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She was sweet sixteen last summer,
She could run and jump and whistle,
Gathered near to hear her sing.
She could beat her mother washing,
She could ride a horse a-straddle,
She is healthy, hearty, happy,
A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: “Let me see,_I should think that this milk will
procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure. “Well, then, stop a bit, it must not be forgotten,
Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten;
But if twenty for accident should be detached,
It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.
“Well, sixty sound eggs, no, sound chickens, I
“But then there's their barley: how much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed, So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there’ll
“Six shillings a pair—five—four—three-and-six,
To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix;
Now what will that make? fifty chickens I said,
Fifty times three-and-sixpence—I’ll ask Brother Ned.
“O, but stop, three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell 'em;
Well, a pair is a couple, now then let us tell 'em;
A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!)
Why, just a score of times, and five pair will remain.
“Twenty-five pair of fowls—now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up so much money as this! Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess, I’ll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less.
“Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow,
Thirty geese, and two turkeys, eight pigs and a sow;
Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year,
I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis clear.”
Forgetting her burden, when this she had said,
“Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched.”
“THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-
There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's
greens; In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
That bower and its products I never forget,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used
to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that
hung on, And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,