102 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
PIG LITERATURE. 
Wb well recollect, when a school-boy, being 
often favored by young scapegraces, with a re¬ 
cital of sonorous Hog Latin , and since we have 
become a grown man, we have been equally 
favored by the perusal of pig literature. Mas¬ 
sachusetts, above all her sister States, has most 
distinguished herself in this line, as is shown 
in the humurous swine reports, which are 
annually issued by her judges of the merits of 
the grunting fraternity, exhibited at her autum¬ 
nal cattle shows and fairs. These hitherto, we 
believe, have been written in good Yankee 
prose; but at a late show at Taunton, Mr. W. 
Mitcijell, the chairman of the judges on sheep 
and swine, seems to have been inspired by the 
muses, and has given birth to a jocose report 
in rhyme. Though no great lovers of either 
pig or pork, we always relish wit and humour, 
and with pleasure we make room for the follow¬ 
ing extracts from the poetic effusion of the dis¬ 
tinguished chairman: 
We find the hog hath, since the world began, 
Been much slandered, faithful friend of man ; 
Tbo learned traducers on the biped side, 
Sneer at the pig they do not dare to ride; 
In their sarcastic way, they call him fool, 
Because when sheared he yields more cry than wool. 
With all the sense the critic’s skull contains, 
Think you a hogshead wouldn’t hold his brains ? 
If you must throw him pearls, ’tis you who waste, 
Knowing that acorns better suit hie taste. 
’Tis true, that Empress of coquettish'girls— 
Queen Cleopatra—soaked aDd sipped her pearls; 
The more abstemious pig, of frugal cheek, 
Was never guilty of so mad a freak. 
You think him greedy, since he loves to dine; 
I own the charge;—but, tell me, are the swino 
The only creatures fond of feeding found ? 
Are aldermen for abstinence renowned ? 
Yon say he’s stubborn—that lie will pursue 
Just any path that’s vot desired by you ; 
Sublime injustice! Worthy voter!—say— 
O did you never, on election day, 
With all your country’s welfare on your head— 
Fearing ih • knave who hinted you were led— 
Because A asked you give to B your vote ? 
You scorned dictation—don’t revile your shoat. 
Is he unclean ? Ye gentle dames, who lave 
Your fairer forms in Newport’s annual wave S 
He seeks no sea-side with the summer’s heat; 
Is that a proof to you he isn’t neat ? 
Know this is valor’s better part in him, 
He cuts his throat when he attempts to swim. 
You know he’s stupid, since you fail to find 
Some traces in him of the march of mind; 
Is he unletter’d?—think how Bacon “shined,” 
And don’t forget the tales Hogg left behind. 
Would there were space, in this brief lay of mine, 
To sing the history of distinguished swine !— 
A neat biography, adorned with plates, 
With choicest cuts—The Pig in all his States. 
But time forbids; my verse can only stay, 
To breathe the important lesson of the day, 
Lo! countless pigs respond, in thrilling squeals, 
To the grand truth this century reveals, 
The fattest hogs in Epicuris sty 
With crisped cracklings to our words reply ;— 
We’ll hint no more, nor covertly allude— 
But boldly speak it — Pigs were meant for food! 
0, he it ours, in these degenerate days, 
Ourselves and pigs from prejudice to raise. 
Let Mahomet’s sons, with infidel salaam, 
Decree that, Turkey don’t agree with ham ; 
Let Hebrews, vending renovated clothes, 
Avert from bacon the Caucasian nose, 
And vow, the father of our erring race 
Had kept till now his Eden dwelling-place, 
Had he, content with vegetable food, 
His epare-rib and her apple sauce eschewed; 
Let Cincinnati shut, at golden noon, 
Her shops impervious to the rays of June, 
With wicked lard illume her daily toil, 
And vow that sunbeams aren’t so cheap as oil! 
But Bristol’s pigs are sacred to the fork, 
We’ll save our bacon, nor make light of pork ; 
So may your Monday’s larder still display 
The juicy ham, befitting washing day; 
So the crisp suasage sets its final seal 
Of full enjoyment in the morning meal. 
Yet, if your tender palate should decline 
To go the whole, unmitigated swine, 
Remember Sprat — Jack Sprat—of whom you’ve 
heard, 
Who left the pingueous, and the lean preferred, 
While his fair partner, much averse to waste, 
(Kind coalition of connubial taste!) 
Like the lean wick combined with unctious oil, 
Lightened his labors and partook his toil; 
Between them both, the ample dish was cleared 
Till not a speck upon its face appeared— 
Thus when short comings bother us with doubt, 
’Tis woman, lovely woman, helps us out. 
Yet, as the true reformer’s eager eyes 
Detect the clouds that o’er his pathway rise, 
Nor toward the mark too curiously strain, 
Till fully weighed the Future’s loss and gain, 
Grant me one word of prudence e’er I end, 
To check the porker’s too impetuous friend, 
Dear to New-England’s heart, those rural scenes, 
The Sunday bacon and the Sunday beans; 
That noontide board at which the genuine Blues 
Discuss the sermon and the parish news ; 
And “ trouble you”—their grave remarks between— 
“For a few more, and just a bit of lean.” 
Oft at that solemn banquet may you prove 
For pork and preaching your untiring love; 
But O be wary of that Sabbath meal, 
Lest there you fall through o’er abundant zeal; 
For if you mean, with renovated force, 
To struggle out the afternoon discourse, 
And hope at psalm-time promptly to arise, 
Reaching nineteenthiy” with unwinking eyes, 
Leguminous repletion shun, 0 shun ! 
And let your first plate be your final one. 
Consider well what old Pythegoras means, 
Warning his hearers to beware of beans ; 
Distrust the second helping, cold or hot, . 
Death's eldest brother, sleep, is in the pot. 
Id vain the text invites to “ watch and pray,” 
The parson's periods point the other way. 
WHO WAS THE GENTLEMAN ! 
"Please sir, don’t push so.” 
It was in endeavoring to penetrate the dense 
crowd that nearly filled the entrance, and 
blocked up the doorway after one of our popu¬ 
lar lectures, that this exclamation met my at¬ 
tention. It proceeded from a little girl of not 
more than ten years, who, hemmed by the wall 
on one side, and the crowd on the other, was 
vainly endeavoring to extricate herself. 
The person addressed paid no attention to the 
entreaties of the little one, but pushed on to¬ 
wards the door. 
“Look here, sir,” exclaimed a man whose 
coarse apparel, sturdy frame, and toil-embrowned 
hands contrasted strongly with the delicately- 
gloved fingers, curling locks, and expensive 
broadcloth of the former. “ Look here, sir, 
you’re a jamming that little gal’s bonnet all tew 
smash, with them elbows of yourn.” 
“ Can’t help that,” gruffly replied the individ¬ 
ual addressed ; “ I look to number one.” 
“ You take care of number one, do you ? 
Wall, that’s all fair; so do I,” replied the ho¬ 
nest countryman ; and with these words he 
took the little girl in his arms, and placing his 
broad shoulders against the slight form of the 
latter, he pushed him through the crowd, down 
the steps, landing him with rather more haste 
than dignity in the street below. 
The young gentleman picked himself up, but 
rather intimidated by the stout fist of the stran¬ 
ger, and abashed by the laughter of the crowd, 
concluded it was about time for him to go home. 
In polite society the former would be courted 
and admired, and the latter overlooked and des¬ 
pised ; but, "who was the gentleman?” 
On a raw and blustering day, last winter, a 
young girl with a small basket on her arm, en¬ 
tered one of our stores. After making a few 
purchases, she turned to leave. Two gentle¬ 
men stood in the doorway, whose appearance 
indicated that they thought themselves some¬ 
thing, whose soft, sleek coats, and delicate 
hands were apparen tly about of the same quality 
as their brains. 
As they made not the slightest movement as 
she approached, the young girl hesitated a mo- 
ment, but seeing no other way, she politely re¬ 
quested them to stand_ aside. They lazily 
moved a few inches, allowing her barely room 
to pass, giving her as she did so, a broad stare, 
that brought the color to her cheek, and the fire 
in her eye. 
In stepping upon the icy pavement her foot 
slipped, and in endeavoring to save herself, her 
basket fell, and the wind scattered its contents 
in every direction. 
At this the two gentlemen burst into a loud 
laugh, and seemed to consider it vastly amusing. 
“Let me assist you,” exclaimed a pleasant 
voice, and a lad about sixteen, whose hands 
showed that they were accustomed to labor, and 
whose coarse, well-patched coat indicated that 
he was the child of poverty, sprang forward, 
and gathering up the articles, presented the 
basket with a bow and smile that would have 
graced a drawing-room. “Who was the gen¬ 
tleman ?” 
Boys, you are all ambitious to be considered 
gentlemen. That is. all very natural, but re¬ 
member that neither your own nor your parents’ 
position in life, your tailor, your boot-black, or 
your barber, can make you one. The true gen¬ 
tleman is the same every where; not only at 
the social party or ball, but in the noisy mill, 
the busy shop, the crowded assembly, at homo 
or on the street; never oppressing the weak, or 
ridiculing the unfortunate; respectful and atten¬ 
tive to his superiors; pleasant and affable to his 
equals; careful and tender of the feelings of 
those he may consider beneath him .—Nashua 
Telegraph. 
A Blow on the Head of the Nail. —We 
like the following suggestion from the close of 
an article in the Portland Pleasure-boat , on 
making agriculture a cheerful and agreeable oc¬ 
cupation. These views we have often tried to 
inculcate by lecture and pen. Let there be soma 
other motive than slavish fear to keep boys on 
the farm. No human being, however young, is 
satisfied without something which he feels is his 
own absolutely, and not nominally; something 
that will not be sold at the caprice or conveni¬ 
ence of another. Mr. Hacker says: 
Farmers, furnish your boys with light, neat, 
and good tools, and teach them how to keep 
them in good order, if you would have them 
love agriculture, and give them a little lot for 
their own use. 
If you wish to discourage them and drive 
them off to the city, to sea, or to California, 
give them rusty hoes, broken shovels, dull 
scythes, &c., to work with, and not allow them 
to plant a tree or a seed for themselves. Every 
boy on a farm should be allowed a little lot on 
which to make a miniature farm. He may have 
a row of corn, a row of potatoes, a patch of 
wheat, beans, oats, grass, and if " you keep 
animals give him a calf, a colt, or a lamb to 
raise. 
With the products of this little farm he can 
buy books, clothes, &c., for himself, so that you 
will be gainers by being liberal, and will en¬ 
courage industry, and beget a love for agricul¬ 
ture in your sons, which will in future years 
lead them on to perfection in the art, and place 
them among the highest of nature’s noblemen. 
Infants in Heaven. —Beautiful is an infant, 
whatever way we picture it to ourselves. Beauti¬ 
ful in the cradle. Beautiful upon a parent s 
knee. Beautiful, awake or asleep. Beautiful 
at play, in the corner of the room, or under the 
shade tree before the door. Beautiful as a lamb 
in the Saviour’s arms. Beautiful at the font of 
baptism. Beautiful beneath the coffin lid! Yes, 
beautiful even there, in the loveliness of death 
with hands folded peacefully, with brow like 
moulded wax, with eyes closed in sleep—“per¬ 
chance to dream!”'—with lips so gracefully 
composed, as if to say, “I murmur not,” and 
with its entire face radiant with a smile, which 
is the imprint of its dying vision! 
—-— 
A lazy fellow up north spells Tennessee 10 
A 0! 
