding their fruits to the farmer's will,
Of the sports of the field,
Which rare fun yield,
Where the cracking gun is heard “to kill.”
They may sum up the joys of a country life,
They may rail at the city's noise and strife,
Or scenes of the town with trouble rife;
And shady groves and halcyon hours;
Of quiet nooks
And babbling brooks,
And simple fish to be caught with hooks;
Of dreams beneath some wide-spread tree,
By streams that loiteringly seek the sea,
Hugging their banks with gurgling song,
And kissing each as they move along,—
They may say
You can stay
The live-long day
(That is, if you have a turn that way),
Beside some little fresh-water bay,
And see o'er its surface the dragon-fly play,
And list to the mill sounding far away,
Or the farmer-boys singing while making hay,
Or the bees as they rifle the flowers gay,
Or the birds on the spray,
As they tune their lay,
Shaded by trees from the warm sun's ray;
195
Make each nymph of the dairy
A being all glory,
An angel or fairy;
With eyes brightly shining
As rare diamonds glow,
With curls gayly twining
O'er neck white as snow;
With grace in her form,
And health in her cheek;
With heart beating warm,
Each act doth bespeak;
A creature all heaven,
With no taint of sin,
A thing to earth given,
'T were heaven to win;
They may sing, if they please,
Of the teeming trees,
Yielding their fruits to the farmer's will,
Of the sports of the field,
Which rare fun yield,
Where the cracking gun is heard “to kill.”
They may sum up the joys of a country life,
They may rail at the city's noise and strife,
Or scenes of the town with trouble rife;
BUT:
There are odious bugs in airy bowers,
They dwell in the trees and dwell in the flowers;
There are bugs in the earth, there are bugs in the air,
There are bugs in the water and everywhere;
You may throw yourself on the ground along,
To list to the fife-bird's glorious song;
You may hear it and dream, and dream as you hear,
And wake up, at last, with a bug in your ear;
You may roam, if you will, by the crystal brook,
To tempt the fish with deceiving hook,
You may drag your line from morn till night,
And be oftener getting bit than a bite;
You may plunge in depths of the forest shade,
You may mount the hill or roam the glade,
In bush or in brake, in dingle or dell,
There are bugs, there are bugs, more than pen can tell;
And the rural Venus warmly portrayed,
In colors drawn from the poet's heart,
May prove, at best, but some country maid
Driving her father's market-cart,
With cheeks burnt red by a summer sun,
With coarse brown hair and freckled brow,
Whose stalwart arm might a furrow run
The live-long day behind the plough.
But were it not so,—were every grace
As vivid as he describes in his fair,—
'T is something peculiar to no clime or place,
But woman's own attribute everywhere.
They dwell in the trees and dwell in the flowers;
There are bugs in the earth, there are bugs in the air,
There are bugs in the water and everywhere;
196
To list to the fife-bird's glorious song;
You may hear it and dream, and dream as you hear,
And wake up, at last, with a bug in your ear;
You may roam, if you will, by the crystal brook,
To tempt the fish with deceiving hook,
You may drag your line from morn till night,
And be oftener getting bit than a bite;
You may plunge in depths of the forest shade,
You may mount the hill or roam the glade,
In bush or in brake, in dingle or dell,
There are bugs, there are bugs, more than pen can tell;
And the rural Venus warmly portrayed,
In colors drawn from the poet's heart,
May prove, at best, but some country maid
Driving her father's market-cart,
With cheeks burnt red by a summer sun,
With coarse brown hair and freckled brow,
Whose stalwart arm might a furrow run
The live-long day behind the plough.
But were it not so,—were every grace
As vivid as he describes in his fair,—
'T is something peculiar to no clime or place,
But woman's own attribute everywhere.
Through the forest and over the hill
You drag your gun from morn till night,
Sometimes seeing a bird to kill
That is less in danger from shot than fright;
Wading the brook and washed to the knees,
Laden with multitudinous freight;
Your game-bag plenished with bread and cheese,
Mingling in with worms for bait!
There 's an invite comes from the cooling west,
That calls to you 'neath the trees to rest;
You bare your brow to the genial air,
And inhale the perfumes wafted there,
You dream not of woe,
There 's a heavenly glow
Cast all over the world below;
When a humming is heard, and with terrible din
Mosquitos their afternoon meal begin,
And the way they pick at you is a sin!
Punching your body with myriad holes,—
In vain is your cry, “Get out, bless your souls!”
They heed no more
Your cries so sore
Than they would if a sucking lamb should roar!
You mark just now the waning sun,
And shoulder again your trusty gun;
Bit upon face and bit upon neck,
What can your homeward speed now check?
You traverse a mile, and recall to mind
You have left your game-bag far behind;
Then back you plod with a weary pace,
Perhaps like a school-boy “lose the place,”
Finding the bag beneath the trees,
But the black ants eating your bread and cheese.
You drag your gun from morn till night,
Sometimes seeing a bird to kill
That is less in danger from shot than fright;
197
Laden with multitudinous freight;
Your game-bag plenished with bread and cheese,
Mingling in with worms for bait!
There 's an invite comes from the cooling west,
That calls to you 'neath the trees to rest;
You bare your brow to the genial air,
And inhale the perfumes wafted there,
You dream not of woe,
There 's a heavenly glow
Cast all over the world below;
When a humming is heard, and with terrible din
Mosquitos their afternoon meal begin,
And the way they pick at you is a sin!
Punching your body with myriad holes,—
In vain is your cry, “Get out, bless your souls!”
They heed no more
Your cries so sore
Than they would if a sucking lamb should roar!
You mark just now the waning sun,
And shoulder again your trusty gun;
Bit upon face and bit upon neck,
What can your homeward speed now check?
You traverse a mile, and recall to mind
You have left your game-bag far behind;
Then back you plod with a weary pace,
Perhaps like a school-boy “lose the place,”
Finding the bag beneath the trees,
But the black ants eating your bread and cheese.
198
Homeward bound! homeward bound!
Earnestly hoped and blessed when found.
Give me the city,—the noisy mart,—
The cry of the man with the charcoal-cart;
The oysterman's note when night is still,
More plaintive than song of whippoorwill;
Sleeping at morn as my pleasure incline;
Dining at two, as a Christian should dine;
Sitting up an hour or so after tea,—
Give me these, if you please,
And a country life go to others for me.
Earnestly hoped and blessed when found.
Give me the city,—the noisy mart,—
The cry of the man with the charcoal-cart;
The oysterman's note when night is still,
More plaintive than song of whippoorwill;
Sleeping at morn as my pleasure incline;
Dining at two, as a Christian should dine;
Sitting up an hour or so after tea,—
Give me these, if you please,
And a country life go to others for me.
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