"Well, then,-stop a bit,-it must not be for gotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten; But if twenty for accident should be detached, hatched. "Well, sixty sound eggs,-no, sound chickens, I mean: Of these some may die,-we'll suppose seventeen, Seventeen! not so many,-say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast. "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 be. "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 re main. "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, The maid superciliously tossed up her head; When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended, And so all her schemes for the future were ended. This moral, I think, may be safely attached,"Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched." 28 "THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN VINES." PHOEBE CAREY. There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for 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, But oft, when my landlady presses me hard, No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used But some beans had been gathered, the last that And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it awfully hard: And thus good to my taste as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard. FLOWERS. THOMAS HOOD. I will not have the mad Clytie, The pea is but a wanton witch, That always mourns the dead:- The lily is all in white, like a saint, And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betrothed to the bee;- FATHER LAND AND MOTHER SAMUEL LOVER. Our Father Land! and wouldst thou know Was made of earth by Nature's hand. At first in Eden's bowers, they say, And maybe 'twas for want of thought. |