Accordingly, with acquiescent nod, Abiding by the fortunes of the game, This patriarch, so venerable and odd,-- Whose skill in cooking was of local fame, Knocked out the ashes from his meerschaum pipe And laid it tenderly upon the shelf, Took a preliminary wash and wipe, And squinting in the mirror at himself, Like most of those possessed of little hair, Brushed what he still had left with greatest care. Small use for comb or brush had Uncle Jim, His capillary wealth, a grayish rim Or hirsute chaplet, as it had been called By other miners less completely bald, Fringing his head an inch above the ears, Marked off his shining pate in hemispheres. His flowing beard, of venerable air, Enjoyed a strict monopoly in hair, As if the raven curls that once adorned His occiput, that habitation scorned And took, as an expression of chagrin, A change of venue to his ample chin.
When Uncle Jim was duly washed and groomed, The running conversation was resumed, And as the veteran his task pursued, Mixing the biscuit dough with judgment good, All smoked and talked, excepting Dad McGuire, Who, helping Uncle Jim, stirred up the fire, Raking the embers in a little pile, Then warmed the old Dutch oven up a while, And after greasing with a bacon rind, The biscuit dough was to its depths consigned.
Soon from within the oven, partly hid By embers piled upon the cumbrous lid, The baking powder biscuits nestling there With wholesome exhalations charged the air. A pot of beans suspended by a wire Swung like a pendulum above the fire, And answered every flame's combustive kiss With roundelay of bubble and of hiss, While in the esculent commotion swam The residue of what was once a ham. Though epicures, who yearn for fowl and fish, May scorn this plain and inexpensive dish, So free from the extravagance of waste, Yet succulent and pleasant to the taste, Of all the varied products of the soil, The bean is most esteemed by those who toil. Removed, in place less prominent and hot, One might have seen the old black coffee pot, And watched the puffs of aromatic steam Rise on the background of the firelight's gleam. A pleasant sibilation filled the room, As with an unctuous savor or perfume The bacon sizzled in the frying-pan, The bane and terror of dyspeptic man; But those who labor for their daily bread Of sedentary ills have little dread.