I50 MORE POT-POURRI 



Be glad, and your friends are many; 



Be sad, and you lose them all, 

 For none will decline your nectared wine — 



Alone, you must drink life's gall. 



Feast, and your halls are crowded; 



Fast, and the world goes by; 

 Succeed and give ; it will help you live — 



No man can help you die. 

 There is room in the halls of pleasure 



For a long and lordly train, 

 But one by one we must all pass on 



Through the narrow aisles of pain. 



I like ' Bethia Hardacre's' song better, and to me the 

 spirit is truer: 



Bring me the book whose pages teach 

 The fortitude the Stoics preach; 

 Bring me the tome within whose scope 

 There lies the quickening of dead hope ; 

 Bring me the comfort of a mind 

 That good in every ill can find, 

 And of a heart that is content 

 With its desire's relinquishment. 



Receipts 



A kind friend sent me to-night half a pumpkin — a 

 real French pumpkin. (See Vilmorin's 'Vegetable Gar- 

 den,' Potiron jaune gros.) It was grown near here, and 

 had kept perfectly. It was moist, and a beautiful apri- 

 cot colour inside. I wonder always why the only pump- 

 kin grown in England is the vegetable marrow. Sutton 

 feebly recommends others in his book, but hardly makes 

 enough of them as useful winter vegetables. Here is a 

 true French receipt for Pumpkin Soup. Cut up the 

 slices of pumpkin (say, about half a large one), and boil 

 them in water. When well cooked, strain off the water 



