Bitter-Sweet: A Poem Part 6

Then they were gathered and tortured By pa.s.sage from hopper to vat, And fell-every apple crushed flat.

Ah! how the bees gathered round them, And how delicious they found them!

Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover, Was platted, and smoothly turned over, Weaving a neatly ribbed basket; And, as they built up the casket, In went the pulp by the scoop-full, Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full,-- Filling the half of a puncheon While the men swallowed their luncheon.

Pure grew the stream with the stress Of the lever and screw, Till the last drops from the press Were as bright as the dew.

There were these juices spilled; There were these barrels filled; Sixteen barrels of cider-- Ripening all in a row!

Open the vent-channels wider!

See the froth, drifted like snow, Blown by the tempest below!

_David_.

Hearts, like apples, are hard and sour, Till crushed by Pain's resistless power; And yield their juices rich and bland To none but Sorrow's heavy hand.

The purest streams of human love Flow naturally never, But gush by pressure from above With G.o.d's hand on the lever.

The first are turbidest and meanest; The last are sweetest and serenest.

_Ruth_.

Sermon quite short for the text!

What shall we hit upon next?

Lift up the lid of that cask; See if the brine be abundant; Easy for me were the task To make it redundant With tears for my beautiful Zephyr-- Pet of the pasture and stall-- Whitest and comeliest heifer, Gentlest of all!

Oh, it seemed cruel to slay her!

But they insulted my prayer For her careless and innocent life, And the creature was brought to the knife With grat.i.tude in her eye; For they patted her back, and chafed her head, And coaxed her with softest words, as they led Her up to the ring to die.

Do you blame me for crying When my Zephyr was dying?

I shut my room and my ears, And opened my heart and my tears, And wept for the half of a day; And I could not go To the rooms below Till the butcher went away.

_David_.

Life evermore is fed by death, In earth and sea and sky; And, that a rose may breathe its breath, Something must die.

Earth is a sepulcher of flowers, Whose vitalizing mold Through boundless trans.m.u.tation towers, In green and gold.

The oak tree, struggling with the blast, Devours its father tree, And sheds its leaves and drops its mast, That more may be.

The falcon preys upon the finch, The finch upon the fly, And nought will loose the hunger-pinch But death's wild cry.

The milk-haired heifer's life must pa.s.s That it may fill your own, As pa.s.sed the sweet life of the gra.s.s She fed upon.

The power enslaved by yonder cask Shall many burdens bear; Shall nerve the toiler at his task, The soul at prayer.

From lowly woe springs lordly joy; From humbler good diviner; The greater life must aye destroy And drink the minor.

From hand to hand life's cup is pa.s.sed Up Being's piled gradation, Till men to angels yield at last The rich collation.

_Ruth_.

Well, we are done with the brute; Now let us look at the fruit,-- Every barrel, I'm told, From grafts half a dozen years old.

That is a barrel of russets; But we can hardly discuss its Spheres of frost and flint, Till, smitten by thoughts of Spring, And the old tree blossoming, Their bronze takes a yellower tint, And the pulp grows mellower in't.

But oh! when they're sick with the savors Of sweets that they dream of, Sure, all the toothsomest flavors They hold the cream of!

You will be begging in May, In your irresistible way, For a peck of the apples in gray.

Those are the pearmains, I think,-- Bland and insipid as eggs; They were too lazy to drink The light to its dregs, And left them upon the rind-- A delicate film of blue-- Leave them alone;--I can find Better apples for you.

Those are the Rhode Island greenings; Excellent apples for pies; There are no mystical meanings In fruit of that color and size.

They are too coa.r.s.e and too juiceful; They are too large and too useful.

There are the Baldwins and Flyers, Wrapped in their beautiful fires!

Color forks up from their stems As if painted by Flora, Or as out from the pole stream the flames Of the Northern Aurora.

Here shall our quest have a close; Fill up your basket with those; Bite through their vesture of flame, And then you will gather All that is meant by the name, "Seek-no-farther!"

_David_.

The native orchard's fairest trees, Wild springing on the hill, Bear no such precious fruits as these, And never will;

Till ax and saw and pruning knife Cut from them every bough, And they receive a gentler life Than crowns them now.

And Nature's children, evermore, Though grown to stately stature, Must bear the fruit their fathers bore-- The fruit of nature;

Till every thrifty vice is made The shoulder for a scion, Cut from the bending trees that shade The hills of Zion.

Sorrow must crop each pa.s.sion-shoot, And pain each l.u.s.t infernal, Or human life can bear no fruit To life eternal.

For angels wait on Providence; And mark the sundered places, To graft with gentlest instruments The heavenly graces.

_Ruth_.

Well, you're a curious creature!

You should have been a preacher.

But look at that bin of potatoes-- Grown in all singular shapes-- Red and in cl.u.s.ters, like grapes, Or more like tomatoes.

Those are Merinoes, I guess; Very prolific and cheap; They make an excellent mess For a cow, or a sheep, And are good for the table, they say, When the winter has pa.s.sed away.

Those are my beautiful Carters; Every one doomed to be martyrs To the eccentric desire Of Christian people to skin them,-- Brought to the trial of fire For the good that is in them!

Ivory tubers--divide one!

Ivory all the way through!

Never a hollow inside one; Never a core, black or blue!

Ah, you should taste them when roasted!

(Chestnuts are not half so good;) And you would find that I've boasted Less than I should.

They make the meal for Sunday noon; And, if ever you eat one, let me beg You to manage it just as you do an egg.

Take a pat of b.u.t.ter, a silver spoon, And wrap your napkin round the sh.e.l.l: Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell Of a white-lipped morning-glory?

Well, that's the rest of the story!

But it's very singular, surely, They should produce so poorly.

Father knows that I want them, So he continues to plant them; But, if I try to argue the question, He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will; And puts me down with the stale suggestion-- "Small potatoes, and few in a hill."

_David_.

Thus is it over all the earth!

That which we call the fairest, And prize for its surpa.s.sing worth, Is always rarest.

Iron is heaped in mountain piles, And gluts the laggard forges; But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles And lonely gorges.

The snowy marble flecks the land With heaped and rounded ledges, But diamonds hide within the sand Their starry edges.