192 UPLAND AND MEADOW. 



" I make thee, sweet melon, my favorite topic, 

 Thou chief of the offspring of sun and of dewl 

 In spite of bananas, the pride of the tropic. 

 Or famed chirimoyas, the boast of Peru. 



" Give us cool ' Mountain Sweets ' from New Jersey, nor ask us 

 To sigh for the grapes of some Orient land; 

 The poaches of Persia, the figs of Damascus, 

 Or the idolized fruits of remote Samarcand. 



" I have shaken ripe oranges oft, where they fell on 

 Floridian flowers; I have dreamed of the date; 

 But dearer to me is the dew-tempered melon, 

 Fresh from the sand of my loved native state. 



" The poet may sing of the Orient spices. 

 Or Barbary dates in their palmy array; 

 But the huge, rosy melon in cold, juicy slices 

 Is the Helicon fount of a hot summer day, 



" Where I bathe the dry wings of the spirit; and sprinkling 

 Sweet drops on the pathway of dusty old Care, 

 I hold Father Time from his villainous wrinkling 

 Of features that never had graces to spare.'' 



Is it not a common impression tlmt no fruit is so 

 prized as that which we first gather ? The long waiting 

 for the return of the season ; the anxious watching of 

 the budding plant, and then its bloom ; the slowly grow- 

 ing fruit, hard, insignificant, and green. When will it 

 be ripe ? Day after day we watch, and, weary at last, 

 give way to mild despair. It was so this year. A frost 

 in May surely bodes no good, and we had three of them. 

 Ah me ! no strawberries ; no strawberries I 



How I regretted that my friend knew that there were 

 any plants upon the farm. Not a syllable escaped me 

 about fruit. I spoke only of "flowers," lest the word 



