Off 8 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, 
In ev’ry dish ’tis welcome still to me, 
But most, my Hasty-Pudding, most in thee. 
Let the green succotash with thee contend, 
Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend, 
Let butter drench them in its yellow tide, 
And a long slice of bacon grace their side ; 
Not all the plate, how fam’d soe’er it be, 
Can please my palate like a bowl of thee. 
Some talk of Hoe-cake , fair Virginia’s pride, 
Rich Johnny-cake this mouth has often tried ; 
Both please me well, their virtues much the same, 
Alike their fabric as allied their fame 
Except in dear NewEngland, where the last 
Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste, 
To give it sweetness, and improve the taste. 
But place them all before me, smoking hot, 
The big round dumpling rolling from the pot; 
The pudding of the bag, whose quiv’ring breast, 
With suet lin’d, leads on the Yankee feast; 
The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty sides 
A belly soft the pulpy apple hides ; 
The yellow bread, whose face like amber glows, 
And all of Indian that the bake-pan knows— 
You tempt me not—my fav’rite greets my eyes, 
To that lov’d bowl my spoon by instinct flies. 
CANTO II. 
To mix the food by vicious rules of art, 
To kill the stomach and to sink the heart, 
To make mankind, to social virtue sour, 
Cram o’er each dish, and be what they devour, 
For this the kitchen Muse first fram’d her book ; 
Commanding sweets to stream from every cook ; 
Children no more their antic gambols tried, 
And friends to physic wonder’d why they died. 
Not so the Yankee—his abundant feast, 
With simples furnish’d, and with plainness dress’d, 
A num’rous offspring gathers round the board, 
And cheers alike the servant and the lord ; 
Whose well-bought hunger prompts the joyous 
taste, 
And health attends them with the short repast. 
While the full pail rewards the milk-maid’s toil 
The mother sees the morning caldron boil; 
To stir the pudding next demands their care, 
To spread the table and the bowls prepare ; 
To feed the children, as their portions cool, 
And comb their heads, and send them off to school. 
Yet may the simplest dish, some rules impart, 
For nature scorns not all the aids of art. 
E’en Hasty-Pudding, purest of all food, 
May still be bad, indifferent, or good. 
As sage experience the short process guides, 
Or want of skill, or want of care presides. 
Whoer’er would form it on the surest plan, 
To rear the child and long sustain the man ; 
To shield the morals while it mends the size, 
And all the powers of ev’ry food supplies— 
Attend the lessons that the Muse shall bring, 
Suspend your spoons, and listen while I sing. 
But since, O man ! thy life and health demand 
Not food alone, but labour from thy hand, 
First in the field, beneath the sun’s strong rays, 
Ask of thy mother, earth, the needful maize ; 
She loves the race that courts her yielding soil, 
And gives her bounties to the sons of toil. 
When now the ox obedient to thy call, 
Repays the loan that fill’d the winter stall, 
Pursue his traces o’er the furrow'd plain, 
And plant in measur’d hills the golden grain. 
But when the tender germ begins to shoot, 
And the green spire declares the sprouting root, 
Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe, 
Th’ insidious worm, the all-devouring crow. 
A little ashes, sprinkled round the spire, 
Soon steep’d in rain, will bid the worm retire ; 
The feather’d robber with his hungry maw 
Swift flies the field before your man of straw, 
A frightful image, such as school-boys bring 
When met to burn the Pope, or hang the King. 
Thrice in the season, thro’ each verdant row 
Wield the strong plough-share and the faithful hoe, 
The faithful hoe, a double task that takes, 
To till the summer corn, and roast the Winter 
cakes. 
Slow spring the blade, while check’d by chilling 
rains, 
Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains ; 
But when its fiercest fires emblaze the land. 
Then start the juices, then the roots expand ; 
Then, like a column of Corinthian mould, 
The stalk struts upward, and the leaves unfold ; 
The bushy branches all the ridges fill, 
Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill. 
Here cease to vex them, all your cares are done ; 
Leave your last labors to the parent sun ; 
Beneath his genial smiles the well-dress’d field, 
When Autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield. 
Now the strong foliage bears the standards high, 
And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky ; 
The suckling ears their silky fringes bend, 
And pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend, 
The loaded stalk, while still the burthen grows, 
O’erhangs the space that runs between the rows ; 
High as a hop-field waves the silent grove, 
A safe retreat for little thefts of love, 
When the pledged roasting-ears invite the maid, 
To meet her swain beneath the new-form’d shade, 
His gen’rous hand unloads the cumbrous hill, 
And the green spoils her ready basket fill; 
Small compensation for the two-fold bliss, 
The promis’d wedding and the present kiss. 
Slight depredations these, but now the moon 
Calls from his hollow tree the sly racoon ; 
And while by night he bears his prize away, 
The bolder squirrel labors thro’ the day. 
Both thieves alike, but provident of time, 
A virtue, rare, that almost hides their crime. 
And let them steal the little stores they can, 
And fill their gran’ries from the toils of man ; 
We’ve one advantage where they take no part,— 
With all their wiles they ne’er have found the art 
To boil the Hasty-Pudding ; here we shine 
Superior far to tenants of the pine ; 
This envied boon to man shall still belong, 
Unshar’d by them in substance or in song. 
At last the closing season browns the plain, 
And ripe October gathers in the grain; 
Deep-loaded carts the spacious corn-house fill. 
The sack distended marches to the mill; 
The lab’ring mill beneath the burden groans, 
And show’rs the future pudding from the stones ; 
Till the glad housewife greets the powder’d gold, 
And the new crop exterminates the old. 
CANTO III. 
The days grow short; but tho’the falling sun 
To the glad swain proclaims his day’s work done, 
Night’s pleasing shades his various tasks prolong, 
And yield new subjects to my various song 
For now, the corn-house fill’d, the harvest home, 
Th’ invited neighbors to the Husking come ; 
A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, and play, 
Unite their charms, to chase the hours away. 
Where the huge heap lies centr’d in the hall, 
The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall, 
Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed 
beaux 
Alternate rang’d, extend in circling rows, 
Assume their seats, the solid mass attack; 
The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack ; 
The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound, 
And the sweet cider trips in silence round. 
The laws of husking ev’ry wight can tell; 
And sure no laws he ever keeps so well; 
For each red ear a gen’ral kiss he gains, 
With each smut ear she smuts the luckless swains. 
But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast, 
Red as her lips, and taper as her waist, 
She walks arouud, and culls one favor’d beau, 
Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow. 
Various the sport, as are the wits and brains 
Ofwell-pleas’d lasses and contending swains ; 
Till the vast mound of corn is swept away, 
And he that gets the last ear, wins the day. 
Meanwhile the housewife urges all her care, 
The well-earned feast to hasten and prepare. 
The sifted meal already waits her hand, 
The milk is strain’d, the bowls in order stand, 
The fire flames high; and, as a pool (that takes 
The head-long stream that o’er the mill-dam 
breaks) 
Foams, roars and rages with incessant toils, 
So the vex’d caldron rages, roars and boils. 
First, with clean salt she seasons well the food, 
Then stews the flour and thickens all the flood. 
Long o’er the sim’ring fire she lets it stand ; 
To stir it well demands a stronger hand ; 
The husband takes his turn ; and round and round 
The ladle flies ; at last the toil is crown’d ; 
When to the board the thronging huskers pour, 
And take their seats as at the corn before. 
I leave them to their feast. There still belong 
More copious matters to my faithful song. 
For rules there are, tho’ ne’er unfolded yet, 
Nice rales and wise, how pudding should be ate 
Some with molasses line the luscious treat, 
And mix, like bards, the useful with the sweet. 
A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise, 
A great resource in those bleak wintry days, 
When the chill’d earth lies buried deep in snow, 
And raging Boreas drives the shiv’ring cow. 
Blest cowl thy praise shall still my notes em¬ 
ploy, 
Great source of health, the only source of joy ; 
How oft thy teats these pious hands have press’d, 
How oft thy bounties prove my only feast! 
How oft I’ve fed thee with my fav’rite grain! 
And roar’d like thee, to find thy children slain ! 
Ye swains, who know her various worth to 
prize, 
Ah ! house her well from Winter’s angry skies. 
Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer, 
Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer: 
When Spring returns she’ll well acquit the loan, 
And nurse at once your infants and her own. 
Milk, then, with pudding, I should always choose 
To this in future I confine my Muse, 
Till she in haste some future hints unfold, 
Well for the young, nor useless to the old. 
First in your bowl the milk abundant take, 
Then drop with care along the silver lake 
Your flakes of pudding ; these at first will hide 
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide ; 
But when their growing mass no more can sink ; 
When the soft island looms above the brink, 
Then check your hand ; you’ve got the portion’s 
due, 
So taught our sires and what they taught is true. 
There is a choice in spoons, Tho’ small appear 
The nice distinction, yet to me ’tis clear, 
The deep-bowl’d Gallic spoon, contriv’d to scoop 
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, 
Performs not well in those substantial things, 
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings; 
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace, 
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space. 
With ease to enter and discharge the freight, 
A bowl less concave but still more dilate, 
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size, 
A secret rests unknown to vulgar eyes ; 
Experienc’d feeders can alone impart 
A rule so much above the lore of art. 
Those tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have 
tried, 
'With just precision could the point decide, 
Tho’ not in song ; the muse but poorly shines 
In cones and cubes, and geometric lines, 
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, 
Is that small section of a goose egg-shell, 
Which in two equal portions shall divide 
The distance from the centre to the side. 
Fear not to slaver ; ’tis no deadly sin, 
Like the free Frenchmen, from your joyous chin 
Suspend the ready napkin ; or, like me 
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee ; 
Just in the zenith your wise head project, 
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct, 
B fld as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall, 
The wide-mouth’d bowl will surely catch them 
all. 
Cockroaches. —An English paper asserts 
that thick skins peeled from cucumbers will 
prove a certain destruction to cockroaches. 
A Mr. Tewksbury, of Nottingham, occupy¬ 
ing an old house which was literally over¬ 
run with these pests, got rid of them en¬ 
tirely and permanently by putting the cu¬ 
cumber skins for three successive nights on 
the floors of rooms most infested. The in¬ 
sects devoured the skins with great eager¬ 
ness, and since the third feeding, not one 
has been seen about the house. This is not 
a very plausible statement, but it will cost 
nothing to make a trial during this month. 
Will a few of our readers do so, and give 
us the results either way 1 We have none 
of the animals about to experiment upon.— 
Ed. 
