A FEAST

From ‘Hasty Pudding’

There are various ways of preparing and eating Hasty Pudding, with molasses, butter, sugar, cream, and fried.  Why so excellent a thing cannot be eaten alone?  Nothing is perfect alone; even man, who boasts of so much perfection, is nothing without his fellow-substance.  In eating, beware of the lurking heat that lies deep in the mass; dip your spoon gently, take shallow dips and cool it by degrees.  It is sometimes necessary to blow.  This is indicated by certain signs which every experienced feeder knows.  They should be taught to young beginners.  I have known a child’s tongue blistered for want of this attention, and then the school-dame would insist that the poor thing had told a lie.  A mistake:  the falsehood was in the faithless pudding.  A prudent mother will cool it for her child with her own sweet breath.  The husband, seeing this, pretends his own wants blowing, too, from the same lips.  A sly deceit of love.  She knows the cheat, but, feigning ignorance, lends her pouting lips and gives a gentle blast, which warms the husband’s heart more than it cools his pudding.

     The days grow short; but though 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 filled, the harvest home,
     The 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 centred in the hall,
     The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
     Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed beaux,
     Alternate ranged, 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 every wight can tell;
     And sure, no laws he ever keeps so well: 
     For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
     With each smut ear he 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 the round, and culls one favored beau,
     Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow. 
     Various the sport, as are the wits and brains
     Of well-pleased 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 strained, the bowls in order stand,
     The fire flames high; and as a pool (that takes